"yokes" poems
could it be a ********
like cotton buds
from the ***** flower
a witched river
under dark clouds
of brooms that don't fly anymore
maybe in need of an upgrade
perhaps a spell of weaponized winds
with insinuated floating ghouls
shaking their lopsided claws
under blood orchards
and diagrams of grief
as they follow their noses
looking for *****
******* the scent of vivacious
zyzzyva
loving oozing laughter
thirsty skin
needles too
**** heroine stuck on toe picket fences
mimicry of ducks blood butter
like a crime scene of kisses that went to far
eggs and runny yokes left puddled on a thigh
the ****** burps Pans milkshake
*** legacy legs
lookin for love
auto asphyxiated in a closet fringy and hanging with a hardon
lost eyes and drool
somewhere in Thailand
after spicy noodle soup
and a Tsingtao
hurt me
hurt you
i'm an evil boweval
a Zyzzyva come to love you
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 4:34 PM UTC
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
What are our millennium fables?
Women keep giving each other labels,
No harmony for our ecology,
An alliance should be our synergy,
No accountability for the economy,
No wise leaders to steer us to unity,
Century's getting older, folks!
Any teamwork to cast off these yokes?
Symbiosis should aim at harmony,
Let's pray for millennium synergy!
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 2:37 AM UTC
Monet, Manet, Morisot, and the tortured Vincent
a long century or more ago,
filled their palates with color,
their canvases with impressions of life, love and loss.
And we, the great masters of civilization,
have treasured these like newborn babes.
I wandered through the polished halls
of antiquities to see them—
some hidden even from the harsh light of day
to protect their precious prinking from decay.
I strained my eyes to see their soulful strokes
and wondered why artists carried such painful yokes
McMurtry’s ranch has no paintings
but sculptures from a vanished sea.
A quarter billion years it’s been,
and yet they’re here for all to see
Rocks carved by patient scratching time
and stock tanks covered with putrid slime.
No lilies float on pools of blue
and no guard carefully watches you
Their sentries are the desert rattlers
and the sun scorched prairie lands,
but these ancient masterpieces
are safe from filching hands.
When I kneel on hard rock soil,
I forget my daily useless toil
and dig in clean eternal dirt
with no canvases to belie the hurt
of gentle men who felt the call
to let their heart be seen by all
Monet, Manet, and Morisot
are now laid to rest, with their burdens set aside,
but their colors are a reminder
that beauty and suffering abide
McMurtry’s rocks no longer feel,
but who could say they are less real
than colors fading from the light
and lonely artists’ painful plight.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
I don't know what wood
this table is made from
as I bought it from a yard sale,
but to be brash
it seemed the people's home
had been foreclosed.
Knocking on the table's surface
imagine the beating sounds
of drums, a native tribe
secluded from the river of reality
and yokes the essence
of their seclusion to be culture.
Now imagine the opposite
and you'll understand the quality
of the table I just bought--
who has no history
and most likely
rested on IKEA's factory floor,
it's welcoming to the world.
There is no grain to this creature
as the metallic hands that crafted this beast
lacked a soul and its creations lack one too--
fittingly, it's perfection is a symptom
to the disease that lies in it's faux-wood.
Placing the poor table frame
inside some high rise studio in Manhattan
I can't help, but imagine--
the hands that will enviably gloss over this shell
and preach to their acquaintances
of a life the table never had.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
She'll receive a reception of disdain
In a month her freezing winds shall arrive
The thermometer taking a big dive
We'll be captive to her very cold refrain
Winter's unwelcome vetch o'er our land mass
The countryside touched by her iciness
For she is a very bitter gelid lass
We'll stay inside to shelter from her lash
No warming sunlight rays within our sight
Many hours of her severe frigid morass
Everything yokes in a nasty sash
The season of winter shall not delight
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
Can you laugh at jokes about ***
Good, you pass the test.
Can you sit and not grow sore?
Good, you're perfect.
Can you be pumped full of *******
And not choke?
Excellent,
You're our kind of superhuman.
Don't look outside.
You're with me now,
And with me
You never have to think.
We're behind the box
Putting no effort in
And leading your lives
With jokes and yokes.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
Exalted eggs
sell lent egg salad
to eggshells.
Egg beaters
beat her
for the better
of the better
eggs.
Yokes of the yokel
yolks
choke the yolks
they’re meant to yoke.
Though runny and broken,
run he and broke in.
****** he,
dumped he,
leaving all the eggs
in eggshells.
These saddest fractions,
in shattered
silence, sigh “Let’s
decompose.
Let’s be compost.
Let’s become a flower.”
But on the wind
they twist,
they wind,
they rose.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
10,000
early morning muses
but sometimes late at night
he brings enough sun
to make 1000 poems look easy
he is the leaven to our loaves and
the tequila to our margaritas
positively
positive he works through
the dark of night
to bring us light
and for the full effect
of his efficacy
drink dark coffee
first
then
sufficiently caffeinated
awakened and ready
to read
put in the work
to discover the words
his encouraging words of life
and maybe you’ll burn to earn
a bonus of how to survive
so very little sleep
for me
personally
its more about
the lines between the lines
than those not spoken at all
or written at all
rather realized
if I were to
focus on others
half as much as he
then maybe my life
would be less miserably
my own
more jokes than yokes
and less wails to no avails
no non-satiated regrets
or cratered frustration
rather
peace in a storm of senility
he writes for us all
with a message of hope
like the god of HP he sees
we are radiating rays
positivity pointed
one and all and
all together at
the same time
toward heaven
he moves freely
amongst our home page
from whence did he come?
from the fourth dimension
he brings forth conjuration
his style is love
his style is hope
his style is empathy
his style is encouragement
his style is truly who he is
he is an early morning beacon
bewildering
he comes from the east
to rise across our browsers
seeking the infection of discovery
in each hissy fit writ
we write
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
poetry is more than me
it's more than words
& more than rhyme
it's vaster than space
& faster than rhythm surfing
the waves of time
amplifying its
frequency with
each &
every
line
pointed by symbols (signs?)
clung to limestone precipices
like vines within concrete crevices
whispering screams of defiance
against ignorance's yokes,
again our arrogance jokes
about the insignificance of other folks
of the other ones
of them, those people, the absentminders
relentlessly fettered in golden
coats profaning their shine thusly true
so that the unnoticed may reflect upon the surface
as the caustics of thought refract through
the waters of spirit & soul
churned out of each & every mind
a field of poetics
lurking behind the edifice of structure
deified as functional perfection manifested
but utterly infested with ***** sheets
& replete with redundant repugnance
filtered by plumbing that dumbs **** down
to the basement level deep underground
where much is mumbled but little is said
aside from the storm a'brewin' overhead.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 7:31 PM UTC
I Hear All The Outlawed World
I
I hear all the outlawed world in harmony,
The marshling stalks the green and gaunt
Destroyers who heed not sparkling deserts
Charged to the gill, nor candles pitching down
Like doom. I note the scale of fossils
In cloud covered peaks, record
The seemly count of bodies by square root
And irrational number, I am witness
Bound to bounty to all who blaze in gray
And shallow grooves seeding their ends
In strikes on the ripe and smoldering fields.
II
I see all the outlawed world in harmony,
Barking wood bracing by the bud,
Where runs of blue, bury in vain
Down slash of mountain forest, cascading
Into august, rising after the fall,
As do kind-killers blasting from shells
To die as snails creeping under flower,
Who saw the past wasting away
In filed futures, slipping by blades in neck
Of wood, sightless as gallows of trees
Try ****** each time they make their leaves.
III
I know all the outlawed world in harmony,
By seamless song of stuttering gulls,
As in conches, waves of providence,
Cell from the center, beating musseled shoals,
Where wailing ghosts and wing-tips point
Printed nails to the silent capes,
And bumble hairs comb round the broken yokes
Stirring streams of babble baited
By flowering psalms, engaging arms to prey
On tales told by the rood and drown
In eyes turning like sands on the sea.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
Geese are
Not gifted
Spellers.
They write
Poems
In their eggs.
The letters
Cannot
Be separated
From their yokes.
In the court
Of the Blue King
Atrocious spelling
Is called “Goose-spelling.”
Turn of phrases
That cannot
Be separated
From its image.
Conversely Wicked spelling
Is known as Dragon-spelling.
Where quatrains
May spontaneously combust
Burning the finger
Of luckless scribes.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
There are those
They'll tell you it's always going to be this way!
Twenty to life
One way or another you're going into your cage...
Try to fight, try to resist
Boy, they'll whip you in shape...
Are you one of those that say, “Well, that's the way it goes...”?
If we listen to you then things will never change
The hatred sown, by the Master's own
Now do you understand the recent decay?
A family of Three. A people free!
They thought they were safe, so they fell asleep...
The Fascists won!
They got us on the run with their tricks of the trade!
So, you wanna fight?
Clean the slate for a brand new day!
We'll just put a stick in the spokes
Grab life by the throat
Then we'll drop our yokes and we can walk away...
To better days
Don't be one of those that say, “Well that's the way it goes.”
We can't listen to you because it's time to change...
If our souls can't change
If we can't learn to love
Then we'll remain the slaves...
There are those that say, “Well, that's the way it goes.”
Now do you understand the recent decay?
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 9:35 PM UTC
*"Come to me, all you that are weary
and are carrying heavy burdens
and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you,
and learn from me; for I am gentle
and humble in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy,
and my burden is light."
Mathew 11:28 NRSV*
**You carry heavy burdens
of options you have few
I know it is great hardship
for I was once like you
I had a weary heart and mind
walking in your shoes
but I found a Helper
In Him I was imbued
So take His yoke upon you
He will help with all you do
when the Word was written
two oxen used to plow
and were yoked to the heavy carts
great burdens to allow
two oxen were used
held together with yokes of wood
one was inexperienced
the other understood
one was young and weaker
the other strong and hale
it would help the weaker one
who may slip and fail
it would stand by patiently
while the young one balked and grumbled
it would lift the weaker beast
if it fell or stumbled
this is what our Lord does
He helps when we slide
if we take His yoke upon us
and in Him abide
are you weak and tired?
under burdens groan?
Take His yoke upon you
*and you'll
NEVER BE ALONE***
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/29/2016
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
We get drunk, there's coke,
there's yokes,
there's drugs in abundance,
emotions pour out through
the broken dam, exploded
temporarily by big eyes,
slurred words, and a general,
overwhelming sense of well-being.
Euphoria brings euphoria,
I lie in your arms "just be with me."
You agree, it's easy,
almost beautiful.
We talk about how we've hurt eachother,
your brother, your ex, your roommate
we blame these people for our losses,
for our inability to just love eachother.
But then
sobriety
crippling and loud, the day is crisp,
lights are bright and suddenly
I am on an operating table.
You are brandishing an instrument —
a scalpel? Or a needle.
Are you stitching or cutting?
Your hand poised above my heart
we stare at eachother in silence.
You turn, your white coat swirls,
you leave.
But wait? Where are you going?
Is this love? Is it love? Is it?
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
could it be a ********
like cotton buds
from the ***** flower
a witched river
under dark clouds
of brooms that don't fly anymore
maybe in need of an upgrade
perhaps a spell of weaponized winds
with insinuated floating ghouls
shaking their lopsided claws
under blood orchards
and diagrams of grief
while they follow their noses
looking for *****
******* the scent of zyzzyva
loving oozing laughter
like thirsty skin
needles; **** heroine stuck on toe picket fences
mimicry of ducks blood butter
like a crime scene of kisses that went to far
eggs and runny yokes left on a thigh
the ****** burps
*** legacy legs
lookin for love
auto asphyxiated in a closet fringy and hanging with a hardon
lost eyes and drool
somewhere in Thailand
after spicy noodle soup
hurt me
hurt you
i'm an evil boweval
a Zyzzyva come to love you
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 4:15 PM UTC
1
I hear all the outlawed world in harmony,
The marshling stalks the green and gaunt
Destroyers who heed not sparkling deserts
Charged to the gill, nor candles pitching down
Like doom. I note the scale of fossils
In cloud covered peaks, record
The seemly count of bodies by square root
And irrational number, I am witness
Bound to bounty to all who blaze in gray
And shallow grooves seeding their ends
In strikes on the ripe and smoldering fields.
II
I see all the outlawed world in harmony,
Barking wood bracing by the bud,
Where runs of blue, bury in vain
Down slash of mountain forest, cascading
Into august, rising after the fall,
As do kind-killers blasting from shells
To die as snails creeping under flower,
Who saw the past wasting away
In filed futures, slipping by blades in neck
Of wood, sightless as gallows of trees
Try ****** each time they make their leaves.
III
I know all the outlawed world in harmony,
By seamless song of stuttering gulls,
As in conches, waves of providence,
Cell from the center, beating musseled shoals,
Where wailing ghosts and wing-tips point
Printed nails to the silent capes,
And bumble hairs comb round the broken yokes
Stirring streams of babble baited
By flowering psalms, engaging arms to prey
On tales told by the rood and drown
In eyes turning like sands on the sea.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
I Hear All The Outlawed World
I
I hear all the outlawed world in harmony,
The marshling stalks the green and gaunt
Destroyers who heed not sparkling deserts
Charged to the gill, nor candles pitching down
Like doom. I note the scale of fossils
In cloud covered peaks, record
The seemly count of bodies by square root
And irrational number, I am witness
Bound to bounty to all who blaze in gray
And shallow grooves seeding their ends
In strikes on the ripe and smoldering fields.
II
I see all the outlawed world in harmony,
Barking wood bracing by the bud,
Where runs of blue, bury in vain
Down slash of mountain forest, cascading
Into august, rising after the fall,
As do kind-killers blasting from shells
To die as snails creeping under flower,
Who saw the past wasting away
In filed futures, slipping by blades in neck
Of wood, sightless as gallows of trees
Try ****** each time they make their leaves.
III
I know all the outlawed world in harmony,
By seamless song of stuttering gulls,
As in conches, waves of providence,
Cell from the center, beating musseled shoals,
Where wailing ghosts and wing-tips point
Printed nails to the silent capes,
And bumble hairs comb round the broken yokes
Stirring streams of babble baited
By flowering psalms, engaging arms to prey
On tales told by the rood and drown
In eyes turning like sands on the sea.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
I Hear All The Outlawed World
I
I hear all the outlawed world in harmony,
The marshling stalks the green and gaunt
Destroyers who heed not sparkling deserts
Charged to the gill, nor candles pitching down
Like doom. I note the scale of fossils
In cloud covered peaks, record
The seemly count of bodies by square root
And irrational number, I am witness
Bound to bounty to all who blaze in gray
And shallow grooves seeding their ends
In strikes on the ripe and smoldering fields.
II
I see all the outlawed world in harmony,
Barking wood bracing by the bud,
Where runs of blue, bury in vain
Down slash of mountain forest, cascading
Into august, rising after the fall,
As do kind-killers blasting from shells
To die as snails creeping under flower,
Who saw the past wasting away
In filed futures, slipping by blades in neck
Of wood, sightless as gallows of trees
Try ****** each time they make their leaves.
III
I know all the outlawed world in harmony,
By seamless song of stuttering gulls,
As in conches, waves of providence,
Cell from the center, beating musseled shoals,
Where wailing ghosts and wing-tips point
Printed nails to the silent capes,
And bumble hairs comb round the broken yokes
Stirring streams of babble baited
By flowering psalms, engaging arms to prey
On tales told by the rood and drown
In eyes turning like sands on the sea.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
-----
Its too easy to fall into your armosphere
Saturated with feelings
Immersed in the moment
I am completely here
-----
The joy of adventures exude from you
invitation envelopes like welcome warmth of home
I want to run with you jumping stars
carrying each other through
----
Mesmerised,
we could have easily forgone extraneous chatter
But it was far too necessary
Cautious eyes laid un-ultrustic lenses
Far too thick for us to shatter
-----
At the tearing away of our own little universe in our eyes,
the shrieking peel of lifes direcion made its self clear.
The yokes pulled on opposite directions
Tonight we will forbid our spiritual highs
-----
Its too easy to fall into my favourite fantasy
And just as hard to make it anything else
Just as always serendipity taunts
And cruel fates,
just wont let us be
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
In my search for the serene quietude of dawn
To warm with embers the cold rivers of my soul
I have forsaken your dark shores
Rising and gliding above the hills and mountains
In the swiftest speed I roared
But a giant realization had snatched me
From the mountainous caverns of solitude
Indeed as I have always known, it is
Inside the warmth of your animated splendor
With impassioned ears, I listened to
The sweet cacophonies of jeepneys roaring
In your busy streets, and the hawkers hawking
Along the sidewalks and sidestreets of life
Hustling under the red skies of your twilight
I am alive, and you are alive
Amidst the death that pervades the air
And the disquiet of the surrounding chaos
Like a dark ominous fog that rises into the stars
Destroying the holiness of dreams
Life, life, life! I screamed into the depths of your bay
Hoping to dredge from the red waters, the long gone
Where tattered dreams where made anew
Woven from the silken threads of sleep
Birthed by the once glorious rising of the sun
We are alive, we want you alive
And with our heft, we will raise our fists
We will break the locked doors of heaven
To drag out the kings to hell
And sentence them to the nothingness
We will dance, like the galaxies
Hammering and pounding the ground
Shattering the yokes of cerebral slumber
To ignite the furnaces of life
And start anew a fire that would burn
To bring the light through the everlasting dark!
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 8:48 AM UTC
Violet light Bleaches steaming emptied emus' bladders on time, I want I want I am amongst the Atman at dusk man's lust rises ****** parry as a guardian of the gourd the glory of the gore internal innards languish read the spare change small children inquire currency smell of bleach eases the crucible fixing my easel with ease as all society is, is a trap, a trap lime citrus as sweet as Virginity as **** as a tarp pushing out rain water for a creature's belief in solidarity, soil begs to return sustained by nourishment of the water table and rain shadow, fees lie fallow I am a three field system mid evil as a midwife. aggregate agates gating Gaelic gaiety, fair as faith fairly free as a fairy, pixie sticks mixed well with angel dust I return my receipt as I am an alchemist to Egypt saying 2 sips taste better, who's at a crude joke who explains rude yokes poked by a spear leering silence at the steer awaiting an opacity to light my lantern, forsake advancement for the sun bends gravity as an attitude, who of many resist the power of effulgence, even lycanthropes need hope for the souls as the basis of reflection brings the rains sparked in rainbows.
What makes a friend? cogar a creyo una mi Amiga Bonita hace difficl estoy muy triste para la pnta y ala comer mierda.
UV is not a Cavalier, the ultra violet alpha is a royalist
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
I love and hate to see her when she cries:
It breaks my heart like a pane of stained glass.
But having washed the windows of her eyes,
I better see her soul's amazing grace.
And seeing _me_ through wet-washed window panes,
She better sees my faithful love for _her._
So all her tears (that fall like summer rains)
Reveal us heart and soul and make us sure.
Thanks be to God for tender-hearted tears
That speak a deeper truth than truthful words.
Though truthful words are health to hearing ears,
Tears speak the truth that yokes us, two lovebirds.
Thanks be to God for truth that's so conveyed.
She's fearfully and wonderfully made.
Mar 25, 2024
Mar 25, 2024 at 3:26 PM UTC
I ball my fist in anger,
As i think about those times where
I was treated bad...
I curse the room around me,
As i think about those times where,
I didn't say the things i should've said...
I punch the walls and the images of,
The face i should be hating and trying to get rid of...
From out of my mind and locked into the cellar of the past...
Away with all of my temporary emotions feelings, friendships, people....etc ....
Why do i freeze?
Why can't i cook the eggs that have broken. ....
Why can't i prepare my meal and swallow the scrambeled eggs from those broken memories and the yokes, filled with too much love or too much pain....
Why am i suffering?
*An enjoyable pain,
With its smirk on its face...*
Why am i loving it?
Is this a challenge....
As I'm drinking my pride,
I'm thinking about the being...
In my mind i'm going insane...
But why is my face and my cooking,
Still the same?
Why is that no matter how angry i get...
I always keep that extra egg.....
Like a little kid,
Thinking it will crack out of its shell on its own..it'll be breathing and come to me like its mother..so i baby it....
Wrapping and wrapping it around many warmfilling blankets by the stove...
Still its so cold....
Why do i still have a child-like notion...
I back up my reality with lies....
I back up my pain and my dried roses,
With its pride.....
I look back to the eggs...
I'm boiling....
A bad egg, I'm holding...
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 6:38 PM UTC