"wearying" poems
are you generally happy?
a semi-innocuous query
now actualized as a two sided bladed poker,
hot stabbing me smack dab in
the chests hollow crown bullseye,
continuously, as in all life long, and eternal longing for a
“yes”
it fits inside a pubescent aged wound that
refreshes with every breath;
a life long struggle for an accurate definition,
be a general of genuine happy,
that alone would deliver, bringing on bright day satisfaction
as a human, one operates on parallel continuums;
slide slipping on well oiled poles that over the years,
their lengths, increasing with add-on extender poles
formed by
twisty turny slips and falls of sundered hearts and sad loves,
marriages nicknamed Titanic, children found and lost,
complications responsibilities that are denied meeting the words
“The End”
a life that many would envy, questioning what’s wrong
with you dude, are you blinded to the riches yours,
reality is
shoulders permanently bent, a spine that’s held together by
spit and solder and curved by wearying wearing longing for
a straightness that is also called crooked unobtainable
and a piece of a peace that comes and goes
like a highway billboard that you pass too fast to be fully read
the body is corroding and worser yet to come and that’s a hand
you selected - luck of the self-selecting-drawing -
the opioids of the mind offers are rejected
the clarity of painful self exploration valued overall -
the place where the poems come from,
and go to die,
a landscape of a scene repeatedly visualized
but never been and never left,
the crazy contradictions come in two flavors;
vanilla smiles and chocolate weeping of tears that have
etched pathways cheek-chiseled
the city is a struggling strife for most,
the next red line on the side
of the measuring cup and
everyone has a cell, a credit card,
and a measuring cup
<•>
here I stop can’t finish
someone missing alerts me
to their real worlds troubles
making my complaints super superficial but
the silent running of the stilleto
cuts shallow
repeated hourly
the cut color,
pitch black
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 2:05 PM UTC
I wear the vale
and it weathers me
in silty slopes
in harsh-cut lines
it lopes off pieces
of my face.
it floods out my marshes
it clears me clean out
and sterile
I wear the vale
and it's worrisome folk
who take up issue.
"You're wearing the vale!
Wearying th' fields
with dead leaves, and dead things.
Don't you tell us
how to live."
Funny, it's not even sublime
how easy it is
to tell me.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
Dear heart. I am the one in charge here. Neuroscience has long taken the responsibility of handling emotions from you. I am in charge of everything in this body, dear heart, I tell you what to do, and you do it. I think we both know I'm the better thinker here.
So why must you ache, why must you suffer for what I do? For every scalding thought you recoil in your cage and pound on the bars of your prison, wishing to be worn on someone's sleeve, dear heart, you've been hidden for too long. You don't know how this world works, and I do, so you must obey me when I tell you what to do. I know it hurts to keep beating despite of how the chemical reactions in my mind may affect you. For every feeling I take as a thought, every thought you mistake as a feeling, we both protest. For a long, long time we refuse to communicate with each other and I know you are tempted to rest, to stop beating because you're the one aching. It's not me, dear heart, that clenches like a fist, crumples inward like a useless scrap of paper, collapses on itself like a star on the brink of a supernova, it is not me, dear heart, that gets hurt.
Why do I only ache when I'm facing a mathematical problem, a complex theory, a questionable logic, a memory-loss crisis, why do I only suffer when I think really hard, even though I am the one in charge of emotions and feelings? Why is it you, not me, that a knife buries itself in when there is emotional pain? Why is it you that has be shredded into blood strings and crimson feathers of sinew, as if you were plucked from an angel's bleeding wings while heaven screeched its protest? Why are you the only one that is punished?
Dear heart, I am sorry. I didn't know why the body is made this way, that you have to be the one on the edge of a cliff while I sit somewhere safely plucking your strings. You are the one facing the endless plummet into a chasm of fangs and jagged rock, and it is up to me to make sure you stay alive, why, dearest, dearest heart do you have to be shackled to me with a silken collar? I can control you, but you have the freedom to fall, and if you do, I will be the one to grab at a protruding edge somewhere on the face of the cliff, and I will pull hard to get us back up.
Because if I don't, we will both die, and I'm the thinker here, I'm the one responsible for both of us, dear heart, I am the one in charge here!
You won't survive on your own. That's why I'm here to take care of us, because neither of us would exist without the other, without me you will be dead, without you, I will be worse than dead, so dear heart. Dearest heart, let me take the reins, let me hold the strings, let me tell you what to do, I'm sorry you can't be free. I'm sorry I hurt you with the thoughts and the memories inside me.
Let me control you. Let them call me abusive, let them call me terrible, let them call me cold and cunning, let them tell the world I am foul and violent, I don’t care!
I am here for you. I will take care of you. And when all you wish is to cease the wearying repetition of living, I will give you reason to keep breathing.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
By a day's difference, and a night's
indifference...angelic flight looses
evasion what was embrace.
The repose of memory blighted by
forgetfulness...seven constitutions
ago that personified the goodly
week of creation.
Incontinent, now...to All Things
small that were big.
Admonished whole by the changeable--
thou fairest...unwell.
Supping thy chinny chin chin--with
world-wearied, and wearying palms...
overgrow The Garden in hopes it may
obscure The Fall.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
I want to be fluid, I want to be smooth
With the ability to soothe
Be like the waters
With seashell daughters
Of streams and brooks and rain
Always tender, always humble, never vain
Yet still ruling with sovereign reign
Nothing should ever be able to stop me
Nothing can stop the ocean or the sea
Not even time
I want to be huge, I want to be sublime
Never hurt, never chagrined
I want to have no fear of the wind
And even less of the heat or the cold
I want to shimmer with gold
When the sun sets
Away from mortal things like hate or regrets
I want to learn to sing like water
Without ever wearying, tiring,
Wheezing or expiring
I want to be the water
When it hums to the night
Chants to the stars bright
Stroking the sand
I want to be water never bland
I want to be the water that glorifies
Which runs, which plays, purifies
Which is sweet and pure, untainted, unattainable
I want to be the water mysterious and unexplainable
I want to be the water when it unfolds
When it holds
The seaweed with maiden hands
I want to be the water when it expands
Dances, sways, flows,
Diverted from the abyss
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
You've been here before. You woke up today and realized that the stress, the angst, and the foreboding that you've allowed to rule your life is there by choice. You've gotten lost in the spiral of anxiety, again.
If it's not your health, it's your money. If it's not the money, it's your kids. If it's not your kids, you're worried about past life choices and how they will affect you tomorrow. Your fears line up at the door, wrap around the block, and await their turn. Your door is open to them all and you don't deny them. You let them in.
Once they are inside, you wrap your fears around you. They’re a welcome smothering; a wearying security blanket of trembling phobia. They are as familiar to you as they are distressing. These constant, restless, companions are more comfortable than the unknown.
Today, though, you stare at the line of fears and realize that something is missing. Happiness. Contentment. Acceptance. These are conspicuous in their absence. And you remember an old Cherokee tale. You have two wolves engaged in eternal battle inside you; one is fear and anxiety and the other is peace and serenity. The strongest is the one you feed and you've been feeding the wrong wolf.
You've done this your entire life in a self-centered, selfish, guilt-ridden, indulgent, fashion. You wallow in the darkness because you're afraid you don't deserve the light.
You know you’ll feed the right wolf today. But can you do it tomorrow?
mighty river;
the fish navigates
as it will
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
My love of poetry is too great
for Philosophy, physics to glue the skin under my toes
to the floor.
A waif, only dandelion fluff,
I tease the turbid puddles
of wearying intellect.
Life is too beautiful
to compartmentalize,
to classify,
to set unsurmountable borders
on the pleasure that only poets and hopeless romantics comprehend.
Disoriented sight/smell/taste/touch/hearing-
backwards rainbows and the upside-down
scent of oatmeal cookies,
the melancholy of a forever-stilled honey bee,
are more golden than yellow metal,
and certain
more knowledge than a heaping pile
of doctors/lawyers/senators/scientists.
reality's only denizens
are Dreamers.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
Imagine yourself with me in the mountains,
Imagine peaceful tranquility away from plains,
Imagine nights full of love and forget pains.
We travel through the mountainous terrain,
We see just colder snow everywhere & no rain,
We go through snow mounted on our horse.
Our horse starts panting as it smells water,
Our wounds tingle with pain & ask for rest too,
Our stomachs demand food too as it seems.
Your elegant eyes see a dark house close-by,
Your now wearying voice tells me to stop over,
Your royal desire is an order for me to obey.
I also agree as we must treat our injuries,
I dismount the horse first to experience pain,
I do offer a hand to you for dismounting.
You are here in this ancient wooden house,
You rest upon the ancient creaky barrel chair,
You look at me with the cute eyes of yours.
I ask you if you needed something soothing,
I am told by you to come and stay by your side,
I come while sensing this cold bothering us.
Your voice quivered from the terrible cold,
Your hands do crave for fresh air of the cabin,
Your mind tells you to remove your gloves.
I looked at you with my questioning eyes,
I am asked by you regarding the same thing,
I agree with you & remove my gloves too.
You come & hold my hands - feel the heat,
You have your hands as frigid as snow & ice,
You sigh with a smile as you feel relieved.
This smile meant much more than relief,
This meant that you want bit more warmth,
This makes me smile back at you kindly.
Imagine us admiring each other happily,
Imagine listening to your own voice inside,
Imagine the snow dust pouring outside...
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
I'm wearied of wearying love, my friend,
Of worry and strain and doubt;
Before we begin, let us view the end,
And maybe I'll do without.
There's never the pang that was worth the tear,
And toss in the night I won't--
So either you do or you don't, my dear,
Either you do or you don't!
The table is ready, so lay your cards
And if they should augur pain,
I'll tender you ever my kind regards
And run for the fastest train.
I haven't the will to be spent and sad;
My heart's to be gay and true--
Then either you don't or you do, my lad,
Either you don't or you do!
1.3k
Fear affords a shallow life
of hesitant connection
and wearying wariness
Delusions in all
of our great minds
blind us
to these quiet moments
of great beauty
reading poetry
Whilst whipping
across time on a galaxy's
flung out arm
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 10:48 AM UTC
Wearying us morning, noon, and night.
Torturing us
We have to go now
And as many as were the tears they shed in the wretched school,
They still conveyed to him
On examination, however, they turned out to be strictly unaware.
Only you and I,
Together on a pink cloud
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
THOSE WHO WERE CROWNED, YET THEY NEVER KNEW
Ayad Gharbawi
When so many die
You feel
When so many perish in pain vivid yet distant
You cry
When so many noble and smiling suffocate helplessly
You think
So many, years and years, of memories within your heart
Those who were crowned, yet they never knew
Those who were praised by all virtue’s gods, yet they never heard
I listen to myself, here as I stand
The times that question me so steadfastly
Who do you turn to, then, in such hours wearying
Who will understand your comradeship
The animals know full well Man’s nature and they turn away
Tell me then, whoever you may be – how will stillness icy turn to laughter
Do not weep, bird
Feathered beauty of innocence fair and freedom just
Do not weep for your heart, though many question you
Though the many wish to **** you
Others, may, stand by you
Justice may embrace you, shelter you and free you to the skies above
When I am asked, why this method of existence
I reply, because, somehow, the future shall reap rewards brighter
Somehow, the future shall crown my trials
Somehow, the future shall embrace me with serenity
Somehow, the future shall surround me with six daughters
Thus, alone I stand now;
Tomorrow may yet offer me the essence of humans warm and sincere
The minds that are closed
The poverty-stricken who blame themselves
The poverty-stricken who are endlessly ashamed of themselves
What, then, do you speak unto such souls weary and tired
How, then, do you lift their burdens unfair
How do you tell them that it is they who are just in claiming what is theirs
And what, then, is their ‘theirs’
Yours are the riches
Yours are the fruits of all your labour
Yours are the sweats’ rewards
Yours are whatever fruition your toil has brought unto yourselves
The years of labour you have done, we say, it shall return to you
Yet, as you now look around you
All those years you have laboured
Where are your rewards accumulating
Where are your benefits that should justly comfort you beyond all frustrations
Where your children’s toys
Why is your salary and wages still the same
Earth revolves as it has
Millions before you have lived, thought, loved, hated and died
Millions shall do the same in the unknown vastness of the future
Blue planet swirling the heavens celestial
How silent are the screams of millions as you exist now
Upon the soil of this revolting planet
Ayad Gharbawi
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 8:19 AM UTC
Its not the trains, cars
and planes.
Those are 'time earned' receipts.
And are only fit for odors of the feet,
and wearying,
as a whole.
Leaving home tears, every time;
waving at the those I precede, as they
station behind.
My back stays sweaty,
my pockets: empty.
Confused by an unaffixed passage of hours,
I often wonder, Who's my mind?
and where did the 'I', I know, go?
My heights look down on
the clouds!
but the depths grab listless by the hand and
take a stroll.
I don't recognize the crowds.
the Hellos or Goodbyes.
My clothes seem not to match,
and to my shoes Use, has been most unkind.
The befriended hat, discolors,
loved by sun and dirt.
My handkerchief a blithe display
just visible from under my shirt.
Then, with tiresome aches,
a new land introduces me
to its beloved scribes, writers,
poets and someones,
and we shake hands.
Inspired,
beatified,
within;
I am recalled to clarity,
and why I have traveled
so far.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 6:39 PM UTC
They say you cannot have
Compassion and innocence
And yes I can see that.
But you have great compassion
And that is the greater virtue
They say that there ain't
No rest for the wicked
But what of the kind hearted?
The sweet and gentle?
They say that ignorance is bliss
And that knowledge is power
But do you know, these tables
Can also be turned?
I know you have a kind gentle heart
A tender soul and a listening ear
I know you have a wearying life
A tortured soul and a sore heart
And I know you have a bright mind
Brilliant thoughts and a clever eye
I know because with these
You've touched me
Touched my life and heart
And mind in an irrevocable way
And shown that you can lighten
The world for those in need
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 8:50 PM UTC
The Shrinking Season
by Michael R. Burch
With every wearying year
the weight of the winter grows
and while the schoolgirl outgrows
her clothes,
the widow disappears
in hers.
Originally published by Angle. Keywords/Tags: schoolgirl, outgrows, clothes, widow, disappears, winter, time, shrinking, season, atrophy, emaciation, bone, loss
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 5:12 AM UTC
There goes that light again,
It’s a sparkle in your eyes again.
Fleeting and flashing, and attention-seeking.
There goes that light again,
It fades from your eyes again.
It makes me toss and turn, and wonder if it was there at all.
There goes that smile again,
It’s a ball of sunshine in the gloom again.
Bright and warm and full of mischief.
There goes that smile again,
It disappears so fast, the gloom quickly recovers.
Then you’re dark and sad and dangerous.
There are those hands again,
In my hair, on my waist, around my shoulders,
Giving me shivers, and butterflies, and making me hold on for dear life.
There are those hands again,
Clenched into fists, motioning for me to stay away.
Your moods swing back and forth so swiftly,
It’s wearying to keep up with the pendulum swing.
But I race to catch up nonetheless.
I have become the wave that clings to the shore.
So quickly pushed away then pulled back in.
There go those arms again,
They’re uncrossed this time.
Opening and welcoming and feeling like home.
And once again I am pulled back in to you.
You wrap yourself around me,
But I feel the doubt sink in.
It’s the calm before the storm again,
Soft and peaceful and reassuring.
But I stay guarded, prepared,
Because when you let go of me again,
Like you always do…
It will be the same story again,
And again… and again..
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
Today that disc of life, when in the east it rose
I found it a little more ominous, its end a little too close.
You don’t seem to mind it, maybe you don’t at all care
The object that makes your day, won’t be forever there.
Today it lends a friendly halo, shines bright on your homely turf
It won’t be like this for all the time, when it turns a white dwarf.
You find it nothing worrisome, too faraway to be any omen
That it is silently wearying itself out, burning up its hydrogen.
The blinding luminous ball, at which your eyes can’t gaze
Has still billions years to bow out, and halfway through its phase.
So what’s there to worry, the end is too longtime yet
Generations will come and go, before reaching destiny’s date.
But still the issue is something that deserves a serious plan
It involves a grave consequence, for the future of human clan.
Where will be our habitat, when dies our star of stars
When earth becomes inhabitable, will our abode be Mars?
For it will be billion years more the fireball will hold there out
Of all the planets the best bet, is our brethren Mars no doubt.
So maybe before our star burns out, we seek out another shore
Colonize the red planet in the sky, also called the planet IV.
An entire civilization will shift there, an enormous migration
Carrying with them love and hatred, all the human emotion.
They’ll make Mars another Earth, in a strange way I feel
We’ll not leave behind human divide, the inequity’s evil
Our boundaries and walls of color of skin, stigma of racial curse
Will they be all carried with us, transported to the new home Mars?
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 5:32 AM UTC
It's overflowing;
I'm full;
It's wearying me;
I can't...
I can't breathe....
Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 8:03 AM UTC
Our sweet Lady Jane!
Silv'ry fur and round green eyes
Blinding us with love.
Our Proud Lady Jane!
Haughty airs and noble grace
Allure us to thee.
Our Cross Lady Jane!
Grumbling throughout the day
Wearying us still.
Genteel Lady Jane!
Deems herself Queen of the home
Secure in our love.
~Hilda~
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
When the city gallops
Uncomprehendingly fast in his slowness
Wearying his blood wrinkling his face
He watches it go by at the bus stop.
No bus stops here anymore
Get in get out then closed door
But the shade homes wayfarer’s wait
If one sits broods on fate.
Contemplates mind how they’re redundant
Left and right all movers’ want
Sunset mellows in the time brewed find
The redeeming way is the one left behind.
The city races in a maddening buzz
The wayfarer only needs to trudge
Back to the road now sunk in dust
Retracing footsteps of love and trust!
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC
I want to get so blind stumbling drunk
that the earth divides herself in twain;
and my half takes me up to heaven,
and then I want to go low again,
let the oceans sink me down into hell,
to drown all this creatures tiresome ambitions.
I'm dying in mundane status quo;
leaking icemakers and clogged disposals,
traffic fines and shopping lists,
car repairs and dinner guests,
and the endless wearing, wearying
wearing out the body,
wearing out the clothes,
wearing out the friends,
wearing out the soul-
need new shoes new wheels new goals;
need new gods;
I’m stuck in the shoals.
Pick a quiet spot
where the only noise heard
is grass growing old;
for life’s a careless happenstance;
that we should even be here,
dreaming forever our pick-pocket dreams,
one day this bubble will burst its seams
and we’ll go back to mute possibility,
where we’ll be filled up,
for eternity of eternities-
but down here, we remain half empty cups.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 5:47 AM UTC
When a pet bird escapes
Through windows or holes
In the walls or the roof
She is overwhelmed by freedom
Wings catching air she soars
In only one direction
Up
Almost as if she knows
There's nothing for her down here
A beeline straight into the stratosphere
Her weak wings quickly wearying
Having never really been used before
They can take her only so far
Until worn down they give up
Burning and aching like overdriven muscle
Exhilarated and ready
For free fall
Her weakness is the ceiling
An invisible barrier of pure air
Across which fate has decreed
She will not pass
Not high enough to touch clouds
But much too high to expect
A smooth landing
Much of a landing at all
Perhaps someone will see her
Grisly reunion with Gaia's unyielding Tarmac
The price you pay for too much freedom
As her cage is cleaned
Ready to be sold in a garage sale
Because the guy who kept her
Couldn't bear the guilt
Of accidentally leaving the window open
No matter his love for winged creatures
He'll never own another one
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
Crippling chaos
ceaseless and wearying
Cliffs cave in
collapse into the hungry sea
Create confounding cages
cold in a furnace
conflagrating in a blizzard
contort into a cavern
capable, perhaps, of crumbling
chiseled into its fated form
cascade along the corners
cry desperation
curse the distance and
choose to—
cut and
close
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC
five things to never do...
eight traits to know if you're...
three ways to get to...
sixteen methods to be sure...
if he does these dozen...
when she acts like this...
nineteen things you never knew about...
ten different ways to kiss...
it's wearying and harrowing,
it's worrying and maddening,
it's listing all the little things
that really aren't mattering.
all designed to make us put the blame
on others for our troubles,
all designed to make us feel better
about all our faults and foibles.
and in the end,
we feel worse because,
we are not treating others
with tenderness and love.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 12:56 PM UTC