"voicing" poems
This is how it goes
your hands will be proxy for mine
my hands will be proxy for yours
your fingers my fingers
and my fingers yours
what I describe, you enact
told in detail so exact
Just to begin
I squeeze your *******
knead and pinch
tweak a ******
give it a tug
Stroke your tummy
work over your thighs
move up the inner
where skin is smooth
circle around, moving in
till soft contours are caressed
through pants that burn
to be removed
that pain you to wear
and I see in my mind
as you describe
the spreading, darkening patch
that fills the gusset
Now they're pulled down
removed quickly, completely
and you are revealed
spread, opened, shameless
Gentle fingertips tease
dance in circles, barely touching
yet the fire within grows
back and forth, round and round
dance the fingertips
as both reciprocate
with growing pace
and firmer touch
I hear you gasp down the line
and your breathing quickens
as you hear mine
as your excitement fuels mine
as mine fuels yours
in our feedback loop of lust
And I tell you how
my fingertip would give way
to tonguetip if I could
that I can taste you
in my imagination
fragrant, salty sweetness
with musky undertones
the tip of my tongue now circling
then flicking back and forth
beating out the rhythm
that you best harmonise with
bringing forth your moans
Then darting down, back
between wet, glistening folds
exploring each ridge and valley
working remorselessly
Breathing faster now
with animal grunts and moans
directions of pleasure gasped
breathless down the phone
As fingers again
take the lead
find the opening
slip readily within
probe, explore, ****
find that place
on your front wall
yes, just that spot
that's a little rougher
and feels sooo goood
Add a second finger
working and *******
licking and rubbing
moaning and gasping
barely intelligible now
...yess...more...yess...ohhh
are all that have meaning
Finger three joins one and two
then the pressure builds
demanding release
and shaking and thrusting
grows to shuddering
and...yes...yesss...sooo clooose
******* faster furiously
till we both explode
hearing each other's
voicing of our ecstasy
in language intelligible
only in this one context
Brains and voices return
as we bask in the afterglow
and what passes between us then
in those moments
is the deepest intimacy of all
Cynthia Pauline Jones 01/02/2014
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
I feel suffocated talking to lots of people,
I feel so lonely in every parties I attended,
I can not stand the crowds all time,
I feel scared about their thoughts on me,
yet,
why,
Do I feel so secure expressing myself in verses and lines,
Voicing every pieces of my thoughts and story,
To the people I never met face-to-face,
And gladly accept any critiques to my words...
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
Do you see me, staring, holding my heart in my outstretched hands?
Do you hear me, whispering, voicing my feelings into your covered ears?
Do you feel me, grazing, brushing my fingertips across your fist?
Do you realize that I'm falling, whirling, tumbling head over heals, or are you immune to love's blindness?
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 6:52 AM UTC
When I say I am afraid of dying alone,
I am not asking for those I love
to die with me.
I am voicing my pain.
The pain of waking alone.
The emptiness of each day-
surrounded by so many
connecting with none.
Driving home alone
knowing no one will ask how was my day.
Cooking for one.
The overwhelming sadness
in a kitchen that once held so many.
Now reduced to a weekly call (if I'm lucky).
The dreams of growing old with you
Was a nightmare which was well worth burying.
And the chance of finding love at my age,
is exponentially -
inconceivable
absurd
improbable
dubious.
So when I say I will die alone,
I am referring to my everyday
mundane,
routine.
That is slowing draining the life from me.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
I’m driving on my way home
from a job that doesn’t make ends meet.
Pawned all my gold, silver and chrome
and placed my hat and sign on the street.
I’m living in a creative hell
One that serves me but doesn’t serve well.
Into my flesh I would carve,
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you didn’t starve.”
At each red, I clutch at my steering wheel
and scratch my lottery tickets.
Manifest a positivity I don’t feel,
when it scans I hear only crickets.
I’m living in a creative hell,
one that traps and encases me as a shell.
Preventing me from air, society and heat
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you could eat.”
I have no certifications and no degrees,
my only trade and skill are the words that I write;
the gift that both comforts and tortures me,
it’s too bad that no one pays for plight.
I’m living in a creative hell,
voicing it quietly while ringing a bell.
Begging for help but don’t want to be rude
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you had food.”
I’m living in a creative hell
One that serves me but doesn’t serve well.
Into my flesh I would carve,
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you didn’t starve.”
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 1:11 PM UTC
I barely know you
And I don't know
whether my feelings
will grow
But I think about
how I have to speak loudly
if I want you to hear
And I wonder
If I ever tell you
my secrets
How will it feel
to speak them boldly
As if I'm finally
voicing everything
about the world
that hurts
for the first time
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
Indian Legends.
The Legend of Triambakeshwar
The supreme Lords, Brahma and Vishnu
On that auspicious day were fighting for the highest milestone
For honour
Claiming Wisdom
Voicing out their mighty combat impale
At that very moment, a resplendant pillar
Emerged, took form before them
Standing tall into the skies and stooping low spearing the Earth.
Brahma and Vishnu saw the pillar
As an examiner of infinite Wisdom
They both decided to find either end of the pillar
to prove their supreme position.
Brahma took form of a swan
to find the topmost portion of the pillar
Vishnu turns into a Boar, being the land's wild driller
to discover the bottom part of this pillar.
Brahma returns and lies to Vishnu
"I Have Found My Goal, 'O Vishnu"
Lord Vishnu surrenders with a humble heart
A fruitless effortless failure.
This pillar is no ordinary pillar
The Legend holds it as the sacred Linga
The Lord of Lords, the destroyer of Evil
The three-eyed one, the blue-throated one
Neelakanta,Shiva,Mrida,Rudra
Dayakara,Hara,Maheshwara
The Lord with 1008 titles of honour
Ageless, timeless, formless,
Limitless.
Shiva cursed Brahma that day dusk
**"Your foul deceit smells above this land, Brahmadev
Punishment is a part of crime.
You shall never be worshipped under the stone-carved.
Temples shan't have place for you"**
Brahma, enraged, growled upon the Lord
**"Your greatness shall be pushed into this Earth
Into the same pillar, the Linga!
At the foot of Sahyradri, your abode lies
from now,
till forever comes."**
Dear Fearless Devotee, know this that you must
On the dark midnight of this hand-chosen day
Maha Shivratri
The Holy Linga takes form as the Lingodbhav Moorti
At the blessed land of Triambakeshwara.
From underneath the Earth,
Like a descendant from the skies
The ruler of the seven worlds
Bhu, Bhuvas, Svar, Mahas, Janas, Tapas, Satya
The invincible source of destruction
Of the Seven Hells, Paatala
*Atala, Vitala, Sutala, Rasaataala, Talatala, Mahaatala,
The Patala.*
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 7:21 AM UTC
Night, darkness is here.
The sky is calm and clear.
This is when thoughts drift up to the place where earlier, one might have seen cloud.
It is when many connect with our Father, voicing their love aloud.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
The bourgeoisie?
I loath them,
and I hope they buy my poems!
The critics?
They know nothing,
and I hope they hail my poems!
The intellectuals?
Dumber than pigeons,
and I hope they canonize my poems!
Unabashedly,
I'm not afraid to admit it:
I write for fame and riches,
and nothing really more.
Yes, yes, make no secret of it,
I wish only to shock you,
arouse and repulse you,
****** you,
with mindless,
gore-splattering violence,
and heart-throbbing ***
along on every page.
****** and ***** gore, and blood,
how else are my sales to flood?
It's art for arts' sake,
or something to the effect of that,
whatever makes me edgy,
socially relevant,
to scholars postmodern,
housewives bored,
and teenagers yearning,
to read ***** words.
So keep it then in mind,
my lovely readers you,
I very much like infamy,
and piles of money too;
be sure to buy my books,
praise me,
“Fresh and new!”
So that I may hire cooks,
to save time writing verse,
the very verses you adore,
lambasting the very rich and poor.
Rampant materialism,
spiritual decay,
what else do you
*******
want me to say?
A saint of the lowly,
the offbeat too,
voicing the obscure,
and the unheard and the
blah, blah, blah,
whatever it is,
I really don't care
quite honestly,
bluntly,
I'm being true,
I write for the fame
and the riches,
not you!
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
Voice Rejoice
by Roger W Hancock
Victory Voice,
voicing calmly,
enunciating clearly,
slow deliberate talking,
battling the stuttering.
Fighting the stammering,
during my conversing,
when heard clearly,
spoken calmly,
Victory’s rejoice.
© 12-07-2011 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 2:56 AM UTC
Just because you're family
Doesn't mean you have rights to me
My secrets kept
Are just that
They're hidden and swept
Under the rugs from your eyes.
If you find out you'd just call them lies
And there's truth to that plight
Blood hasn't given you the god given right
To have a say in everything in my life
Keep in mind
The things you've confided in me
Without judgement and without confessing
To the rest of the world
Defining
What kind of person I've come to be.
Play your game
Let me play mine
You grew up with me
But you weren't always there to check my vital signs
You weren't there for every bit of time
I collapsed and reached out to find
You weren't there
And I still ended up fine.
Being the youngest of five
Doesn't make me the dumbest one in line.
I learned from the mistakes of four others
To keep my faults under these covers.
Being naive in front of the clan
Is apart of my plan
Blend in and refrain
From voicing opinions that won't be heard anyways.
Just because you're family
Doesn't mean
You own me
So **** off
Or play my game
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
"Come, thou clear-voiced Muse, Erato, begin thy song, voicing to the tune of thy lovely lyre the strain of the children of Samos." (Stesikhoros, C7th-6th B.C.)
Upon a dim and distant telling,
Fared a maid of noble dwelling;
Rhadine was so beautiful,
Her suitors fought to claim her hand.
Unbeknownst, her father sold her
To a vile old tyrant soldier;
Rhadine sobbed, but dutiful
She boarded ship to foreign land.
Leontichus, her secret lover,
Swore an oath that he'd recover
Rhadine from the tyrant's grip;
He took the task of a deck-hand.
Many moons would find him weeping,
Ever watchful, never sleeping,
Till the day his mighty ship
Reached distant shore of foreign land.
Leontichus planned and conspired;
Cunning schemes would see him hired,
In the palace of the tyrant,
Where he could be close at hand.
There he watched, and there he waited,
As the nobles congregated
For the wedding, where defiant
Rhadine stood on foreign land.
Songs were sung and vows were spoken,
Then the tyrant brought a token,
Glinting in the bright sunlight
He offered it to Rhadine's hand.
Leontichus was gripped in sadness,
Taken by a sudden madness,
Running forth to save her plight,
He held Rhadine on foreign land.
Anger swept the tyrant's features,
Ridiculed by worthless creatures!
Taking sword, its sharp edge keen
He ran them through with his own hand.
As they lay there, deathly dying,
Midst the nobles, wailing, crying,
Leontichus held his Rhadine
And there they passed on foreign land.
The tyrant ordered their remains
Should scatter over hills and plains,
He placed them on a chariot,
And sent it with no guiding hand.
Late that night when all were sleeping,
Still the tyrant's eyes were weeping,
Knowing he could tarry not,
He ordered search of foreign land.
Days had passed when news arrived,
The chariot had still survived;
A soldier brought it to his door,
And placed the reigns into his hand.
The two were buried side by side,
Their hands were clasped, their arms entwined,
And there they rest forever more,
Two lovers lost on foreign land.
Leontichus and his Rhadine,
The greatest love the world has seen,
True lovers laying hand in hand,
Forever lost on foreign land.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Joe wants to know
how'm I doing?
an innocuous query,
little can he know,
bye bye is my merry,
marooned on a skerry,
noxious fumes in the aerie,
currently inhabiting my foreheady,
worry waves, rolling thunderous tides,
have myself beside
thus the answer to your toll,
something bad, on me, got a hold
Joe,
life is,
more than a tad
concerting
concerting?
surely you meant
converging, or perhaps,
concatenating, or concaving?
discombobulating, or more likely,
plain ole disconcerting?
indeed, all of the above,
fit like a glove,
but best combinated in steaming mug of
concerting
"to contrive or arrange by agreement: to plan; devise"
the world is secret contriving,
the world is secret devising,
a plan for my demising,
forces are concerting re me...
most concerning,
as trends converging,
concave hollow chains clinking,
a concatenating chorus
voicing their displeasure,
at my happy existence,
which now gone,
its loss, wept for, in great measure
life dissing me, in a manner
concerting and dis-concerting,
my composure,
decomposing,
the ides of depression,
hip hop discombob-
(undu)lating throb
but then again,
what's in a word,
what's in a rhyme,
jes that old timey R&B;,
rhyming and blues,
of a verbal kind
so, Joe, how'm I doing?
now that you are knowing,
as men of distinguished letters,
students of history,
part time poets,
Your Reply
must only be:
"Oh no, Natty,
say it ain't so"
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:03 AM UTC
The irreveracable state of falling moral
Piecing together newspaper dooms dayers
Always curious about generalized detachment
Yet unable to see the forest for the trees
Picket lines are home
Raging infernos of injustice and malcontent
Laying stoically at their doorstep
Wrapped messily in insomniac nightmares at yours
Big, BOLD letters voicing the masses
We are, We are
Oppressed, Depressed, Repressed
No longer though
Passing out the hymnals of our revolution
Unsatisfied but spent
I sit back and enjoy the show
Saturating my senses with the smell of burning GMO fields
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG
1
Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks
And dreams the dreamers story he has lived.
Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters
By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown
Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss,
Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . .
Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount.
Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout,
And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing;
Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in.
2
Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail
And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides
Assail and chop the collected bones they drop;
It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments
Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake;
Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the seeker, he is seeking . . .
Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors,
Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria,
Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers,
Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers.
3
Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush,
Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread,
Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true
The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering
Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness
Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the lover, he is longing . . .
Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes.
Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape.
Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes.
Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate.
4
Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps
And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward
Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto
Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning
Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids,
Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the doomed, they are crying . . .
****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis,
Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness.
Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss;
The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
Liquid gold
Flutters in the wind,
Licking the air
With a lovers caress.
Seduction pour’s from each flicker
Captivating, alluring, mesmerizing
Powerful in its very existence
Looking for any way
To spread its wings and conquer.
Sparks its allies.
Offspring in the fight.
Devouring,
Leaving naught in its wake,
But conquered darkness.
Passionate Fury!
Like a roaring lion
Voicing its anger
While beguiling its prey.
Love and fire, bed partners
In their warmth and seduction,
Fury and terror,
Darkness and despair.
KJC (C)
Nov 23, 2009
Nov 23, 2009 at 8:36 PM UTC
somethings really
gripe customers to excess
and in the griping
they seek redress
a box with five tablets of soap
isn't as it used to be
the size of the tablets
have been reduced
quite considerably
in years gone by
a bar of soap
had a fuller dimension
but nowadays
there is only smallness
in a tablet's dimensions
the customers are paying
a mint
for an undersized lathering bar
manufacturers of soap
must bring back
the larger bars
as customers
are voicing their valid
nah
nah
nah
nahs
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
sitting in a bar unawares
sobriety is relinquished
incoherence
voicing hallucinated delirium
sweating profusely in distress
disconnected
without identity, without form
a long and terrible descent
into the effects of derealization
staring at nothing
listening to imaginary sounds
that cling to the dark draperies
that hang upon the walls of the mind
charting the outer geography of life
with invested inner humanity
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG
1
Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks
And dreams the dreamers story he has lived.
Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters
By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown
Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss,
Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . .
Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount.
Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout,
And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing;
Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in.
2
Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail
And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides
Assail and chop the collected bones they drop;
It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments
Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake;
Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the seeker, he is seeking . . .
Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors,
Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria,
Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers,
Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers.
3
Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush,
Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread,
Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true
The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering
Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness
Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the lover, he is longing . . .
Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes.
Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape.
Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes.
Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate.
4
Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps
And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward
Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto
Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning
Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids,
Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the doomed, they are crying . . .
****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis,
Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness.
Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss;
The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
Hairline cracks are breaking through
the slough I'm about to shed.
Dry and dysfunctional
as the neuron sac in my skull.
I'll change my hat and change my ammo
honeysuckle artillery polished,
waiting in my drawer.
Sliding an empty coffee mug
back and forth along a counter
like a puck preparing for a slapshot.
Paper matches in colourful books
pressed between the pages
found leaves for child arsonists.
Takeout boxes filled with poems
are sold as artefacts
Don't be silly, poetry comes in plastic bags,
not styrofoam.
To keep ideas hot, wrap them in tinfoil.
But don't forget to leave a hole at the top for steam
or your fresh concepts will get soggy.
Equipped with tennis *****
spandex suits picket office blocks
standing on chairs and voicing nearly racist remarks
making health and safety inspectors nervous.
Out of control students
launch dictionaries out of third story windows,
donning 21st century masks.
I left my patience beside my keys, on the kitchen table.
Waiting in line for obsolete phone booths
as movie stars soundlessly mouth slang into a receiver.
Nearly responsible
nearly nine
nearly time for bed
I resolve again
that I’ll resolve more
but this time write it down.
Folding kamikaze paper planes
to hide behind park benches, fly into trees.
Let the sun fade the pencil crayon.
I can't run from this blasé gangrene that’s taken my toes.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
( a vision dream )
1
Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks
And dreams the dreamers story he has lived.
Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters
By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown
Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss,
Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
*And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . .
Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount.
Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout,
And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing;
Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in.*
2
Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail
And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides
Assail and chop the collected bones they drop;
It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments
Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake;
Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
*And the seeker, he is seeking . . .
Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors,
Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria,
Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers,
Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers.*
3
Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush,
Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread,
Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true
The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering
Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness
Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
*And the lover, he is longing . . .
Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes.
Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape.
Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes.
Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate.*
4
Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps
And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward
Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto
Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning
Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids,
Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
*And the doomed, they are crying . . .
****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis,
Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness.
Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss;
The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”*
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
Why am I so worthless?
Why do I feel like I just don’t belong?
Like I’m sinning by existing?
That I’m nothing but a bothersome burden?
Everything I do provokes yelling.
Everything I say provokes reprimand.
Wherever I go is evil.
And whoever I am needs to be “fixed”.
All my choices are marked “crazy”
And my parents whisper behind my back.
I let them think I can’t hear them
But I hear every word and feel every sting.
Do I give a **** I act like I don’t
And shoot down those who think I do.
But I do care. I care a lot.
I’m just so soft that I must attack to live.
I feel as if I don’t know anything but pain
And I’ll never be able to accept anything else.
I certainly have difficulty receiving love.
One loves me, and I feel rotten for having trouble loving her.
Why is this so hard?
I’m supposed to be the selfless one,
The one to take all their strife, so they can live.
But the side-effect is that I die.
Even then, I can’t do my duty
Because of “equal exchange”.
Giving my life helps no one
Because it isn’t worth enough to give.
But then again, I’m condemned even now
By myself, for just voicing my complaints.
Because that’s all they are. Whines.
I mean, there are starving kids in China, afterall.
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
Poetry.
One simple word,
Yet it could change your life.
That poem that hits you,
Right when you felt you couldn't be any more
Numb.
The one that shocks you back to
Life.
Maybe the sensitive side comes out.
Maybe you found a poem that
Shows a soul in distress.
Maybe you wrote that poem.
Someone else found it.
Saved you.
Who knows?
Did you ever wonder
Who it was that saved you?
Did you forget that it wasn't just you
That changed your soul?
Usernames hide identities,
So who could ever know
The real name of the soul that saved them.
I know it's happened for me.
People I can't thank enough.
For pulling me out of a blackhole,
A.K.A. Life as w know it.
"We" being those who cut.
"We" being those who smoke.
"We" being those who drink.
"we" being those lost in an
Endless. Downward. Spiral.
Because "we" see the world as it is.
A pit of problems with no bridge across.
The only bridge for the aforementioned "we" is poetry.
Writing poems in hope that someone will read it and save us.
Wondering all the while if anyone even cares.
Does the world care
Whether planned or not.
Have my words,
unspoken, but rather written,
ever saved some
Helpless soul
Wandering without a path?
Life is an endless journey,
Poetry is a shortcut,
Towards happiness galore.
Life is full of thorns.
Poetry is a beautiful field,
Full of flowers, but few thorns.
I can't say there won't be thorns,
Life has to have it's way sometimes.
But I can say I will be there for you,
Likewise with poetry.
If life gets too hard,
turn away from
The blade,
The pipe,
The bottle or can,
Take my hand,
We will make it together.
I may not be too good at voicing my thoughts,
But I mean well.
Some things cannot be said,
Even if they ought to be.
When your vase full of life flowers is drooping and wilted,
Come with me,
Find a new one.
In the end all that matters is how you spent
Hours upon hours.
Suffer,
Survive,
Thrive?
Poetry will make you bloom,
Then you can take that power and lead others.
Just never forget how you got to that place.
And never forget me and
How I taught you to listen to the words of
Souls that are never uttered.
Never forget the old you,
But don't stay that same person.
The past is the past, find your future.
Follow me.
Find poetry.
Change your mind.
Change your outlook.
Become a new, better, you.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 6:37 AM UTC
IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG
1
Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks
And dreams the dreamers story he has lived.
Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters
By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown
Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss,
Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . .
Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount.
Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout,
And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing;
Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in.
2
Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail
And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides
Assail and chop the collected bones they drop;
It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments
Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake;
Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the seeker, he is seeking . . .
Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors,
Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria,
Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers,
Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers.
3
Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush,
Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread,
Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true
The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering
Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness
Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the lover, he is longing . . .
Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes.
Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape.
Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes.
Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate.
4
Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps
And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward
Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto
Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning
Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids,
Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.
And the doomed, they are crying . . .
****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis,
Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness.
Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss;
The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC