"wringing" poems
I’m strong, I can stand
against the buffeting winds
that try push me down.
(I’m weak, too easy I fall,
giving in to the pressure
that mounts from within.)
In the face of your discrimination,
I’m courageous
(I fear your abuse)
Yes, I am strong.
Though my gnarled hands
bend with age,
my roots…
(break, there is no
vigor left in me)
Sighing...my mind twists
that which should grow
into a solid foundation,
turning it into
(groans of pain,
mental anguish.
Weakness takes over)
A tired thought dances
through dim light,
bringing some joy
into the
(bleak. All I see are
shadows. Mocking shadows.)
Once I believed I had it,
an inner strength to deal
with anything.
(Like a mirage, my spirit
couldn’t grasp what it needed.)
Now I envision…
no, I see what I truly am.
My hands are wringing,
I’m cold...so cold.
I am
not
strong.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
i've tricked them once again
i made them believe that everything was fine.
******* I'm good,
even after all this time.
i'm too good at lying to myself,
I'm too good at pushing away the pain.
and even tricking myself
into believing I'm okay.
you're telling me to breathe
but my throat keeps closing.
you tell me to sleep,
but every night is darkness without dreams.
how am i supposed to write,
without spilling blood on the page.
but this is my job now,
and i need a decent grade.
like forcing a bird to sing for food,
you're wringing me out.
my mind dripping to the floor,
i can't create beautiful things anymore.
i'm writing everything over again.
repeating
repeating
repeating myself.
what do you want me to say?
that everything will be okay?
you want me to make my own light,
give myself a nicholas sparks ending.
because now I'm exposed,
I'm standing in front of you all.
and you can practically see the blood
dripping down my wrists.
with the world standing behind me,
its hard to keep my focus.
"make it pretty" she says,
"don't let them see you're already dead."
i can't turn tears to holy water,
or my own blood into wine.
i can't create beauty,
staring Darkness in the eyes.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set
orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till
spring"
the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
too much insufferable
having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit **** u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run
concurrently
there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****
tests and hunts,
I have successfully
failed
of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader
men
maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted
where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in
immediacy
heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
smothered life
but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a **** you
mirror
there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose name you meditate --
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little
Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical
Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.
13.4k
You know Eight Owl City,
-ain’t where I’m from?
You know the past isn’t pretty,
-why are you dwelling there son?
You know every thought’s a lifetime,
-of hands wringing, hands wrung?
Forget the past, see the future now,
-Dip-dap-a-looma lung.
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Storm on the horizon,
-thunder in the air,
Crack-O-lightning split the skies now,
-ignore the clouds their always there…
You know Eight Owl City,
-is just a place to hide your mind?
Life is hard, it ain’t pretty,
-lost in a place out of time.
Get out your head or you’ll eat yourself,
-consumed by paranoia, -rage!
Forget the past; see your future now,
-all you do in life is age.
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Hands wringing, hands wrung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Hear me now as it’s sung,
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.
My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.
It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.
And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.
12.2k
Sitting in Circular Quay in a bistro on a warm winters day
dreaming while watching the tourists and ships sail by.
As I eat oysters and drink the day in with my wine,
past memories wash over me.
Morning teas, chats, and paper bark trees,
hikes through the bush and walks along the beach.
Watching dolphins play at dawn
and fishing the waters on New South Wales shores.
The Harbor Bridge alight with Bicentennial Fireworks;
a surreal beginning to this adventure.
Wringing every drop from days spent,
finding a new world with each step.
Discovering myself through the wisdom and eyes of you,
maturing, becoming my own.
Like family, you’ve been both mentor and friend,
carrying me through fire and back.
My life was undone as I first saw your shore.
Feeling my heart would break
with our first goodbyes,
unknowing that an permanent bond had been forged.
Tracing back over the years since we met,
I’ve been given more than my share.
Making me ponder how I have been blessed,
to count you as a true friend.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
how far must she travel
to rediscover
her purpose
her purpose
what a preposterous concept
neither rest nor return
are purpose
neither love nor hate
are purpose
neither this nor that
so then what
what is it
what is the answer
to this unquantifiable question
perhaps it rests
in the caverns of her dreams
in the caverns of her subconscious
synesthetic
mind
seeing colors for numbers
and mango puddles in the rain
it was always her imaginative spirit
that activated her forehead
which wrinkled with the tides of
hurt pain sadness glory god
and she was told
to soften that sternness
soften it until she was nonexistent
but instead she asked
what are these things
what are their purpose
besides drinking foreheads and wringing potential
and piping out excuses for this and for that
for crimson activities and
claret affairs
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:28 PM UTC
here comes the fishhead singing
here comes the baked potato in drag
here comes nothing to do all day long
here comes another night of no sleep
here comes the phone wringing the wrong tone
here comes a termite with a banjo
here comes a flagpole with blank eyes
here comes a a cat and a dog wearing nylons
here comes a machine gun saying
here comes bacon burning in the pan
here comes a voice saying something dull
here comes a newspaper stuffed with small red birds
with flat brown beaks
here comes a **** carrying a torch
a grenade
a deathly love
here comes a victory carrying
one bucket of blood
and stumbling over the berry bush
and the sheets hang out the windows
and the bombers head east west north south
get lost
get tossed like salad
as all the fish in the sea line up and form
one line
one long line
one very long thin line
the longest line you could ever imagine
and we get lost
walking past purple mountains
we walk lost
bare at last like the knife
having given
having spit it out like an unexpected olive seed
as the girl at the call service
screams over the phone:
"don't call back! you sound like a ****
5k
“but if you have to move your best friend’s body…
…you’re on your own.”
Your best friend dies
Before your eyes
Somehow stays alive
Then what?
***** salt-licked hair
Brittle and frayed by medicine
World’s unfathomable weight
Trembling beneath the Wisdom Tree
Her whole being crumples (arrugar)
But her life-force remains intact
Body bone
Running on spirit reserves
Why is that?
She stands and cries
Staring into ether
I sit
Wringing my hands
Her tears strike the ground
In tree-gecko unison
'''
Pacific parasite super-strains
Blood coated throat
The full range of abuse’s color on all fronts
for decades
Attempted assaults, ****
Dengue
Giant Centipede venom to the skull
But worst of all
Rootlessness and fear
the monkey on her back
had a monkey on its back
and was smoking a cigarette
'''
Have you ever seen someone
Completely broken?
Corpsic shell of a woman
Gaunt, wan in the tropics
“Don’t put your trust in walls…
…walls will only crush you when they fall”
Brick-bludgeoned body
The shrapnel lay like
Sun scorched
Novice-woven baskets
At her feet
But now she can see
And breath
Real breath
'''
Genocide’s a ***** yes.
Africans seem fatalistic to Americans
Baby boy body, Grandpa human- shield
“They’re your babies”
Short-lived, yes
But now they have peace
Witnesses still weave the jungle
What do you do with a friend who’s
Seen real atrocity? Evil?
'''
I’m learning.
Prayer is power
Will transcends the concrete (Bunkle, too.)
She serves realness only
Her seeking hands unweave the sacred
Time is of no luxury right now
Serve people through love
and Grace awaits discovery
'''
I’ve never carried a bleeding body.
I needn’t “fear the terror by night,
Nor the arrow by day”
But I saw someone perish
And resurrect
What a gift
What a gift
Gubaadagem, Tinmad.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
i’m sorry i cried when you touched me
i wasn’t used to fingers
feeling like feathers
and hands holding me
like a kind of ripe fruit.
lovers before you
were a bit more heavy handed
hard headed
tossing me around like some old toy
that they were tired of
uninspired and
wringing me like
i somehow had the answers
tucked so far in deep.
i am not used to being handled
gently.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
n. A homesickness for somewhere you cannot return to, the nostalgia and grief for the lost places of your past, places that never were.
insatiability makes its burrow
in my gall bladder,
wringing bile from the *****
craving toxins to purge.
i thirst for sweet lexical gaps,
holes in patterns,
dots that don't make shapes
but still gladly connect
komorebi
n. The sunlight that filters through the leaves of the trees
loveliest in the distinction
it is only komorebi
once filtered, green soul
bleeding through
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
it is like the many nights
sleepless
intone of light
on the tiled floor
and surreptitiously
under the
influence
wringing out poems
while looking
at
8th and 7th street
fondling darkness
like virgins on
the absolute
a mutiny of
dead cigar butts on the
corner as "kuya Louie"
passes by with a wrench
half-drunk with "Emperador"
half-mad with ars poetica.
other sense of self
somewhere brash and brazen
awash with modern
sensibilities
as this night deepens
whiter like the color
of new bones
to fledgling movements,
just like any other night.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
"I'd like to be a fly on the wall," you say.
Would you?
Would you really like to be privy to all
that drama and intrigue, without ever being noticed?
Sounds nice, I suppose.
But I'll let you in on a little secret-
That, my dears, is false advertising.
Truth is, people always notice flies
They just choose to ignore them
And lower their voices when you buzz by on sugar-spun wings of self-confidence-
Maybe it's just all in your head
Maybe you've misinterpreted things-behind kaleidoscope eyes
It always looks like there are more of them than you.
So you gain confidence
You hover on the fringes of their circle
And drone out a low hum of 'what've you been up to today?'
Or 'how're you?'
Or 'long day, huh?'
The response is offhand
A verbal flick of the wrist
Batting the ball back into your conversational court
Because coming at you with a fly swatter
Or a rolled up Cosmo magazine
Takes more effort than they're willing to give.
You buzz about some more
Hoping maybe the silence will entice them to engage
But no,
They can't hear your buzzing
Or they won't.
So instead you stand
Fly on the wall
Content with watching the light catch your wings
Repeatedly wringing your hands near your face
In a way they probably think is malevolent
I promise I'm not plotting-
I'm just juggling the weight of my loneliness
Maybe if I shift it from one palm to another
Somehow I will lighten the load.
Take comfort in this, little fly-
The sun makes your wings iridescent
And even though they'll never get close enough to see that, you can.
It's not a trick of the light
Your fractal eyes do not deceive you-
They are duplicate.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
The parents are sitting
behind a glass wall
on a brown leather couch.
Not black.
Not a black couch.
There is nothing black
in the room at all.
There is a glass coffee table
with shiny chrome legs.
There is a ceramic vase
holding red flowers.
There is a window
overlooking the hospital yard,
green grass, oak trees.
There is a mother, wringing her hands,
there is a father, grinding his teeth,
and there is silence.
There is so much
ready to break
in this trembling room.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 3:48 PM UTC
he tickled me with love
i imagine
behind his merciless
IBM grin
sadistic chuckle
my grandfather loved me
built me a swing
a wooden airplane
gave me a bicycle
a cape to wear
he taught me pong and pitfall
wielding a brush-broom
handlebar-moustache
a favorite game of his was giving raspberries
testing limits
his iron fingers
wringing squeals of laughter sour
under breathless ribs
tear-eyed begging fits
his old white t-shirt
too small to hide his plump
hairy belly,
i'd tickled him there once
poked him where my cousins pointed
giggling
when the kick came
i felt it in the heart
more than the back of my knee
bent from the sudden
sneering force
when i asked him
years later
for a book from his dying bookshelf
he joked with a growl
the last emphysemic sentence i remember
he said to me
you gonna bring it back when you're done?
i remember
the rules of the tickle game
and love him back
for his sarcasm
firecrack generosity
.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
i've been building sentences
for you, because there are
too many words to keep them
stagnant and docile.
oh, words on melancholy smiles,
chipped porcelain and
sunlight dappled through your hair
like the sun herself had
kissed the crown of your head.
i've been writing you letters
inside of my head. little golden
pinpricks of love
seeping through my cells
because my body cannot hold
the very idea of loving you.
in those moments, i am liminal,
held tight by the arch of your spine,
the pads of your fingers,
the way that you held my name
in your mouth before
it rolled off of your tongue and
the smell of your skin
in a dark room, with only
the moon watching us
woefully, sweetly.
words like saccharine and
your name, slow like honey,
taste sweet enough
to make me cry.
i've been stuck on the idea
of loving you, loving me
and wringing my hands
over bad luck, mon petite chou.
and still, you close your eyes,
clasp your hands over your ears
and brush off my words like
dust or snowflakes or
unrequited love.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
What's behind the Bright Red Door, is it all my dreams come true
Is this where Time and Circumstances has secretly hidden you
Did Circumstances steal you away before the light of day
Keeping you confined, for reasons Time won't say
Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door
Maybe it's my lost childhood, that behind it is imprisoned
Books read at bedtime, awake before the sun has risen
Mud pies are made, fire flies chased and all my mistakes forgiven
Before the division, when Happily Ever After was still envisioned
Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door
Wonder if it's my future there, right beyond that door
I know my past, I know my present, both have left me floored
Would it finally all work out, or the universe's fatal blow
I'm still holding tightly on to hope, so do I really want to know
Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door
Standing in front of it, mindlessly wringing my hands
Heart beats, that of a humming bird that never lands
Skin on fire, as it turns white with the fear
Hand shaking, turning cold as the **** comes near
Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door
If old dreams lie behind it, can't I simply dream anew
If it's a lost childhood imprisoned, it's ok, with the years I grew
If the future, shouldn't it remain unseen, leaving hope to grow
For as mere humans we're ment to look forward, only to tomorrow
I turn away from that Bright Red Door, temptation firmly resisted
What does lie beyond, I'm sure is severely twisted
©Pauline Russell
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
Muelle de Binondo Street,
Barangay San Nicolas,
Old Manila.
My dad's fate
Will always be muddled
With nostalgia:
The mid-afternoon
Traffic of fruit vendors,
The toothless strains
Of my grandfather's voice,
Bouncing off
The warehouse walls
Like folding cardboard,
The ceramic gallops of horse-
Drawn kalesas taking him
From school to
My grandfather's offices,
Every day and back,
Up and down
The cardboard box river
To Tondo. There, he hurriedly
Buys ten
Asado buns
From a stall across the
Street from their
School - a voracious
Schoolboy
Forever late for class, forever
Putting on basketball jerseys
Too wide for him,
Basketball shorts too
Short; body
Always too gangly,
Too long-limbed, wide eyed
And fleet footed
For his dreams to catch.
He once could dunk.
He is still a baby boomer -
Scared of firecrackers,
Weird penchant
For popped collar shirts,
Pointed shoes, and
Sequins - he, was an avid
Lover of stars - his old
Dust-strewn bed posts
Giving way, I imagine,
To iron bars caging
The luminous starry night,
Floating high above
The sewage
And the freight trucks
That weigh him so.
They sang to him.
In the tune of
My mother's voice -
The only album
He ever possessed.
Song set from
His favorite band.
"Apo Hiking Society."
His favorite word,
Was "leap."
A disciple
Of MJ, Dr. J,
And Magic,
Samboy, and Jawo,
Icarus on hardwood
And leaping
From the free throw line.
"Son," he once told me,
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
He was always afraid of heights.
It wasn't until 41 that
We made him ride a roller-coaster,
That he had even seen a roller-coaster.
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
I think my favorite
Memory of my dad
Is still him wringing my fingers
At Space Mountain with
Eyes so tightly shut
That we forgot
Our fears,
And screamed instead:
So.
This,
Is how the stars look like
When unbolted
By folding cardboard,
And iron bars.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
The King of the World is on his way now,
he always shows up when the chips are down.
Everyone just loves The King of the World,
he always arrives with his banners unfurled.
The King can be a loud chap,
or The King can be quite a quiet mime,
he even puts his pants on
one royal leg at a time!
The King might eat breakfast,
or The King just might not,
he is everything you are,
yet is is all that you forgot.
He's a musician of sorts,
with a very big band,
his arrival is in herald,
throughout every land
-with brass trumpets a-blare,
and snare-drums rat-a-tat,
he makes everyone aware,
that he's now where you're at!
The King marches his forces
through the cities and fields,
assure of his courses,
lying flat beneath his heel.
He revels at the sight of deterioration,
fills his belly with the joy of nations in extinction.
The King grounds everything down to things he scrapes off his boots,
he topples the governs and poisons the cultural roots.
The King's fixations are splashed with spatters of blood,
turning kingdoms into crumbles of ashes and mud.
He bulldozes the bodies into toxic pits of ****
contaminates by obscenity, wringing his hands at the wit.
Lionized by his minions in the empty empires he wrought,
The King's elite ruling class is dictated with rot.
In the aftermath of the bile
of his genocidal, sweet plight,
The King celebrates with great style,
turning the daylight into night.
With bonfires a-blaze on the wicked, windy wasteland,
The King of the World strikes up his big band,
and once marching again will torch and ravish the land,
dropping massive, beautiful bombs for the sake of the thrill,
melting the people and villages and eroding the hills.
The time for The King
always is nigh,
for he is surrounded by
the conjurations of lies.
Some say he is evil,
(but, he's not the Devil, you see)
-He's The King of the World,
he is you, he is me.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
it was a day of sentences
snapped clean off at the root
and pulled from my mouth
like wisdom teeth
until i had none left
and i was out of words
out of breath
it was a day of stones
clinging tight to the walls of my throat
pebbles in my shoes
and boulders reduced to ash
slipping through my fingers
not enough to hurt anyone
but still stinging my eyes
it was a day of pink cheeks
not the tipsy, happy pink
but rather the wilted kind
inadvertently displaying
the red inside
it was a day of clenched fists
hands working overtime
dancing some twisted dance with no purpose
wringing, singing
an anxious song
as i stayed stubbornly in my seat
resisting the urge to dance along
it was a day of a need to run
into the bushes, through the woods of the crowd
and out to the other side
to the greener grass
and the cloudless sky
of a few minutes of alone time
it was a day of short poems
short fuses
all moments lived while the clock just ticked
and the bomb never went off
i'm still waiting
it was a day of waiting
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
remember the last great
unpredictable summer
deluded by codeine and cigarettes
pulled by lunar cycles toward reproduction practice
interconnected over coral reefs
before real estate won the forest
we slept untouched on the beach
encouraged by chemical overuse
with our hair tied together in knots
and seagulls flocked on long leafy wings
their beaks pointed out passed the big rubber sun
and i struck your vein with a needle
and you struck my strange heart like a runaway slave
you danced naked in the florida sun
and i stood behind you on tall stalky legs
laughing, getting high like an osprey
sweating into a shrine, wringing out my heart
on the banks of that lazy river in my hometown
when the sun went down we chased each other
through the thready umbrella of vines and pine roots
under the old abandoned bridge
a mile long
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
.
The oceans are dying,
Coral reefs are bleached,
Ghostly acidic in the seas,
Climate is changing, not for Nero,
But for subjects who wait in whirlwinds
Eye, underneath uncapped mountain peaks,
And water is draining underground. Where is
Reason, where is sense uncommon? Not with
Elected hands who are wringing to lords of zero,
Whose legions are sent off, engaged in foreign wars,
To scathe, faraway dramas brought back home,
Politicians squabble, as they reel, cashing in,
Seals of unapprovals, witness hollow, low rings,
Infrastructure crumbles, above our dry heads,
And Nero plays his fiddle, in a land of perky dead,
John Lennon said NYC was in reality the new
Rome, soon set to burn, in a decade or so,
Nero knows, Nero plays, could give a feck'
Humanity is Nero playing his fiery fiddle
There is only one issue of news that matters,
Not bread, or circus, Kardashians, or deflated
Footballs, it is our survival, the earth, heating up,
Is angry and we are small, deaf, blind and numb,
A mankind of fools with Nero playing his fiddle.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
Who was there had seen us
Wouldn't bid him run?
Heavy lay between us
All our sires had done.
There he was, a-springing
Of a pious race,
Setting hags a-swinging
In a market-place;
Sowing turnips over
Where the poppies lay;
Looking past the clover,
Adding up the hay;
Shouting through the Spring song,
Clumping down the sod;
Toadying, in sing-song,
To a crabbed god.
There I was, that came of
Folk of mud and name--
I that had my name of
Them without a name.
Up and down a mountain
Streeled my silly stock;
Passing by a fountain,
Wringing at a rock;
Devil-gotten sinners,
Throwing back their heads,
Fiddling for their dinners,
Kissing for their beds.
Not a one had seen us
Wouldn't help him flee.
Angry ran between us
Blood of him and me.
How shall I be mating
Who have looked above--
Living for a hating,
Dying of a love?
2.7k
Spontaneity slowly wringing happy tie in superly
spand of lilac slingly hyperbolic in siatic spurious
Her is a lamp of antique
a golden legs of strings
Barbara was studied
as a woman
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 4:58 PM UTC