"vocalizations" poems
Oppression Ownership Poem
1/26/2014
Why do we lead our hearts by the hand
into our lovers' volatile elements
quicksand mixed with fire
Why do we blame it on desire
say the heart wants what it wants,
but mine doesn't want this at all
Stop.
Alleviating your hearts of guilt and shame
because they're doing it perfectly.
to fall in love and be willing to take set backs
Stop.
Let's take a step back.
Give our hearts back their guilt and ownership
over the oppression of a heart beat you can control
but actually choose not to.
Stop.
Hear that?
It is the sound of a heart beating,
barely breathing
but
Stop.
Now we've fixed it
the problem we couldn't solve
but don't absolve
yourself of sin yet
We've got another oppression needing to be handed over
false ownership we play pretend.
rather than play in a playground with each other.
we blame another for our heart's oppression
but right now in this room
I am the only one holding a broom
trying to tell you that you can't sweep it out
out of your mind
or cover it up with doubt.
I'm not saying don't blame society for creating social constructs of love.
I'm not saying that we don't live in a world that is filled with a sickness
a sickness in some to say that like this we can't keep on living,
because
stop.
We can
and we have
and we cannot and have not
given up on each other, just on ourselves
with every breath we use to utter
that famous druther
that our hearts are victims.
needing to be fixed.
that the world wants to see us suffer
that we can't own our emotions they are far too mixed
with envy and rage and the deepest sorrow anyone could never know.
but I do know,
that
stop.
I do know
that stop
that
stop
stop.
I do know
no I don't.
I don't know but that's for you
to figure out
How to feel your heart's oppression
but don't keep it under ownership
instead let it out.
squeeze it out through your soul
before it gets to take its toll
you have too much to do on this planet
or even on mars, somewhere far up when you reach the stars
because you shine brighter than bullets baby.
when they get shot and hit something leaving a lasting impact.
you pierce through the hull of a steel ship
with that wicked bite of your lip
when your silver tongue speaks golden beauties.
to my wicker ears eager to be burned
with the splendid delight of your brilliant vocalizations
shouting, screaming, taming, keeping an eye opening message.
that you do not own your heart's oppression
and thus it does not own you neither.
because you lived it but it is not your life
like your heart
when you felt it
but did not control it
not because it was out of your control,
but because you chose to set it free,
and so too,
you should be,
rise above your society.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
Skinny *** Poem
(8/11/2014)
Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
They picture perfect future families with puppies and kittens,
but for me something was missing.
I just wanted to be happy.
Maybe my vision wasn't so great though,
because 'happy' looked like it had 6 letters to me, and spelled 'skinny.'
People used to throw bricks at my glass house.
Shouting that I’d be skinny enough to slip through cracks.
Cracks of life,
cracks of struggle and strife,
cracks of everything not nice.
They'd tease me and say I looked like I smoked crack,
when I'd lose weight,
I'd gain it all back,
in the form of their extra hate.
But I didn't feel skinny on the inside.
Although I had skinny bones and skinny skin,
brittle enough to break within.
Under the pain of that pang
as their bricks shattered my glass house.
Tell me, have you ever been afraid of words?
Thoughts can be terrifying but once turned to spoken word,
that in turn will turn to shouted word,
that in turn will turn to incoherent nonsense.
Which starts a sensation of ear drums ripping,
being sawed in half immediately,
no time spent ticking,
by shrill shrieks and violent vocalizations.
As if a sound wave could burst your body parts faster,
no, more efficiently than a barrage of fists.
Because it will know exactly where to strike,
in fact, it will sneak through your solid surface,
into every single crevice,
knowing where the best place to hurt is.
All it takes is a whisper strategically said in your ear,
'skinny.' 'skinny.' 'skinny.'
I could feel it float away from me,
carried off by the wind.
As if a sound wave could carry an army of statements,
piled up and armed with bayonets of every decibel level,
ready and willing to siege each individual joint crack and muscle ache,
being pushed under imposed stiffness.
It will ooze out your pores, as if your fat face was an instrument amplifier.
They thrived on the thrill listening to my shrill shriek.
As I stepped on shards from my shattered glass house,
And stared into the million fractures,
each a broken reflection of the million me’s I could be.
But none of them skinny... enough,
skinny for everybody else,
but never for me.
I’d envision each day, blood drops staining my glass carpet.
Each ounce of that luscious red,
each day left my body filled with an ounce less of dread.
An ounce less to fit into a size small shirt,
and 30 inch waist Skinny jean.
My body became my own private ****** machine.
Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
I just wanted to be happy, I mean skinny.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
Existence is questioning
Only without ever thinking
The psyche is completed
Of inadequate details
Wasting of a day declaiming
The ever-present contemplation
That constantly inhabits
And persuades on the lips
The tongues of descended seraphs
There’s a tourist in the channel
Vocalizations in various extraneous idioms
I thought it’d subsist
But it’s never unchanged
An exhausted hallucination
Diminishing portions by the slice
The end consequence is forever
Eternity poles apart
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 9:51 AM UTC
From a room away
I thought Snoopy’s
high-pitched growls
and vocalizations
were the screams
of the Zuni
fetish doll
in Trilogy of Terror.
I was very excited.
But now it’s children
using polysyllabic
words
which just reminds me
of when I lived
in Park Slope.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
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Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
***I am not particularly good with words
Sure I write them
Recite them
Treasure them
Display them for all to see
Hide them within lines of steno pads
Describe them with colorful phrases
Empathize with the power of each of them
Sympathize the relative terms as they form
Sentences dancing around the ideas of them
When they stand alone they mean something
Not all though just a few stand alone in meaning
Some terms of endearment others in disgruntled behavior
Sure I may be able to twist them
Play with them
Portray them
Written word upon yellow sheets lined with hidden truths
Seek within them
Find them
Use them
Take them as your own
Live them
Feel them
Show them the meaning
As you produce them into written form
Perhaps in poetry or in novels
Speak them
Deliver speeches with them
Never misuse misspell misguide them
Foolishly divide them
So mark my word, I know not how to use them
Just spill them
Paint with them
Love them as my own lexicon of expression
Most importantly be true to them
Tie a gold ribbon around them
Inspire them
Teach them
Most importantly let them be used properly
A proper use of them goes a long way
Translate them into powerful vocalizations
So I know not how to use them!***
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 8:19 AM UTC
We are more than
What we etch in
Collections of breath.
For even though every
Sentence has a mortality
Rate.
Every word that's repeated
Gives it a breath of
New life.
Always let your vocalizations
Be voiced to others so that
They never expire.
But are a fresh breath
on others
reflections.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 10:37 PM UTC
I tonicize you.
Though you are sol and I am do,
I've modified my tonal path
to add weight to your presence:
I've written you this leading tone
in hope of upward resolution
and to avoid frustration.
Tonicize me,
for you are sol and lead to do.
Let us modulate through mutual friends;
let us flaunt our perfect consonance!
Let us cadence together
when the music finally ends.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
How do I breathe?
When the heavy weight of responsibility chokes out the option of freedom
When the beat of life holds feet to pavement
Forcing the whimsical mind to rigor, and rhetoric.
How do I see?
When visions are bred to infect an open mind with social, and ethical nonsense
When the constrains of organized religion impose will but not unity
The bitter taste of opposition between brothers.
Why do I listen?
When words are fickle and meaningless
When their emotions are as fake as the smile they hide behind
The subliminal meanings behind the edited thoughts and vocalizations of man.
How do I speak?
When my words are interpreted falsly before understood
When words are many and ideas copy cat,
Distorted meaningless mash up of everyday mundane life
How do I be myself?
When the individual is as overrated as the society it lives in
When judgement comes first, and forgiveness never lasts
Existing to walk a path laid by another man
The road less traveled is the same road that harbors the footprints of millions
The road becoming a generalized idea for happiness
No longer molded to the steps, length, and size of a mans shoe
Where is the individual?
What constitutes personality?
When we are a product of our situations
And the people who direct them
How do I breathe?
When my lungs are owned from inside the womb.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
The poem requires a mind
that finds meaning, even divination,
in language. Non-fiction,
up to academic standards, demands
evidence. Nothing less will do.
Most of us read fiction and this
needs a taste for action, motivation.
Lately, as have you, I have
thought about our war and its purpose,
motivation. But I have also closely
listened to the wood thrush, analyzed
its song like a tune by T.S. Monk
or J.S. Bach concerto. One belongs
to the loved ones who ostracize us, too.
A robin looks, hops, pecks, is never calm.
It is the flute-like tones, yes, but mostly
the patient, meditative clarity
of the thrush that enchants. One wants
to be that bird. How will we attain
calm clarity for the species **** sapiens?
Through the discipline of asking questions.
Mimics, woodpeckers, sing-songers, hawks,
chippers and trillers, whistlers, name-sayers,
loons, owls and a dove, high pitchers,
wood warblers and a word-warbling wren.
Unusual vocalizations.
What did the wood thrush sing
teaching its young thrush meanings?
Too much emotion is the commonest of mortals’ sins.
Peace has many faces,
the wood thrush in the canopy is one.
A word of praise here, an encouraging word there.
A wraith, a ghost against an impatient man,
verbose, unsure of the path, always longing.
Nothing satisfies like the thrush's song.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—”
I took one look at the impenetrable obscurities
That the distance concealed,
And another at the unanswering stones,
That consented mutely to mark the way, if not lead;
At the bending flowers whose faces I could not read;
And heard the equivocal vocalizations
Of ambiguously colored birds, and I—
I walked from the path to sit beneath a nearby tree,
And began to wait.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
shaking phone call over discombobulated voices,
astroprojecting vocalizations through times pace,
my body wants to time travel to you,
through the regret free policy
has generated some regret
when smoked lungs need removal
so the chained spirit
can be unbinded
navigating through carcingentic fogs,
housing warming warning waning ways
downloading the feeling
well a copy of them,
similar to the copy of god
glanced at in the trees,
similar to the copy of god
hanging around my dinar table,
and i can't find the file
in the cobwebs of facts
containing previous knowledge
literalizing textureal distructions
of dreaming an alternative
where we could still be friends
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
~
fixated on a textured ceiling with dampened cheeks
failed vocalizations left her wanting
noises caught deep in the esophagus
gurgled and sputtered
the words evaded me with ease and grace
when at last I was able to focus on both breath and speech
she no longer wanted to know
the time for compassion and understanding had
passed much as the darkest night
always presents dawn’s glory to the waking birds
she knew the answer before I did
which is almost always the case with marriage
I just had to find my way to honest
again /
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
Will you give me some
puddy Tat?
Make me mark my territory *******
as I love to hear your meowing, purring
so, I hiss away all competition,
display, both my pleasure and anger
flicking my tail tip
deposit my pheromones with my cheeks
our yowls together a treasure resolving
throughout the neighborhood under
a full moon backlight, Your soft neck in my teeth
awaking the witches and innocence gone
with vocalizations: starting low pitched rising coming
back down. We always land on our feet.
We may be feral, wild prodigiously mate
I done let go of your neck,
you retract your claws, we go our ways,
high from the catnip(ing) nap then.
The queen struts away.
I tom the night , a stray, puppy cat.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
fragile as an egg
I crack my skull over the page
and astral project my discontent
in order to witness my disconnect
the black oozes out
and takes its sweet time
to reach for the sheets
of paper to rhyme
my disillusionment
with suffering not mine
it speaks to me
all of the time
grasping the page
black eases in
to fill the void again
in vain attempt to connect
the patterns perceived
by my hand-selected memories
filed all orderly
they spill out in a heap
and soak in paper-deep
it's not enough
and it will never be enough
but blood must be spilled
in order to keep
my gods alive
they wane with the tides
sanguine and weak
I give all I have
but it rarely seems
to have an effect other than
a brief reprieve
for myself
it doesn't help
or decrease
their suffering...
_so I weave words together
to spellbind the weather
from washing away
all I've worked to achieve
and perceive with augury
and sorcery and poetry
all scratched in the earth
so the world might hear me
vocalizations and invocations
fail to sway the rocks--
__stone-faced, anthropomorphic rocks__
--that just stare at me
secretly laughing
they're happy
their suffering
my gods are dying!
and I'm trying
to find a cure
but it isn't working
and more and more
I'm sure that_
a congregation of one is not enough
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
Misplaced communication is too often picked up and dismissed here
not meant for I or most others
Information decoded and let rot in time
Connections forged and severed
Vocalizations unanswered and ignored become static
and push my pen
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
My words are vocalizations of what is
cognitive reverberation upon my thoughts.
They are vapours of what was unintelligible
upon the surface, but sank to deeper reflections.
When they spilt on the white from inexistence
to my voice in simplistic vocalization of verse.
Then what collected in rendition collected forth.
Listen to my voice, now you are reading these
last vocal mentions not in yours but the perceiving
of what my voice resonates between. From thought
to paper welcome to my words in my echo of my voice.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
a low grumble and a hard thud
as I walk into my abode
old man jimmy rolls on his back
greeting me after my time on the road—
his thick floppy jowls hang free
as he looks up me upside-down
a bit of the tail wagging ensues
and there is no way to maintain my frown –
more guttural vocalizations
followed by pressing all his weight against my legs
looking up into my face
wishing I had something to try and beg—
I give a few sharp pats on his head
and command him to get outta my face
more grumbles as he slowly walks to his station
even an old crotchety lab has the ability to learn his place –
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
Lose your scientific , orderly mind an learn to fly ..
Rename anything you like , re-tool the world to thy
satisfaction .. Sing colors , draw vocalizations and write
poetry based on your first hand accounts of 1905 ..
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
My tears never decay into another form of empathy,
instead they fossilize into lacerations sketching
upon my parchment and my regret is unspoken.
Words were meant to sooth upon reflections but mine
are putrefied, lingering in stagnation upon where they
feel on the floor, outlines of deceased vocalizations hushed.
All feelings now feel uninhabited like an empty room
with but a window looking out to nothing. I'm realizing
that I was never really here only in musing that is fading.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 11:42 AM UTC