"whisperers" poems
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls
Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle
Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms
Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues
Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare
It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC
some times I believe,
not think,
but believe,
that there are indeed little figures in the grass,
brushing my ankles with tickles and laughs
sometimes in mid of velvet black,
can see them waving their six fingered hands
in front of the lights across the bay,
for the twinkles are different, their winkles,
semaphoric, euphoric, random but patterned
every know and every then,
could they be inside me,
inciting riots, sugar sharp pains,
in places where pain has no place purposed,
feel them lifting my-back-of-the-neck hairs,
at scary movies, making an ear itchy, why?
these elusives
are fairie godmothers,
personal angels,
hobgoblins,
shoulder sitters,
amusing muses
ear whisperers,
of new poem titles
sock stealers,
shoelace knoters,
giggling self-amusers,
ever present, ever invisible,
hat hiders, wet spot slider installers
you say you know them too?
cousins perhaps, for my elusives,
could not be here and there,
for they are:
as I write,
as I speak,
this very second
fluttering my eyelids,
those rascals,
to lay me down to sleep,
in cherishing tenderness me to keep
for they know too well,
sleep,
is an elusive of a different kind,
like peace of mind,
but they do their best,
to distract me unto rest
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
Willow herb floating
on silent certainty
ashes of sighs
not fleeting,
unvapoured on the
blossom of the rain,
I am too light to
pull or push
the swing of delight
through this land.
The rain left me for a
while
sun unshielding
-a thousand widows
more unyielding than the depths . .
Once shadowed whisperers
of delight,gossamer
sparkling , descending
their chains
of necromantic hope.
Lilith is no night owl
she is mother, eve
and my becoming:
sweet earth spun
at once ,
exhaling her .
The see saw
bumped gently
on my chin
it is a most gentle
form of awakening.
The silence bore no whispers
till sinking through the quicksand
-or was it quicksilver?
-in any case I could smell little
in my amniotic amnesia.
I made ten thousand friends,till their soap
made this place clean.
Is this a seed or a dying
hopefulness
-is my sallow sowing
beyond all shores of
reproduction;
a reflection of the child
they dared not bear?
Is my last breath like this
a forgotton yielding
will they catch me
as I fall ?
-(sweet earth)-
This moth of my ending,
a shallow recantation,
my fears-
their memories, mere
testubes of
stylish hope .
I breathe the elegant stare
you have forgotten .
Once more free
from such
rememberance
I need not ,
remained not ,
your imploded ,
wakefulness .
A thousand pardons
exhaled like silk
entwining
an unfinished race
spider of a thousand eyes .
One may say
I was
stared
to death
but surrogate air
mocks childish pity.
Taut refelexions
bear salt echoes
in silk convulsions
fresh water
a veneered hope .
Easier in death than life
is a child's sorrowed
partings ,
the illusion of
bouyancy
rippled tides
unfelt.
The oceans have not enough salt
for such shrunken sorrow.
if we could but once
have shared
unbreathed aspersion .
The room has come and gone
the pillow quite undry
unforgotten
unremembered.
A web untouched
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 7:46 AM UTC
There are bloggers and selfie-takers,
Know the difference.
There are noisemakers and peacemakers,
I can show you the evidence.
There are admirers and haters.
Be especially mindful.
There are well-wishers and supporters.
Be very careful
The are naysayers and yeasayers
Always be aware.
There are brothers and brother's keeper,
Always ready to take care.
There are destroyers and fixers,
Separate them.
There are mixers and blenders,
We need them.
There are writers and publishers,
They need each other.
There are readers and proofreader.
Both read for different reasons.
There are bystanders and onlookers.
Both will be watching.
There are movers and shakers,
One of them has the edge.
There are dreams snatches and vision busters,
Be on the lookout.
There are ghost whisperers and Ghostbusters,
Both have connection to a ghost.
There are buyers and sellers,
Each one benefits.
There are singers and there are dancers.
Everyone provides some entertainment.
©IvanBrooksPoetry
21/8/2018
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
This is not Love, perhaps,
Love that lays down its life,
that many waters cannot quench,
nor the floods drown,
But something written in lighter ink,
said in a lower tone, something, perhaps, especially our own.
A need, at times, to be together and talk,
And then the finding we can walk
More firmly through dark narrow places,
And meet more easily nightmare faces;
A need to reach out, sometimes, hand to hand,
And then find Earth less like an alien land;
A need for alliance to defeat
The whisperers at the corner of the street.
A need for inns on roads, islands in seas,
Halts for discoveries to be shared,
Maps checked, notes compared;
A need, at times, of each for each,
Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech.
2.8k
Let me:
Sail into your dreams
Cuddle your fantasies
Hear your silence
Utter your thoughts
Read your unspoken words
Touch your imagination
Embrace your desires.
Sing to your heart
Kiss your soul
Taste your sweetness
Touch your kindness
Feel your happiness and
Dance inside your chest
Let me be:
Your gentle breeze,
The spring of your life
The inspiration of your love and
The whisperers of your being
Hussein Dekmak
Jul 16, 2023
Jul 16, 2023 at 4:52 AM UTC
Once upon a time, sweet soldier, we were everything!
We were shy glances and piercing stares,
bitter coffee and sweet cider,
nervous laughter and easy smiles.
We were all-nighters and painfully early mornings,
utter exhaustion and unexplainable energy,
distracted work days and focused only on each other.
We were photographs and video recordings,
magic tricks and storytelling,
Monty Python and Charlie the Unicorn imitators.
(We were total dorks!)
We were late night jogs and wrestling,
motorcycle rides and beach-walking,
seekers of adventure and last minute decision making.
We were short pecks on the cheek,
and long passionate kisses,
fierce embraces and soft caresses.
We were soul-searchers and wound-healers,
dreamers and risk-takers,
keepers of secrets and whisperers of truth.
We were sanity and craziness,
possibilities and improbabilities,
with everything and yet nothing going for us.
We were in love.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
Demons
Kind of devels
Ghosts of hell
Controling the bell
Drugged, undercover
the soul of whisperers
Black angel with dark blue
Real astonish eyes
Sun rises , he's gone
Sun goes , he's here
Timeless
Searching special blood
From people slained rudely
That's his awful way
To show emotions
The glory of respect
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
Just by chance the taxi drove a little too far
Merely by impulse I decided to go inside
The fluorescent entrance was conveniently right in front on me
why not called temptation and my feet obeyed
Just in curiosity I strolled down unnecessary aisles
Simply by nature I left my soul bare
Swarms of negativity and hummings of positivity flew through me
so what my faithful reassurance comforted me
Just as always I returned insult with compliment
Eyes as ever looking deeper than fantasy
And then I saw her, shredded clothes and body worn
look closer winds whispered from a land unseen
Just in loyalty my eyes studied this woman
And in love I recognized purity that I strive to wield
The evil whisperers are hypocrites in their claiming her *****
and wrong they are too for all I see is light
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
impassioned fascists lash facts
together working to bash
brash young activists
envisioning a lasting planet
****** Janet
congress loves the Jews
and the blues of today
means we’ve all flown
over nests impressed
with obese flying flesh..
resting festival goers flow
over Bohemian Grove
with row boats toting
goat cheese
and if it please the court
I will bring back Bermuda Shorts
and with elegant reports on contortionist’s
abortion risks and whisk farm fresh eggs
with Barbie Doll legs in May
under the sway of a fine cognac
Black light heart attack on the first night
after the fourth Blood Moon
bring gloom to the tomb of the unknown
soldier, whose older brother
drank Folders crystals whilst *******
about the listless whisperers
still recklessly wishing for some
environmental recognition or maybe
a shift in the disposition
towards deep sea net fishing
and phishing scammers flooding servers
in service of the undeserving
reservationists……..
native brethren living together in
harmonious balance
with the nature around us
astounds me
and if’n we could only see
that, peacefully
we could be free….
is it only a dream to me
as if Frank and I
were going home,
together –
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
**I cannot look into her eyes
the soul of a mother long gone
I hate my face in the mirror
I dread the stranger within
My sunken brown eyes are faded
Like the falling sand,
the statue of my self is erased
Life is a joke,
and I'm the clown
I perform to an empty theater,
and laugh at my own shadow
The voices are in my head,
the puppets and the songs
the whisperers and the screams
When I lay in the dark,
alone,
sometimes,
I close my eyes,
to the howls of the demons inside
Mother,
I'm married to the night
Someday I had hoped,
that when I'm done with my acts,
Maybe,
In the heavens,
where you live
We would laugh forever,
Like we always did**
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 3:07 AM UTC
The Benchwarmer with peeled eyes and a chip on his shoulder
Was all ears but under the weather
The Pick of the Litter told him to hold his horses and that he could not pass go to collect two hundred dollars
Bob his Uncle was down in the dumps that day
And ***** his Aunt's eyes were bigger than her stomach
But she had a punchline so funny it would rock your socks off then proceed to knock them off even though they fit like a glove
But somewhere in the crowd there we're various whisperers and a soothsayer who knew The Benchwarmer would win it big single-handedly that day
And they all shouted from the stands
"You got a good head on your shoulders, you little pain in the ***
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
dead bodies moving dead bodies
you know the theme, the scheme,
the thought and the idea
the bodies, dead, paying the bills,
moving dead past the dawn
eyeballs rolling up as windows
closing and doors close and open
the bodies, mass production,
lots of bodies
Monday, Tuesday, Shitday
Thursday, Friday, Saturday
and Christday
Neighbor Allah never greets anyone
and he talks to himself in echoes
Buddha is all smiles and virtues
but no muscle, Buddha's daughters
are out clubbing tonight ******* their
oriental curves, selling their oriental
scents and cold white skin
to Allah's *** deprived sons
Christ is the only father and
he disowns his nieces and nephews,
I knew years back that I am a distant relative
just dead bodies, yours and mine
produce, corporate livestock,
labels from the heaviest bills handed
over in sinister alleyways,
sinister exchanges, hitman to hitman,
extraction to extraction, fraction by fraction,
bodies serves as platforms,
nonliving chopping boards for the butchers
dressed up as elves
the bodies, limb by limb, sagging skins,
rivers of hairfalls, scratch marks,
Ms. Universe stretch marks, the *** tapes
of the cheerleaders whom silent and wise
boys yearned for all through years of fading
innocence
Closeted gay professionals keeping their pointed ******* when nothing's wrong with them until consent turns from probationary to mandatory and hate and red and blue and green and yellow flags and pedophiles and bigots and white supremacists and Allah whisperers and Allah fanatics and Buddha hypocrites and China takes over the world and feminists, and third and fourth and fifth and so on genders and Trump and memes and Filipinos and mental health and memes and mental health and memes and literature and literature and activists and who ****** who and politicians and what Americans, Australians, Chinese, Japanese, British, Candian, Irish and and North Koreans and K-Pop plastic lips and hips who young girls and boys from isolated islands gets ****** for and hipsters and the nine to fives and the ***** to give and the snobbish *** girls in parties, in clubs, in alleys who wants to get ****** by all the celebrity status ***** all just becomes a tiny pinch for the dead bodies not to see and point the flower and shoot the gun to end the human war.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 2:48 PM UTC
You’re aged thirty-two with your own bottomless bank account.
A pocket full of cash that’s digging a deep immeasurable pit into your pocket.
Spending ridiculous amounts on ridiculous things, no matter if it costs over a million.
You’re aged thirty-two with your own supercharged automobile.
Fresh new stainless steel alloys and rubber tires to burn at the turn of the diamond studded steering wheel.
Chasing the marks on the road as you drive off into your own endless oblivion.
You’re aged thirty-two with your own house in New York.
The doors of which let hundreds of guests pass through night after night into the never-ending carnivals rides of Coney Island.
But when they leave you standing alone on your peer, pensively pondering your past,
Reaching out for her green light across the misty filled lake.
Trying to work out how to bring her back, but only this time making it last.
She’s just across on the other side of the bay,
With no idea that the hole in her back is being burned by the fires of your eyes.
As you stand disguised staring into her yellow solar flare hair in the morning sunrise.
You’re aged thirty-two with an unfilled heart.
Longing for the girl that you should have never left in the start.
But she’s with someone new and she’s probably forgotten all about that year she spent with you.
You're just the distant memory reaching across the bay,
The one that the whisperers say was a lonely millionaire aged only thirty-two.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
The fast falling rain slams hard against the old wooden windows
The wind whistles through the empty fire place
And lightning the only light that shines in the darkened room.
Promises uttered last as long as the whisperers icy breath hangs in the air
A faint layer of dust covers an old fashioned telephone that keeps ringing, but remains unanswered
And the smell of damp wood and musty perfume lingers and mixes with the ghosts and memories of the past.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 9:53 PM UTC
Voices from the past spoken by ghosts are
booked with stories, stories till gone untold.
Tombstone whisperers with breathless lisps
Caress your mind with misty mystery
Beginning stories "once upon a time"
and ending them with the two words "The End."
We find ourselves wishing to hear stories
told by the living before they die but,
Only after they die do we listen
because everything they wanted to say
can now only be said with one word, dead.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
The force of his look, swept my mind for consciousness.
His sweet touch made my soul tremble.
Caressing my skin with his poisonous tongue
that drove me to madness.
The whisperers of empty promises, that I believed.
Lingering in the air, even after he´s gone.
I´d die for many loved ones.
But for you, I´d live.
You captivated my soul, then ran away with it.
Could I please have it back?
Since I no longer can have
you.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 4:17 AM UTC
She walks down the corridor
back straight, immaculate.
Heels tapping a regular rhythm
heart beating a tattoo of nerves.
nerves
She can hear the wishers of spite
whispering, sneering, delivering splinters
of withering, scathing remarks at her back
behind masks of smiles and false friendship.
friendship
She hasn't been aboard a ship of friends
in quite a while.
Transistors in her head have picked up the
whispers, the predictors have spoken.
spoken
"She only got the promotion on her back"
"Like she has the qualities for the role"
"Well she does have qualities for a roll!"
"She does like rolling on her back!"
back
Back home, she sits at the mirror in her room
shivers whilst remembering the sniggers and
whispers. The slingers of whispers and dirt
have hurt too deep this time.
time
Time has passed, and the only dirt thrown
Is the handful by her sister, on top of the box
her sibling lies in, lies in because of lies.
She espies the work colleagues, watching and grins.
grins
Grins because it's not often you see the twin
of a suicide victim.
The victim of evil whispers, furthermore
she starts work in a week, with these weak whisperers.
Killers
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
A white fog
seeps into your brain
it whisperers sleep
things need doing
but nothing you
can't do later
fog should be
chilly and damp
but this is warm blankets
on a winters day
it makes a good case
but when the fog
rolls away
it might be too late
to do
what should've been done.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
The night surrounds me
It is my disguise, my comfort
The spot i would rather be, my big secret
silence that is so loud, oh my friend!
You contain so many voices unheard.
loud off in other-places, only some always unheard
Whisperers tell secrets in your ears, you never tell
endless secrets flow through you, until they hit sky.
They become the stars
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC
Hosannah (Mombo from Missoura)
<>
Hosannah (Hebrew): an exclamation of joy, adoration
<>
*who says Hosannah anymore, I think, recalling
a question reversed,^ one, long ago, that she sent to me,
the answer comes, a puddle splashing grandmother,
Mombo from Missoura
a what?
doesn’t matter
Periodic perusals of the small fine poems here, jewels lost in the kerfuffle,
At once, a signet ringing word jumps into my historical consciousness,
That little place, where the childhood was puzzled, but purified, remembering
That little boy, in synagogue, lost amid a congregation chanting
Hosannah! to
Yahweh, ghost god, user of intermediaries-whisperers,
Mombo from Missoura (today’s guest voice)
selected by greater forces to make him recall the unity of many voices
his squeaking tone, found among that pure noise
that went to god’s heart direct
exclaiming in joy, adoration of
a majesty unfound on Earth,
sealed with a Selah,
crowned with Hallelujah
that god who never, incapable of forgetting,
still chats with him, that boy, now a boy~poppy,
from time to time,
recalling when together,
they too, puddle jumped,
looking for oil drop rainbow spots
so they could unison shout out loud*
Hosannah! A rainbow on Earth
Sabbath Sept. 14, 2019
<>
^ ”who writes poems like this?”
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
the sorrow drips down like avenues
of cobbled mornings.
when you feel like writing a novel
but only manage a phrase--
when your thoughts can't make it past your brain,
let alone the page.
you breathe,
and exhale the frost that cracks the windowpane--
a touch and it shatters
the security and warmth,
to curl in bed and watch the stars on your ceiling.
the stars that blink out one by one
as your mind's eyes do.
but those of the human you love
supernova in front of you
your anchor to sentience ripped from the sea's
living room floor.
the living room, framed with pictures
of the ghosts and the whisperers--
and limbo' s pale door.
alas in my mind,
the last eye wanders down those avenues
and as your streets cobble too,
it shuts.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
the sweetest things to say
grizzled and grumpy,
old poets,
be wary, woman
they know all
the sweetest things to say
they know to use them too,
so well, beware their wellness,
waters cooling they will sprinkle
in your holy places,
willingly make your wells
refreshed
they are excellent
woman whisperers,
wise in the ways to talk-take
you inside, out of the sun,
and make you over heated,
nonetheless
just in the way exact
you truly see yourself,
granting the wishes you don’t tender
to anyone else, but the whispering angels,
hear all you want and grant you completions
in the way they say
the sweetest things
pity them, they have the insight,
the split tongue, to inside you
inside out, from outside they’ll come,
seeking all you have,
your inner wealthy they want,
not for greed, or useless using
not one bit
they
the sweetest things to say,
they
cannot help themselves,
the tricks they employ but tools
to satisfy the mutual melds
where need meets and the ganglia
intertwine and the synapses,
your mutual fireworks, explode,
in wine reds, blue sapphires, whiter diamonds,
ah the bejeweled colors of their words,
sugar cane and sweet *** perfumes to
persuade,
save,
themselves over and over
to know the love of the woman
was why the creator created them next to last,
for he saved them,
for his greater creation,
woman
so keep them too close and far away,
for when they knocking come,
you will surrender sense and speech,
in payment for
the sweetest things they say,
I love you,
meaning every syllable true
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 1:28 PM UTC
The metal x said "Thou shall not pass"
Neon yellow gloves pointed to the sky,
warning who was watching, when they
were hit they flew far and fast (20 feet)
Embedded in the rubber that hits the road,
are what seem to be the remains of a toad,
but they are not, not at all,
they were the dangerous daffodil.
I guess his hate governor must of broke, or
he must have felt the power of engine,
so he closed his eyes inhaled that **** or
maybe the forced move pumped his adrenaline.
What ever the case, there was not a witness and we know no flower whisperers
The stalks fresh with Spring agility could not stand the weight and snapped crisper.
then burnt back bacon char coaled on the grill, so far this is a measure of his ill, will.
We have nothing but WIDE TIRE tracks to go by and too bad he is the only one, for sure
and at the end of the month he will live here, Nevermore, Nevermore, Never ever more.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC