"wresting" poems
Goats eat and **** the grass of ramparts,
stupefied cannons sit, garrisoned sentries
primed for nights of buccaneers,
seared by centuries of sun. Down shadowed
cobblestoned ramps, fortified shutters
covet rifle forend and barrel,
wresting rumored slave rebellions
from the locker of history,
while languid waves whisper indifferently
a roll call of human cargo,
chattel displaced, cast to the sea.
Here history sways to sounds
of brown skinned children
at play in breakers,
laughing, shrieking, thrashing,
buoyed by time to this vaulted brick
reverberating chamber,
here a window’s light is cast
beckoning vision past the beach,
to seek the horizon Icarus like,
to fly towards beauty in terror where
an azure sky conjoins a turquoise bay.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 5:14 AM UTC
The wet sand, cools my
bare feet, my eyes look-
out as the sun sets
into the west, wresting
my tension, as small
waves lap at my toes,
tickling taking me
back to childhood day-
dreams.
A ship silhouettes
in the sinking sun,
I am sure, I see
the funeral pyre
boats, of every
warrior ancestor,
lit burning brighter
as sunlight becomes
night, and I am left
scenting smoke, my open
arms reach over the
present sea and great
ocean *that is the
past,* asking,
am I worthy?
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
Random Sampling
Coughing up a lung,
sticking out my tongue.
Looking up her skirt,
dropped my pencil in the dirt.
Watching movies just for fun,
I will never own a gun.
Cat **** on the floor,
kicked it out the door.
Jake The Snake and The Macho Man,
will forever be a wresting fan.
Heavy metal and hard rock,
Skid Row's singer was Sebastian Bach.
New Jersey's pizza is the best,
it would beat New York's in any taste test.
Slept with girls, I didn't like,
soon after, I made them take a hike.
Never slept with a man,
if the money was right, I guess I can.
Love all my family and friends,
mess with them and I will defends.
Done some killer drugs,
stuck screwdrivers in some plugs.
I love paper, I love pen,
I'm more smart than the Three Wise Men.
Pina Colada's in Margaitaville,
then I take the bitter pill.
I still love eighties music,
it's relaxing and therapeutic.
Baseball is my favorite sport,
the Phillies, I will always support.
The next Super Bowl will be held in San Quentin,
***** girls take it on the chin.
I had a few nervous breakdowns,
I've put on a few to many pounds.
Allen does what Allen wants,
how's that for my final response.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
Wood, twisting iron, wresting
Incumbent wind of an idiom.
Nomenclature learned in
Direct proportion to the
Clicking of clavichords, the
Harmonics of harpsichords, the
Iconoclastic rather than
Memes which disavow the
Etherial. For a breath of air is
Spirit. Striking the bells of the SOUL.
SøułSurvivør
(C) 4/19/2017
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 3:08 AM UTC
Rhyme, the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but by fits
True conceit,
Spoiling senses of their treasure,
Cozening judgment with a measure,
But false weight;
Wresting words from their true calling,
Propping verse for fear of falling
To the ground;
Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,
Fast'ning vowels as with fetters
They were bound!
Soon as lazy thou wert known,
All good poetry hence was flown,
And art banish'd.
For a thousand years together
All Parnassus' green did wither,
And wit vanish'd.
Pegasus did fly away,
At the wells no Muse did stay,
But bewail'd
So to see the fountain dry,
And Apollo's music die,
All light failed!
Starveling rhymes did fill the stage;
Not a poet in an age
Worth crowning;
Not a work deserving bays,
Not a line deserving praise,
Pallas frowning;
Greek was free from rhyme's infection,
Happy Greek by this protection
Was not spoiled.
Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,
Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
But rests foiled.
Scarce the hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish
To restore
Phœbus to his crown again,
And the Muses to their brain,
As before.
****** languages that want
Words and sweetness, and be scant
Of true measure,
Tyrant rhyme hath so abused,
That they long since have refused
Other cæsure.
He that first invented thee,
May his joints tormented be,
Cramp'd forever.
Still may syllabes jar with time,
Still may reason war with rhyme,
Resting never.
May his sense when it would meet
The cold tumor in his feet,
Grow unsounder;
And his title be long fool,
That in rearing such a school
Was the founder.
3k
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain,
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so,
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know.
For if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee,
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believèd be.
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
1.8k
To write
Is to live
To know
to exist
Nothing is simple
But it is
The truth is simple
Reading in the night
By candle light
Stories flashed out
A hero
A ******
A twist
A fall
And we dance on
Different directions
Respect is payment
For the injustices
A bill that will never be filled
By you
But another
Wresting with myself
I was with a chameleon
a lizard, brother to a snake
What was I thinking?
I was crazy in pain
From my last over dose
To take more pills
or not?
I deserve to feel this sting
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
*My hand is wresting on the bleak window ledge
while I reach out my hand to catch a perfectly molded snowflake
My hand is forcing the flake to thaw
as if there is a burning blaze within me*
*I look out the square~shaped window
and I only see the pure nature infront me
Trees are dusted by refined flakes
and the grass is covered with a blanket from heaven*
I silently close my windowgate
*I glance at The Note on the bedside table
I still feel the touch of the handwritten inkletters
The lines are drawn flawlessly onto the almost crumpled piece of paper
He wrote words of love*
*I blow out air on the clear pane of glass
and as the pane absorbs the vapor, a cloudy fog appears
With a gentle motion I write "Dear Love"...
with a hope of him recieving my message*
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
Yes, everything here changes.
Again the wheel is turning
wresting with iron fingers
out of my heart steaming blood.
But You, I will not sell You
for thirty silver coins.
The dead ones do not change
neither do the not born,
the newly risen don’t – do not change!
May the changing ones eat
the dust of days, in order to survive.
After Fridays Good,
I know,
The Sundays rise!
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 8:04 AM UTC
O little bird, why dost thou flit so,
Filling the skies with they song of woe?
Knowest thou not that a storm doth come?
Hearest thou not the thunder’s celestial drum?
It thrashes and thrums with such terrible din,
Wresting away thy song as though t’was but a sin.
Fly, little bird, fly away swift and true,
‘Til the heavens are once again swathed only in blue.
Feb 24, 2020
Feb 24, 2020 at 6:45 PM UTC
I am dead.
Cloven flesh, spirit
hiding shadows, some place, no place, sow
below the flow of thought -
amiable calamity on the part of the
lethargic.
That sense faded west
tasting living sweat and I
can’t even feel the uncaring
caress of ill ideals seeping through
green-blue, all eyes gray through prismatic
roots.
Wheels touch paper wedges,
circlets adorning colored names to
beats and lengths of waves, crystalline
wrists intact but
can’t my legs catch the
drift?
The day fades salty
across my brow, spit up
gentrified goodbyes dancing the fine line
catching boldly to dusk,
webs of light casting Terra’s abortions into
night.
I feel adrift atop
bending winds soaring,
grasping at the sky;
I’m laughing crawling forward, snatching
feelings named in my self-absorbed
ways.
Oh! how it bursts forth!
Explosions off in the distance
tuning eyes to white and back again,
heaving ribs spitting venom,
ideas ***** abominations, I feel at home at
last.
I cry at simplicities
feet, todays imagined forays into
Death again foiled by a common
sense which refuses neglect, wresting
forever rest from out my chest, a wasted
breath.
And what to do with
indulgent Death? What of
her bright eyes catching mine,
shaken thoughts grow cold
inside, so cold she warms my flesh for
tomorrows.
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
Copper bees on earings
or wresting on flowers
smoking a cigarette, disheveled
outside the bar after hours
Maybe I've been selfish
and rushing like a manic
into many different spaces
all draped with potential
Just trying to find a light in
a very dark tumble
And the more I've become
aware of my cyclic mechanics
was where I felt hopeful
What is your dream like?
The less I fear I'll ever be content
He's like a quite lake a
mountain of sturdy grace
His buttons all in place
Sometimes I feel shapeless and
drifting
But he's an anchor in drizzled
mornings
I'm trying to find the gap
where God and I coalesce
It's hard to express
It's a titillating quiver
To make peace with the remnants
of a stranger
In my head
the voice still there
Memories of bee stings
from throwing rocks
at hives.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 2:33 AM UTC
What's fair the empty playground I'm found deserted again
no bucket or plastic shovel to build my imaginary castle by the sea
just to watch it crumble into the winter abyss that haunts me,
my everything is hidden there,
all my darkest dreams,
how fleeting they seem to me now in this moment between a yawn and a blink.
Now to count the seconds down, like hourglass grains before they're blasted into infinitum,
ad nauseum,
the shortest route to my disgusted laughter brought by iron works and silent chatter, lifted lights to gild the gladdener
Once again I've found myself saying
once again,
how long until I get to stop counting these seconds till my end.
Another chance, a silly whim, a wresting of my hope from within for others, see the colors, just to dash it upon the cemetary.
My homestead weeps, the wry touched curls of fois de gras coil
up the supports licking flames and feathers, whips and tethers, carry me through this fever dream, sniffling, sailing.
I cannot, I could, I can, I won't, I wouldn't, I should, be who would I be then?
The thought's of thoughts thinking of theories thunk to breathe that opalescent shimmer off obsidian winter bunkers built to break all meaning peaking from beneath the umbra.
Why is it so hard to just be at peace?
I guess nothing worth doing is ever easy.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 12:33 PM UTC
I have taken you already,
my love - many times;
my heedless husband surrogate.
His (your) teeth at my breast,
drunking my head,
my belly close to –
lungs coursing in time
with his (your) tongue;
yet wresting (just)
his name
from sodden summer sheets.
Breathlessly my
eyes slam closed
as he preens pretended prowess.
Hollow, but composed, I smile;
reach out (to you, to you…) to him
and speak the wooden line
the scene demands.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
Saint Valentine's cards of cherubs wrapped
In red ribbons
Wresting In pockets Of a trench-coat lying removed.
Pulsating street lamps revealing glittering
Flecks of snowflakes lining tired streets
With skyscrapers.
We covet empty bottles thrown with the intention to shatter;
Watering up the lawns.
I'm dreaming of palm trees rough,
Sun-kissed, and swollen
Like bumblebees had stung them.
Shifting iris' from corner to corner,
Not missing any pleasurable encounter;
Sinking in ***** and choking In smoke.
Lines cut with maxed out credit cards and
Tokes from glass pipes shaped like octopi;
There's single roses and small
Teddy bears
Red hearts hanging from strings from the ceiling.
The wallflower with no significant other In particular,
Seems peculiar in
Contrast to a sparkling demeanor;
Apprehensive to be present, and trying to disguise It.
Everyone is stumbling, dropping their cigarettes;
Howling at the Moon and
Laughing wildly!
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
Beneath the boughs
lay a broken sword once more relinquished
to the Earth to claim
that which belonged to her,
so long ago, as
tangled vines take hold
of a pommel and hilt long rusted through.
"Away," whisper the clovers
as he tramps about,
and wresting the rusted blade
from its slumber,
turned and cut the Stag's throat,
while Artemis looked on,
disgusted.
Sanguine silver painted marigolds
and mums now shamefully stained
on ruined earth,
with naught but a rusted shard returned
while willows wept.
Beneath the boughs
lay a broken sword once more relinquished
to Earth, to claim
that which belonged to her
so long ago, as
tangled vines take hold
of a pommel and hilt long rusted through.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
Chains of smoke for lessons learned
Eyes to cry where eagles flit and fly
I stand alone again yet burned
Wondering on wanderings mote
Slipping inside, I notice
This was all, and ever wrote
Hereby I, to numb away
How didn't I notice frost?
A signal like a spire among Ghouls that beckon
Lore becomes my empire, while I float on again
Wonton desires cause ceaseless wresting
And shallows felt, bring on the wilting
Caught up again in uncertainty,
as shadows wisp by
Nothing left but wanting
And I wonder if it was altruism
Bells that thunder on like heartstrings
And I'm going through the motions
Bellows loud like eruptions underneath
And I am but a mountain singing
Play pain again
I'd love to feel
The echoes from the walls
Teach me what I'm missing
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
As I laid there once more with your arms
wrapped around my waist, head wresting in my chest,
I whispered,
"something keeps leading me back to you, if only I knew."
You lifted your head, smiled and asked what I said.
I never repeated what I said but
you still grasped a little tighter and said,
"it's always been you, there's something about you."
At that very moment; same thought we had in mind,
I realized its not a "something," but a "someone"
and that someone is happily you--
Until an hour later after you held me,
you held another and that
'happily,' turned quickly to 'sadly.'
--Left to question why; question how,
but simply replied,
"I'm used to it, too many to count."
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC
God speaks with impeccable timing
Lining the mirror with silver
Reflecting even the dimmest lighting
So you notice that glimmer in your eyes...
Inside I'm whirling with questions
My curious mind, wresting with
Indecision and panic at the promises
I meant but might not honestly be able to keep...
I know that I'm intelligent, but still
Doubt clouds my judgement while
Fear of death, or even worse, failure
Drive me into situations I might regret...
It's a miracle I'm still alive today
By the hands of gracious people
I narrowly escaped the legions gaze
Moving out of the steeples vast shadow...
Now, standing in the light, the Truth
Watching my own shade stretch out
Consuming the lovely Sun's warmth
And twisting it with my short sighted ego...
I wish I could understand because
I don't have much faith in humanity
But we're all just doing our best
To try to make ends meet...
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 11:45 PM UTC
my ******* hands
are attached to
restless wrists wresting
control
of this keyboard.
I’ve got to put something down
and I don’t want my fingertips to stop dancing on the keys.
My hands move faster than my mind can think
today. Today,
I am a writer. Yesterday I was a poet
and my hands could not keep up with my words
which could not keep up with my thoughts –
thoughts (n): dreams computed by the mind.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
4 boys in the pool, wrestling
And beside them a family of three
Dad, mum and girl of about 6
Getting into the raucousness of it
The family are wresting and swimming around
A pink ball between the three
Later the girl is just away from mum and dad, rubbing her eyes
And dad tackles mum a little
Overexcited
And mum says don't hold me like that
And affectionate dad comes round behind her
The 3 unite, mum checks on daughter
Some other mum saw me
As I went daydreaming
"That's what you want!"
I didn't look directly at the family as they left the pool
Just in the corner of my eye
As mum put on her slippers and walked away
Jul 24, 2023
Jul 24, 2023 at 3:02 PM UTC
I Still Have Ego Left
I still have ego - all its parts.
Is it the ‘smarts’?
Is it the ‘dumbs’?
Something to succumb to?
On the good side ego gives me self-esteem.
On bad, it gives me self-conceit,
Leads me to think sour is sweet,
Leads me on a road that’s wrong:
Vanity, a false self image;
Is that knowledge or mirage?
Singing a wrong, woeful song?
Do I want to **** it?
Subjugate it?
Maybe, just an itty bit!
Why quash, why squash
Distinctiveness, uniqueness,
And the differentness
That makes us us,
Even when peculiarity,
You are you and I am me.
We do not want to change that, yet
The ego fools us masterfullly.
Wresting honesty from wisdom.
So with ego left, the outcome is:
Learn to distinguish real from false;
Take the pulse of life each day
And play the game of authenticity.
I Still Have Ego Left 8.14.2018 Circling Round Reality; Arlene Nover Corwin
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Teary eyes, it’s only me who try’s,
I love those eyes but hate your lies,
But even more, I hate goodbyes,
And cutting ties, Cutting loose,
From your tight noose, closing
My windpipe, I think it’s alright
Because you are my life light,
The singular light in my cold life,
Relieving pressure on this cold knife,
Wresting on my wrist, wrestling this,
Dark feeling from all my **** dealings,
Dealing with my pain,
It won’t go away,
I just can’t stay,
Another day.
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 9:17 PM UTC