"wrings" poems
He weeps his heart, and hangs his head,
He doubles back, and follows her back to bed,
She says, " Some homes are towns and lives, while others wear their homes inside." And he keeps up though he's kept out, the volatile, the sudden frown.
She makes up the cupcakes but they're never vegan are they? No they're never vegan are they?
He makes a gift, and wrings his thumbs, the bubble bath, the tepid tub,
Outside where the rains have gone long, something gives him something strong,
And he picks up where he had left off, the trouble is he doesn't know when to back off, and the cupcakes aren't vegan, sweet and such spectacular, but they really aren't eaten, now that they've been made with eggs. No the cupcakes aren't vegan, though they are quite delicious. And he loves her forever, though he never eats again. No he never eats again. No he never eats again.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
Sweet gentle daughter of dreaming blue eyes
Reflecting visions from some distant sphere;
Untainted by nightmares of icy fear,
Nor saddened yet by fate's mocking disguise.
Unopened book of fickle tomorrow,
Not certain of how future may unfold,
With hours of lead or hours of molten gold;
Unenlightened yet by unknown sorrow.
Sands rush through the hourglass of wasted years,
While breaking our young hearts with shattered dreams.
The clock of life wrings disappointed tears,
Unhampered by our plans and clever schemes.
Beware grim reaper swinging ***** blade
Who mocks thee as childhood days slowly fade.
~Hilda~
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
Heartbeats fast
whispers and plans
a mother's heart conflicted
as she wrings her hands
through the courage,
streaming tears
she will let him go
despite her fears
Outside, canines barking harsh
men's cruel shouts
she must say her goodbyes
as the shots ring out
So many kisses
on his sweet, sleepy face
little man deep in slumber,
in angelic grace
yes, he cried for a minute
as the morphine kicked in
and she rocked him and rocked him
his little frame, so thin
Now as his father takes him
she crumples to the wall
"By the will of God may I see
him again" she whispers
for he is her all
Outside the freeze
puffs breath into clouds
the quiet imperative for
this next move:
Father gently slips son
into the rough-hewn jute,
No rotten potatoes today, no
this is far more important
No one will look for a tot
in a potato sack, he hopes
He looks around and slips
through the hole in the wire
These moments are critical
the need for speed is dire
A quick trip to the village
in the black cloak of night
looking over shoulder
Finally the house…it's just there,
the next meadow over
the secret knock is sounded
and the door opened in silence
warm arms greeting, helping
carry the goods inside
Will this be a respite
from all the endless violence?
Laid gingerly on the bed,
the sack is eased off gently
no potatoes inside
just a small sleeping boy
his parents only pride
Father strokes his hair,
Lays his palms on his head
to bless this bundle of sweetness
in his new environment
"I will come for you, my son"
tucks thin blanket around
and the deed is done
and now, in the cold lonely
smoldering air
of the burning dark
now in the kiss of hopeful protection
yes, now it's time to part
Back to his wife in the ghetto's
cold, sickened space
to try to convince her
to bust out of that twisted place
You are my warrior, you
and all the others
Your spirit beats on
in my
naked heart's
thunder
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
Dazed.
The stars never seemed so far away
Lying with hopelessness sleeping next to my pillow
In the arms of seclusion, still I lay
After a long night we formed a *********
No strength to pray
Withing my carapace
I inquire a reason
Of why I'm so numb
Where is my lighter?
Concealing my pain
Where is my grinder?
When life is like a sudden rush of fresh air to
A raging set of flames
Savagely searching for an euphoria
But it's the impossible to maintain
Longing for an escape
Only in sweet serenity
But when 5 fingers deadly hugs your heart
& wrings out your
Innocence, happiness, and tranquility
You are forced to watch them leak
Decrepit
Reaching for a lighter to blaze the leaf
Because in the sober mind
You Are Weak
No that is me.
So I begin to pollute my temple
Taking it all into my bloodstream
With the exhale of a breath
In the mist of a cloud
I release my exhaustion
My emotion and my temper
Enhancing my inner being suddenly,
I know with facts that I am steel
Making it through another dreadful night
My wounds are temporarily healed
But
When there was no soul to console
No arms to hold
No pen to make art
No illumination from the dark
Only the flame that I flick
Which forms so beautifully &
Dances in front of my eyes
Offended that beauty could destroy so ruthlessly
A killer in disguise
Or ruthlessly be destroyed
In this life full of void
Consumed by the misery of all the screams
All the noise
When the Sun's job is done, it hides from the World
Full of hatred and pity
Another night comes
Captive in these four walls
No where to run
Now I'm forced to look at how far I've come
I could have died in insanity
Arson my soul
Plead guilty of ******
A Killer Upfront
If I had not match all those nights with all those blunts
Copy Right 2013
©Patty Ann
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule Night when we were fu’,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head fu’ high,
Looked asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Duncan sighed baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer’t and blin’,
Spak o’ lowpin ower a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Time and Chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?
She may *** to -France for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
How it comes let Doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Meg grew sick as he grew hale,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Something in her ***** wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And O her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan was a lad o’ grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie’s was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling Pity smoored his Wrath;
Now they’re crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
4.1k
As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.
And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.
Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT **** I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and wear it as a hat on a first date. Tinder is not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the frozenness; into my mouth the air comes around my teeth, behind my uvula until winter freezes my voice and I am breathless.
I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby pond,
he authors the face of Anthony Hopkins, thrown about, another casualty of fervid and blurry dreaming.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
kooky, kooky llamas and duckies
frank ocean and kanye westy
in your car, rain pouring on our gucci
escape into your house, but feeling weird
like we're gonna do something
wrings the self and our hair of water
like our mangled garments
you play destiny 2 and i read poetry
not one hundred emoji on that chief
what we're supposed to be or do today
on our day off, write about nothing
and realize that's how it's supposed to be
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:01 AM UTC
No place for roleplay in this
illumined shrine of sanctified
skin and porcelain
where the most literal of lovers
whelm in the stainless steel
hot spring's silver stream
where the smoke screen of clothing
clashes with the steam cloud
rising like ironic bread
in Eden's kitchen
where a woman turns around
wrings and whips her satin
slope of hair around a shoulder
leaving to her man ideas
and a bar of soap that slithers
effortlessly in his palm
like a melted deck of cards
where a bubbled corner
is embedded in the small of her back
elevated from the tailbone
to the neck and lowered like the zipper
of the dress he parted not so long ago
where a jolt of urgency
accelerates an exercise in
the ski of soap around the junction
of the hips and outer buttocks
and a segue silently approved
by her arms hoisted to attend
to hair thought to be already
washed and conditioned
where the soap is shared by
both hands on the scaling of
her sudded sternum
presaging an unseen demand
from the beacons of progression
swelling in the wet heat
where a hand of soap and
hand of slide verifies the demand
of hands on her beaded *******
where he answers her swell
with his stiffness in the final feel
of mystery before a soft shift of
arms approximates a plea
for a frontal rinse
where hands return to ******
crowned chest sparking the advent
of eye contact all the while
where his ****** intensifies
in proportion to the eyes closed
in anticipation of their saturated mouths'
magnetic duet
where saliva and the cooling water mix
on their cameos of tongues slipping
through their lips in the midst of the mist
and where their towels hang in
a forgotten heap while he takes her
dripping body in his arms and
carries her to where the roleplay
will have to wait after all
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
Morning is a burnt thing
that wrings the dark from my dress,
a lilting blue on the lawn,
in that twilight, so heavy
with lures and the tiniest snails
leave ochre splinters in my palms,
a scar, where you wrote in my book,
the blood part of ruined pages, bone white
and virulent, you raise the urge to render
my wrists more fragile,
more fragile than this,
a restlessness as black as a raven
drifts through bits of paper, stray wings
come to worship the hour, vanishing
between nine and ten, Winter
is a tenderness as transparent as silk,
as fragile as poppies,
its ruthless baptism upon my body
filling with snow, my skin shimmers
like dusk, like wings
all night you held me,
steadied my heart in the heavy wind,
even when the wildflowers had sown
themselves into the shape of a grave,
the garden overgrown, my body
from a bone, and my soul
out of nothing, opening,
opening for yours,
I am sure, god has failed me,
and longing is just the heart
changing colors, all its chambers, churning
the slowly spoiling hour, all night
I ribbon and tendril,
as you make a cage of your fingers to keep out the light,
shut the latches of this cell,
shut your eyes, my lover,
for I am frayed, my belly blood dark
and grey, where it is all wearing at the ends,
a little gin poured upon the open sore
of this ache, as I am caged in glass,
shackled at my wrists, like pink clusters of wisteria (oh, pink)
upon the secret places of our skin,
fingertips press against me like a bell,
beneath the swell of *******
I keep the debris,
my poems to you are small,
quartered and hidden beneath the floorboards
of this room, the bed, the glass,
the pink (oh pink) wisteria in bloom,
morning, is a burnt thing,
spoiled like a jail of brick and mortar,
where I live on licorice,
and on the palest underside of the wrists,
the half beat,
I dont think, I have ever loved so gently,
in silence, unexpected,
midnight spooled in a clavicle,
for my skeleton is a fossil
you will find every night
in your flesh,
and my faith lies
in that single thing left
to us, a smoldering filigree of sorrow,
shaped like a moth,
and morning is our burning....
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
On the waterfront, in a freight car-
Call it passion, call it desire.
Whatever it is that inspires-
That thing that wrings
One more day out.
What songs angels sing!
As they ferry souls along,
On flight, in wing
En route:
But the dead walk amongst the living, too,
And sometimes even angels get confused.
Poor, empty vassal
Aug 23, 2023
Aug 23, 2023 at 7:22 PM UTC
I'm watching my life be spit back to me, through gods mouth, God threw me away into the swamps of the ugliest parts of Louisiana, where mosquitos don't dare lay their eggs. This is where the bodies of eagles rot and pedophiles and racists scrape up road **** for what it's worth and I am left searing on the road in the shimmering heat, waves from tar, crows circle in black masses, mass proceeds as the church burns, burn me with it, gracious god. I'm begging you to make my ashes worth something.
God sings out "Dastardly bastardly catastrophe girl, downing whole pill bottle model girl, where are you?" You called? I'm sitting in a parking lot, thinking how the man in front of me lot drinks a lot. He thinks he should quit a lot for his wife and kids who he loves a lot. That man from the parking lot, he bought himself another bottle of liquor with his wife's credit card. Life spins around me and I don't have time to keep up. I see you in front of me. I think of that a lot.
Beast of skipping stones, slip over me like the snake you are, wait for that Saint to catch you, hit the nail on the head and let it crucify you.
December gray makes its way into your old house, the one which you know which walls you were slammed against. Your mom sits sipping coffee in a chair.
She whispers, "I could **** you with kindness but let's see what's laying around first." She wants to make blood soup out of you. She'll tell you to quit whining as she wrings your crooked spine. She wants all survivor, no guilt.
Hey, I heard if you get high enough you can forgive yourself. I heard if you drink a lot you stop thinking. A mobs a mob all the same even if they're with you so let's make it like this, an army of drug addicts that sympathize with you. Holding needles and spoons and blunts and razor blades with you.
We sit under the stars and look at the sky a lot. Does the night sky ever look like it does in photographs?
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC
The boardwalk hides the bloodstains.
Coveting.
He wrings his hands, licks his lips.
Savours them.
So many mottled sins.
They age well, so often forgotten,
But not by the boardwalk.
Oh, he remembers.
Barrels and barrels,
To sate his thirst –
The thirst of thousands.
Still, sate is quite the lie,
For, try as he might,
And though he certainly enjoys the quest,
Empty barrels salt the throat.
Taunt. Torture.
And he is always thirsty.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
---
when every last vestige of
your humanity seems to be
a jigsaw puzzle game
strewn across the universe
with no possibility of
retrieval
of all pieces
KEEP YOUR MIND UPON THE LORD
when rage accosts the
very center of your heart
like a home invasion
taking with it
all the
milk of human kindness
KEEP YOUR MIND UPON THE LORD
when your flowers die
in a blight of ice
the very roots
frozen in the tundra
and spring becomes winter
in the space of an hour
KEEP YOUR MIND UPON THE LORD
when worry wrings your brain
like a fishwife with a towel
doubt lays a crooked wall
using your bones as a trowel
fear is a raven which
travels with the owl
KEEP YOUR MIND UPON THE LORD
when evil wells out
of every pore of your existence
like sludge drained from
the bottom of a
juggernaut
TANK
KEEP YOUR MIND UPON THE LORD!
for Jesus Christ is the
puzzle piece
which restores
the entire game
---
He's the peace which
passes all understanding
the joy which is our strength
---
He is the
Rose of Sharon
which has no time nor season
but blooms eternally
---
He is the mechanic
who made all destruction
and will
DESTROY THE WORKS OF DARKNESS
**KEEP
YOUR
MIND
UPON
♡ JESUS CHRIST ♡**
THE AUTHOR AND FINISHER
OF OUR
~~~< F • A • I • T • H >~~~
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/16/2016
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
I find myself in a coverless Italian summer.
Grass browned. Skin freckled.
I find myself impatient,
no longer willing to entertain
the destinies of the salt and sea.
I edit video of you in a cobbled basement.
There's a knowing look that lasts four seconds.
I split it into six fragments and set it in reverse,
an unknowing, a deletion.
The crook of your neck
and shoulder blade. The red of your hair.
Some nights I hang from the rails. Five minutes.
Ten. And pull myself up.
Tented and mad by August,
stabbing ice with a little
black cocktail straw.
How can I change my
How can I love my
How can I erase my
body?
The rains wet me.
The wind wrings me.
This city we used to walk
under streetlights.
Now I bike through,
pedaling, furious and blind,
toward a place I don't know until
I arrive, and I kiss a young woman
who looks a lot like me. I ask her
to say my name over and over.
I want to fully occupy the moment,
the space, this time. Her lips
remain closed and her
hands linger on my shoulders
and no music plays and
there are voices, loud and
happy, speaking a language
that's completely new.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
she wrings the morning
from her paint soaked dress, dreaming
dragonflies hover
becoming sunlight dancing
vast, her fields of flowers bloom
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
Standing there she wrings her hands
The light falls on her thinning hair,
Shadow hides the worried eyes
Which fixate in a distant stare.
Years ago the husband left,
Left despite the child inside,
Despite the growing pile of debt,
He left it all to run and hide.
The boy is born one winter morn
Born with golden curls of mane,
He grows despite the hardship felt,
He grows to suit his noble name.
Boaz is his given name
The Hebrew word for strength and strong,
His mother’s strength of character
Is echoed in his blue eyed song.
Lean and long and strong in frame
A ready smile upon his face,
Beneath his long blond curling locks
Expressing his good humoured grace.
Thinly proud she meets each day,
She bears the hardship, every storm,
Thinly proud she loves the boy
Who runs in rows of growing corn.
Standing there she wrings her hands
A worried mother’s reddened face,
For battle’s flag has called her boy
Who volunteers with pride and grace.
With brimming eyes she thinks of him
Holding close his teddy bear,
Thinking of the laughing moments
Happy times they used to share.
Short letters from the front arrive
A message filled with love and joy
To reassure a mother’s fears,
In promise for her darling boy.
A silence from the distant front
The drums and guns have sung their song,
Chilling tales of valour but,
Combatants now do homeward throng.
Standing there she wrings her hands
With streaming tears as hopes depart,
A deathly silent distant field
Where lies the promise in her heart.
Marshalg
For all the mothers who wait.
20 June 2013
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
1
just a stone’s throw
from the gates to our village
is the washing place
at that secluded turn of the river
with scattered rocks
rocks some giant children of times long ago
must have played with and thrown about
as our own children
scatter sand about in the open grounds
2
and here at the washing place
here the young mother
sits on a rock
and plaits her hair
with her infant by her side;
and perhaps two women
wash and beat some clothes
and opposite, another
does her share of the work
her lower garments
rolled up to above her knees
and she wrings the clothes,
washes and wrings the clothes
And above, on the highest rock,
above on the rock lies our Village Pervert
always ready, always hiding
peeping down at the women as they work
*Oh, our Village Pervert –
what shall we do with him?*
we’ve thrown stones at him
the village kids spit at him
the men put him into the water
for over half an hour
the Village Elders have counseled him
and he has been refused food
and his parents have driven him out of home
But still he will not change
and he will be there on the rock
always eager to watch the women at work
always just a look at white flesh of an arm or leg
*Oh, what shall we do, what shall we do
with our Village Pervert?*
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
They’re watching in the avenues
They’re watching in the rain,
They’re waiting for the animals
To cause our children pain.
They join in condemnation
They point the finger straight
They single out the people
Who dispense biff and hate.
They stand in haunting fog and mist
Those children who are dead,
They stand and watch in legions
And wait with mounting dread.
For somewhere in this fair green land
An adolescent mum
Is thrashing her young children
Until they’re bruised and numb.
A baby crying in the night
A baby much in need
Of nappies and a tender hand
Than punches and a bleed.
The little ones are dying
Broken & obscene
Their little bodies black and blue
From beatings in between
Collections from the dole queue
**** ups in the shed
Cigarettes and hopelessness
“P” your dull mind dead.
The Moaris say its Pakeha
The cops say crime don’t pay,
The politicians shrug and sigh
And look the other way.
The population wrings it’s hands
And gets on with it’s life
Whist violence and brutality
Still cause our kiddies strife.
No one’s owning up to this
No one’s taking blame,
The ******** flows in rivers
And the world has turned insane.
We must find a leader
To take this thing in hand.
Eradicate the baby bashing
From our PC land.
Fling abusers into gaol
And lose the ****** key
Take the kids & farm them out
To families good & free.
We break the cycle hard & fast
And teach the lesson straight
Abuseing kids will see you GONE
Inside..incarcerate!
Where’s the leader, burning bright,
Where is courage in this fight,
Who will lift the banner high
Who will rise up and defy
The apathy , the poisoned sloth
Indifference of the public cloth.
Who will rise and make a stand
Make us proud to love this land
Who will rid us of this thing
WHO WILL MAKE THE GAUNT GHOSTS SING ?
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
12th August 2007
Nov 22, 2009
Nov 22, 2009 at 8:18 PM UTC
I drop my clothes and they beat through the air with
A deep
Dark
Thud.
The water turns my toes blue.
I swallow salt like you
Swallowed me,
The vitamin to keep my bones strong
Wrings out my tongue.
The water licks my waist.
I feel my heart finally burst:
The coldness ate me, and my white flag
Rolled in
With the roaring white caps.
The water whispers in my ear.
I have never
Entertained suitors other than you,
My blue cacophony.
At last,
At long last,
My eyes search up and see
The Water.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.
And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.
Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT **** I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and where it as a hat on a first date. OKCupid's not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the guzzling wind, the air that comes into my mouth and looks for any breath within me that it can go out of me with, and I'm breathless.
I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby bourn,
he's the mien of an Anthony Hopkins, living in a hologram I saw in my dream last night.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
don't forget
to breathe,
when all is
too much
that it suffocates
you.
don't forget
to breathe,
when life
wrings your neck,
making you lose
your sanity.
don't forget
to breathe,
even if
it's harder
than not breathing
at all.
don't forget
to breathe,
don't wait
for the time
when you can no longer
save yourself
from drowning.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 9:31 AM UTC
What are you thinking?
What are you made of?
You brush against me, it's like steel
what is it, to live in a body made of granite?
Your expression so down
In the afternoon, come to think of it
in the morning, too
Why? You tell me nothing
The power, you must be a blank to me
I see you eye so many women
Their ******* make you hot, I see in a meeting
Their long hair, like your daughters
When they hold it up, and sway towards you
As they pontificate, arching their backs
in your direction
Showing you their feminine articles on their chests
As your eyes zoom in
You are wicked, little man
You can't hide it. Never learned.
Mouth moves, like a baby wanting a meal
You are aging
Painting your "girls" rooms
While your wife wrings her hands
The girls have grown and don't come home
Will they come if you spackle?
What drives you?
Little man, with power over me
I imagine, myself covered in oil
Doing a dance before you
Seeing what it's like to be naked for your
emptiness
Oh, power, that I don't have
Oh, little man, that is what I want
That power, not what lies behind your eyes
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 9:59 PM UTC