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Liz Apr 2014
I wish
It were Christmas 
Because I love the frenzy
And excuses it brings.

It's a beautiful 
Excuse to not do 
The ******* things 
In life that we spend 
Our lives doing.

The fairy lights 
Entwined in the trees
Cross continents 
With the buzz
of electricity.

I wish it were 
Christmas because
It brings the beautiful 
Excuse to love
Extravagantly. 

Just as we love
The icy daisies
Of spring I love
The warm branches 
Of bare Christmas Trees

I wish it were Christmas
Because I want to 
Hang the rosewood
Baubles round 
And see the glitter of sequin
Bunting strung happily
About the bedrooms.

I love the beautiful 
Excuses brought
In the gifts bought 
And how love is sieved 
Through in the snow.
I miss christmas ok!
Snehith Kumbla May 2016
have sieved the
ruins of discarded
things,

sometimes finding
in an old magazine,
women looking
through you
with ageless eyes

block square keys of
a typewriter,
cardboard covers
of fragile messages,
images of shattering
glass,
empty bottles of
RAT POISON,

‘Kamasutra for beginners'
‘The lonely wife’
other clandestine
books, sometimes,
extracted from some
secret wardrobe chamber,
wrapped in brown paper

school notebooks with
red tick-marks, blots, rights,
wrongs, devastating
stories of marks, homework,
a light bulb that still works,
the legs of a chair,
toy horses, toy cars,
scratched plastic

gaping holes in mugs,
buckets, fake notes
from a crumpled game
of monopoly,
a chewed dog's collar,
a heavy rusted *****,
every night in my dreams,
they come hopping over a barn,
now you know,
that I do not count sheep
This poem was first published in the Jan-Feb 2012 issue of Reading Hour Magazine
ryn Jul 2014
Windows to the the world through which I see
Images of shortfalls and views of perpetual inadequacies.
Shut my lids ever hoping for a change in scenery...
But only pictures of emotional chaos, mistakes and uncertainties.

Visions I can't ignore and they can't be severed;
Like a splinter that's embedded but can't be retrieved.
Reluctant at first I wish to have them captured...
Capturing all the disorder, but have the beauty all sieved.

Beauty and light engulfed by this visual turmoil
From windows to canvas, I paint but with a sombre brush.
Vicious strokes represent the feelings that roil;
Devoid of pardon; sing of pressures that crush.

This brush that I use; I've taught it all too well.
It could paint even when running on the subconscious.
It never does relent, nor never will it ever quell,
It'll keep on painting the dark side of the senses.

My canvas just lays receiving the brunt of the strokes.
It lays there quiet; accepts it all without struggle.
Like fuel to a bonfire, it provides and also it stokes;
It lays there ready to accommodate the dust and rubble.

Again the brush finishes with its last deft touches.
Producing the same painting it's painted over and over...
They will never depict meadows with the farthest of reaches
But a portrait of me; staring mournfully into forever...
arielle Jul 2018
staying up late just thinking of all the could-beens and should-beens that could and should have been us.

what if we'd tried a little harder? persisted a little longer? held on to each other as tightly as we should have?
would you be by my side then, instead of the empty void staring tauntingly back at me?
would our hands be clasped together, interwoven,
your eyes that once bored right back into the back of mind haunting me wherever i would go,
your touch tattooed into the skin of my palms as they once were?

what if i hadn't let go?
what if i'd learnt fate's cruel lesson that
possessing the trait of fickleness never awarded anything but everything slipping past, earlier?
would you be willing to stay with me then, and forgive me for all the wrongdoings that i would inevitably cause?
would we have ever evolved into more than just an idealized dream drawn from a fragmented memory,
the idea of an irrevocable love that despite having been mulled over for what would've seemed like an eternity,
has never seen the light of reality before?

then again, everything does appear only better when it's all in your head.
when i can still pretend that you are who i expect you to be,
and i may be accepted for who i am truly,
excess baggage of unneeded insecurities and imperfections weighing me down and all.

is it better to be cleanly rejected or to be
torn down bit by bit,
night by night,
spent just staring at a blank screen and waiting,
hovering over imperishably,
pure naive hope fuelling the drive to continue delaying the inexorable?
foolishly believing that crossed fingers and
any lingering feelings that hadn't yet been sieved away by the
jaded culture we exist and drown in today
would perhaps, even if accidentally,
as if out of a fairytale that i starkly don't belong to,
send me a text back?
not entirely sure if i'm doing this right but yeah
I
Parting from the golden tinge that tears the azimuth
The red orb descends into the vast blue
Infuses a consortium of colors immaculately blend, an interlude
Between the morn, and the night that has to brew

A stillness engulfs the trees, the night dawns
The last rays sieved by the green leaves, swivel through
Escape from the small pockets, shimmering, marking their finale
Afraid from his embrace, light the path in lieu

Amongst the drowned colors of the night, he moves
Trampling the undergrowth, merging into singleton
And though his destination's vague, for others he carves a path
Follows the constant ire, within his heart that burns

And this began years ago, roots unclear
When fingers hadn't yet gained freedom from flesh
And a luring innocence emanated from within
Cuddled in his mother's ***** he rest

From a bedlam of impetuous thoughts arose
A symphony both bitter and sweet
Ridden with memories, some wounds and falls
An overture of edification he knead

Though the day he learnt to tame
In the dark velvet, white jewels they shined
A servitude of the dreams, trapped awaiting emancipation
He set them free, let them touch the open skies

Taught and steered by the ethereal sun
He embarked on a voyage into the unknown
Trying to steer into the path, nebulous that lay
Though comrades there were, he vanguard all alone

II
The patter on the leaves beseech him from the trance
As the faint drizzle makes its way through
The carved lines on his face that hide deep within
Underneath this hardened countenance, a figure unblemished, raw and ****

And then he sees Nature unleash itself
Her eyes gleaming red with rage
Irked by the persevering being that stands before
She vows to vanquish him failing the riddle she lays

"O fellow-being, I am Nature", she cries
"I have seen a myriad of men come this way
But few could pass, who could answer me correctly
Listen carefully O traveller to what I am about to say

Tales speak of a thing within with mysterious origins
Whose workings be elusive and indiscernible
But O my dear friend, it lays carefully hidden and though we can't see
It vivifies the moment, to make the next turn"

As her hair waves in an eccentric swipe
Like Hades from Hell, she tore
"Tell me what it is, for I forbid thee to go further
Answer wisely, so that I know that thy heart is naught but pure"

As he remains mesmerized, feet transfixed to the ground
The courage and valour he has loomed over so many years
Trickles down with the warmth and the cold sweeps in
As the bells ring, the symphony of the impending doom is loud and clear

The very earth beneath him quivers
With a thunder, as an eerie force pulls mountains apart
And these vestiges of time adorn and reflect
The cursed fire that ensues beneath the two halves

The covetous fires leap, advancing towards their prey
As the tumult above marks its arrival
With a crescendo, the storm imposes its anarchy
The clouds do its bidding, the skies they stifle

The exodus of the falling black rain
A blanket covering the sky, sheds out the light
The Satan's canvas anew, the impenetrable darkness pierces
Awaits the strokes that pervades the crimson into the night

As the mountains rise up, blot out the way
The vultures lay sprawled, their eyes, they shine
And these scavengers of death swoop down, sniffing, awaiting the moment
The hunger glistens in the pupils, today, to their appetite they dine

And he stumbles upon a rock and falls
As the storm vivified by the fire creates havoc
He lays exhausted, a numbed mind, though awake
And he witnesses it though the windows of his eyes that lifts his shock

Amongst the carcasses and the carrion strewn on the bloodied ground
Carrying the dead, the little creatures, ants, unaffected they stride
As they move on, compelled by an unfaltering force
Binding them, as they tread these dark knights

And he realises, what be these, these colossal clouds?
Intangible they may seem, it's the air we breathe, remain just misty shrouds
What be the mountains that stand on our lands?
Boulders they may be, remain just mounds of sand

Darkness never ceases unless one open the eyes
Like the wind only carries those who spread their wings
And the destination is never near until taken the first stride
Just as the tide only sails those who hold on to the mast's strings

Dreams shatter and hard blows we receive
Our eyelids close, wet waters they meet
But we look at the lily, from the depths of the murky waters, it rises
Basking, with a smile, the sun it greets

He speaks "Faith be the elusive power that exists within
Emphasises the goal in the turbulent times
Each human capable of it, umarked by religion or creed
Urges the torment laden heart to beat along", as Nature smiles

And with a single wave of her hand, it all vanishes
He stands before the place that his heart for eons has yearned
And the utopia unfolds as his dreams present themselves before him
And his eyes finally give way, to the tears he has for so long shunned

As he stands captivated, ebullient
Savouring each bit of the magnificent sight
The fresh fragrant air fills his nostrils, as he understands
It hasn't been the destination but the voyage he has prized

As a flock of birds chirrup their way through
And the wind toys with his hair, him they beckon
He smiles and with a lasting glimpse
He starts off again, for sleep has yet to come.
Petal pie May 2014
We're cooking up a thought stew
A mindful casserole
Compassion the sauce that our hearts impart
sad tales sieved from our souls.

The base of the dish is hope
seasoned with laughter and tears
we stir in empathy to the mix
and we plan to allay crumbs of fear

Our stew has a dollop of knowledge
jugs of experience
ears that are prepped to listen,
Spiced with strength and resilience

But we won't prescribe your recipe
for  journeys are made with choice
your life's kitchen tools, your recovery rules,
empowered and mixed using your voice.
This is a work in progress. I feel excited to be involved in a project to train other peer support workers in mental health, and creating the course at the moment. I hope this poem inspires the process x
You tell me three little words;
I reply with four smaller words,
You smile at me;
I laugh with glee,
We share a moment or two
But we hide many things through
And through from each other
Wonder sometimes why we even bother,
Don't know who's going to speak up first
I'm parched from talking got to quench my thirst,
We walk away to our own little planet
Etch a sketch shaken we don't plan it,
What we'll say next
Lies shallow deep fabricated text,
How long can we keep this up
You're half empty I'm half full brimming cup
Of false interchanges amongst us
The world outside can't join this circus,
Always putting on a show improvising
We wear masks to keep from disguising
Our deep dark truths threatening to be sieved,
We are the greatest actors to have ever lived...
© okpoet
At one
with the wind
in a midnight dress
a necklace
dripped around her throat
   like raindrops
I didn’t buy
but should have
and

how she adored
the water-lily pond
I’d paint her
in delicious shades
myriad   colours
but only an image
in the end

static

solid complete
now

heading
to Bemelmans
down Fifth Avenue
she dances
          a dragonfly
in the winter dark
I catch her
   twirl her
and the trees
don’t seem so empty

savour her voice
like fine caviar
study the   liquid   flow
of her legs
heels   clicking on cobbles
my left foot
     twists
and I     wobble
breathe in her laugh

a detour
a walk into the park
skips   along
   snow-sieved   paths
her hair
a merry   jazz
in the bitter air
the strangers
think we are weird
and we find Alice

motionless in moonlight
a kiss on a cheek
sway     circularly
until everything
smashes into a blur

and we spill

giggle like kids
seventeen again
can’t drink enough
of the evening
I ended up
     in Wonderland
Written: August 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, and another in the ongoing city series (the last of which was '$2.65'). The title comes from the character Holly Golightly from the novella/movie Breakfast at Tiffany's. 'Golightly' is intended as a slight play on words in this instance. The poem however is not about the character, and like most of my recent works, is not based on real events. Feedback always welcome and appreciated.
martin Dec 2011
Tap tap tap and ye shall find.
I sieved and panned for nuggets that shine,
Searching for those elusive lines
That transgress space and transgress time
Or soothe and calm like favourite wine
Or send a shiver down the spine

I chanced upon a wealthy seam
I tapped and from it gushed and teemed

A geyser of emotion
A tide of wisdom
A planet of experience

Hello Poetry, how do you do?
I'm very pleased to meet with you.
A thank you to this site for making it possible to read all the good work posted by members.
brooke Oct 2017
love a girl like pyrite
when you found me in the mines
shook me from your baskets
saw me glint in the sunlight
said my  irises shifted like tiger's eye
i was never what you thought

love a girl like pyrite
if she's your gold then i'm a
shade of amber, a copper quarter
if I was hard then she is soft and
quick in your hands like a gardner snake
faint and without teeth, tangling through
the grass and you love the silent chase
the girls that flip belly up and
kiss your corners, kiss your
borders, rub away the ash
and lay themselves over your grenades
your sticks of dynamite you blew
me away with

love a girl like pyrite
because I was a fool's gold,
the normal luster of something
grand, sieved through your tables
back into the river, the unspoken
daughters of not-good-enough
lying in wait, picked up by farmers
by men who sell, who hock, who
pawn, washed down in Vindicator Valley
run between thumbs, turned up amongst
rocks the ordinary, run-of-the-mill
we can only be imitators of
the greatest


love a girl, who's fool's gold
would you find her?
would you keep her?
(c) Brooke Otto 2017


a phrase that's been on my my mind for a weekq
The words are sieved
strained
disguised
Hiding the truth
wrapped around
in lies

No longer recognize
the faces
of the unknown
Knowing nothing
is the passcard
to disapointment

Were it just a game
a trick
Sleight of hand
But it's not
It's the putrid
breath
of death
upon the lips
of life
Out for a tea-break from rude routine drudgery,
Let our pupils pamper with green tea greenery,
In a wide cradle of hills down the western range,
Hey, enjoin and enjoy the beauty of lull in full swing.

Clouding mist cuddled the crown of gross green hills,
Warmed up trembling heights at day and night falls
Tourists touted, scouted up and down in curvy drills,
Marched ahead for feast of green smiles along miles

Short and smart tea-pool parade cool on high heels,  
Unleashed the taste and toast of parallel paradise,
The train of tea plants planted mounting pleasure,    
Surmounted gravity hard and soft in ups and downs

Wheezing wind whispered winter whimsy hymns,
Sun and rain sieved through mist for sporting spa,
In memoir cameras clicked sprawling green carpets,
What a tantalizing tea tree treat to tired tourists!

Nay, bonny tea bear tear and fear in its pink of health,
Of tampering heads, fracturing leaves, grinding dry,
Of cream, sugar and spice mixed to its boiling sweat,
For daily drink’s deep delight to trigger takers’ sprint.
It is the description of a tea estate witnessed in southern India
Danielle Free Oct 2017
Rain sieved through my window screen, leaving clear freckles upon my cheeks.

The stars blanket the sun, but still flashes of white light up my room.

The sky roars and it cries as though it's fed up and the air rushes bitter down my side.
Out for a tea-break from rude routine drudgery,
Let our pupils pamper with green tea greenery,
In a wide cradle of hills down the western range,
Hey, enjoin and enjoy the beauty of lull in full swing.

Clouding mist cuddled the crown of gross green hills,
Warmed up trembling heights at day and night falls
Tourists touted, scouted up and down in curvy drills,
Marched ahead for feast of green smiles along miles

Short and smart tea-pool parade cool on high heels,  
Unleashed the taste and toast of parallel paradise,
The train of tea plants planted mounting pleasure,    
Surmounted gravity hard and soft in ups and downs

Wheezing wind whispered winter whimsy hymns,
Sun and rain sieved through mist for sporting spa,
In memoir cameras clicked sprawling green carpets,
What a tantalizing tea tree treat to tired tourists!

Nay, bonny tea bear tear and fear in its pink of health,
Of tampering heads, fracturing leaves, grinding dry,
Of cream, sugar and spice mixed to its boiling sweat,
For daily drink’s deep delight to trigger takers’ sprint.
The tape, as I unstick it from its place, rips off plates of paint from our crummy, moldy walls.

My heart wrinkles a little.

I fold the tape over the corners of my collage. Lay it down over my everest-sized pile of clothes-to-trade-for-souvenirs.

I sigh.

It is quiet.

A cockroach scurries out of a shirt sleeve. I flick him lovingly off the bed. The only one to keep my house company these days.

I start pulling out notebooks, so much. So many. Too many things I collect and funnel value into.

I must decide which to take and what to leave behind in the ******* bin.

Back at school, I chuck half the pile, almost violently, into the trash and stride away. Stay there then. Have it your way.

Only a few minutes before all of this, I bragged about being ready to go home, washing my hands of this ridiculous place.

But it only just occurred to me then that by leaving Africa, I will be facing a whole new life. Like a neo-Alice, falling further down the rabbit hole. I am being sieved, strained, pressed until the juices of energetic volunteerism is squeezed dry.

I have only heard rumors, of course, but I believe that what I will be facing will be maybe even more terrifying than it is here.
Michael Blonski Apr 2016
Whatever happened to the boy
who dreamed?
The master architect of worlds
rarely visited.
Fragmented artifacts are discovered,
sieved out of the sand.
The body as whole remains incomplete

A lonely man singing along
with his guitar of woe
Sing to me your story,
tell me what brought you here
Failure to dream or overwhelmed
by choice?

I've heard of the living
I know of the afterlife
The walls between you and me
are physical
Follow the paths forged by the few
Liberate your passions
I see you in me.
Olufunke Kolapo Mar 2016
Clay and water
Sieved and pounded
Moulded and shaped of His hands
Why do you then boast?
Of these riches and wealth?
They were here before you
And here they will be
When you are no more
Of wisdom and knowledge?
Acquired and will be required
When you are no more
Your beautiful skin
Nothing but boasting dust
Simply dust, safe that first breath
Giving in love, and with love
If there be any boast
Let it be of His second to none
ottaross Oct 2013
They are each and all still there
The moments we have lived
Toss them bright up in the air.
Like diamonds out of soil sieved

All exist like coins we've scattered
Time's the path between them taken
We keep the ones that we think mattered.
Memory-sounds like spare-change shaken

Uncertainty too in our exact position
Life's velocity with no certainty known
Entanglement tells naught of the mission
And futures sprout like crystals grown

And thus we dig as life goes on
And smash small things to find their meaning
Until we find our Higgs Boson
The pieces fall and scatter screaming.
A little ditty on the intersection of time, life and everythingness.
Lucky Queue Apr 2013
On this ground I was born raised and lived
In the years since my birth
I've sowed much wheat, and many rocks I've sieved
Making this land mine, this sky and earth.

The blue, clear skies, and evanescant clouds
Have dissipated now, this land is torn
I'm a mere denizen, yet here I still stand proud
So that on this ground my children will be born

The dust roils in ferment around me
And flings topsoil in my face
No green thing, nor bird nor bee
Is allowed to thrive in this barren place

And for my progeny, their future I mourn
This land is dead now, and has left me forlorn
4.11.13

Sooo this it the first sonnet I've ever written. I had to write it for english yesterday and now I'm hooked... I can definitely see their appeal
Out for a tea-break from rude routine drudgery,
Let our pupils pamper with green tea greenery,
In a wide cradle of hills down the western range,
Hey, enjoin and enjoy the beauty of lull in full swing.

Clouding mist cuddled the crown of gross green hills,
Warmed up trembling heights at day and night falls
Tourists touted, scouted up and down in curvy drills,
Marched ahead for feast of green smiles along miles

Short and smart tea-pool parade cool on high heels,  
Unleashed the taste and toast of parallel paradise,
The train of tea plants planted mounting pleasure,    
Surmounted gravity hard and soft in ups and downs

Wheezing wind whispered winter whimsy hymns,
Sun and rain sieved through mist for sporting spa,
In memoir cameras clicked sprawling green carpets,
What a tantalizing tea tree treat to tired tourists!

Nay, bonny tea bear tear and fear in its pink of health,
Of tampering heads, fracturing leaves, grinding dry,
Of cream, sugar and spice mixed to its boiling sweat,
For daily drink’s deep delight to trigger takers’ sprint.
How can I not walk the twisty path,
Sit in chairs away from everyone
To read about poetry
and drink hot chocolate
When your beauty is at every corner?

How can I not grow and flourish,
Like the long shadows of the early morning
on the path in front of us,
When I am nourished at all turns?

How can I not feel lightness,
Like the soft white flour sieved by a cook
Into a competition winning cake,
Baked to perfection,
When you stir my worries into treasures.

How can I not love you,
When you brave
Unmanlyness
To show me your soul.
Life's a Beach Jan 2016
I was more than this

More than the sieved shelled
husk in a hallway
Waiting for relatives to
scavenge fragmented
memories

More than the salted sinner
deserving of slaughter
Further than the fear in
my shivers as I stared down
a bullet; and lost.

More than just a media martyr
A way to sell papers
A symbol of massacre
Emotional wankery; societies comfort

That isn't me

I am more than just bravery
I am not merely someone's
More than a parent
More than a child
More than a hero
More than a minute of silence

I was my own.

A scribble;
Hobbies, Quirks, Tics,
Snarks, Anger, Laughter, Tragedy,
Sexuality, Inside Jokes,
Embarassment

I was secrets, that no-one else will
ever know.
I am secrets locked inside a rotting mass
I am forgotten; because I can no longer remember.

A stockpile of emotion,
reduced to a photo,
and the title of 'victim'
'hero'
'martyr'
'missed'

Today I am 2D
Today I 'RIP' Remembered

Tomorrow, I hope to be real
and forgotten

Tomorrow, I hope to have
**lived
ArominizedM Mar 2014
Every day, I die upon a lingering sin,
Choice that I made, consequence there has been.

Every day I die for a promise to spare
Me from the moment that I held despair.

Every day I die; both confused and contrite,
Settled on Truth that spoke that of life.

Every day I die – not another should I miss,
A day less of You is not the entirety of bliss.

Every day, I die for the seed to grow
A seed of hope for me was bestowed.

Every day I die; that Christ may live
In every way I try, His grace fell sieved.
Rielle Vobi Nov 2013
Stem, that stretch of branch over rocky, fragile ground,
****, those plastic, lemon circles you got for eyes
Lick, that smile, that smirking smile you shot at me,
Wet, that water on your baby fat cheeks
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
A knife in my hair, my working birth branched over rocky, fragile ground,
Your sorrowed songs sieved, your happiness a chalk outline on tulipwood tables,
A knife in my teeth, I sing these dreams of me, you see
Mirrored, that miserly misfortune you got for a heart
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
Cap, that satin wrapped cloud, circling wrangled, strangled cows and crows
Stab, that forlorn fire, ever end that showing, shallow show
****, that plastic lemon smile you shot at me
Lick, that water on your fat baby cheeks
I can’t sing for you
I can’t sing for you
This is my working birth, mirrored and miserly misfortune branched over rocky, fragile ground.
This is my working birth, mirrored.
Michael Blonski May 2016
Shards of my soul
Are sieved out of the sand
The painted desert
Draws me in by
The beauty of its romance

The ground is clean & pure
Undisturbed grains of wonder
I carry in the filth
From which I must endure

My footprints are canyons
Marks of were I've been
Only to be filled in, covered
By the ancient wind

Heat fades to cool chilled air
I sit to drink from aged roots
With spines and pedals
Dueling reminders
Of
My cherished
Youth
Our lives are under a circle of changes
In our boldness we persevere many things, shame on those who dispute resolve in public their personal affairs, our call in life is to be famous but rather fame of positivity and great inspiration.
A great kiss restores fundamental memories for it digs through the roots of the heart.
But those who live to please are carried on like a flying paper over petty winds of smoching goodies whereas the die hards know the pinnacle in the hunt.
Be meek and spy eyed to sieve and not be sieved in deceit.
When you love to change positively, you live to grow positively, in our journeys the start point is the destination but many destroy their paths in light of never return instead of having cleaned green their paths that on return their traces pave way.
Good shall always pay you well though even bad has got a price. The ditches you live in life are those you will find dug by others for you.
Run a race of tactical peace amidst wars of the sheeped wolves.
Thought of the fairest hooyo
Is a hue to dab on you.
‘Red’ would tinge a thing or two:
Oily drips on apple skin.

Cubic glass that sprinkles rays
Mixed with brilliant sparkling smiles.
That you are, in white as sun
Only sieved of scourging warmth.

Afro-brown has joined the queue;
The melon bulb that’s packaged soft.
Mummy’s nurse that props my head:
Food and rest in dermal bronze.

In the night, your colour glows;
Leave me not in colour blind.
Pledging scent that cuddles me,
Shadow not your penal self.

As you peck my lips to sleep
Halfway through some lullaby,
Eyes and cheeks in Snitcher’s love
Just so real in whitish-blue.
From smoke of random thoughts,
The world as it should be
Burning, a fire of invention

The pen wets the paper,
Smudges of a dark ink,
The calligraphic mastery of art

Following strokes of fine brushes,
On stretched surfaces of white canvas
The coloured sunsets of oil pastels

This, the epitome of a dreamer
The long bars holding,
And glass walls reflecting the mountains a far

Searching within particles of ether
The knowledge of outgrowth
Sieved through the many minds over time
Giovanna Jun 2020
In my dream bubble,
all the glee is filterable.
No words said.
The blues with the reds,
on a wide spread.
As the clock strikes my happy hour,
there is a prey of my power.
I stand strong over the killed,
with a thirst unfulfilled.
When I said glee could be sieved,
it was misery I picked.
Do u have a thirst like mine?
A fallacy, pretentious and normalised
Innately defined of which claims reality rejects
Encloses the screams of forced commitments,
Despair remains silenced,
No one wants to be here
But they can't cut off their limbs, or switch lanes
No one's done it without spiralling out of existence
Struck by constant revulsion on sight
Strings of sanity sieved from the sheaths of the conscious
The urge to assuage loneliness cruelly descending in deepened solitude
Soft hearts turned stone
Apathy dissipates
Boxed in, then locked out
Great walls erected to impede deserting  
Bricks piling on as bloodied fists and claws scrape to break them down
Grid never empties as more piles descend
a game only over when agony triumphs

Or maybe the soul breaks free to dance with the stars
May Asher Aug 2016
I've screamed a thousand words,
Into blank pages, with black ink,
And I fall in love with things,
Too twisted, too inhuman,
Too dark, too nightmarish.

I try to crush paper in my fists,
But it pierces through my sieved skin.
I touch the unsaid words,
Resting on my chapped lips and wonder,
What color the sun might be.

And I try to learn,
To hold my breath,
Because someday,
They might take,
My oxygen away.

And I press my words,
Onto empty white walls,
And swallow the stones,
Rising in my voiceless throat,
And stare at you for what could be eternity,

And I blend colors on palette
with broken fingers and wonder
if I'm a ghost born out of empty canvas.
I try to copy the serenity in twilight colors
but I only see thunderstorm gray.

And I try to separate skylines,
From skyscrapers,
But my cardboard hands,
Are too clumsy,
And they tremble too much,

So instead,
I fill your vacant inside,
With unlit embers,
And rewind the time,
Until we're alive again.

I leave traces,
of my painted hands,
on your face from all the times,
I used to struggle,
to paint a perfect apple.

And you're still frozen,
In a photograph beside my unmade bed,
With your mouth still open,
To say a word I never heard,
And an arm dangling from a ladder rung,

And you're watching me,
But I've grown too old,
And you're still seven years old,
Imprinted and stilled forever,
Into a seventeen year old photograph.
I forget to tell you, I still miss you.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2024
Certain persons among us make claims to knowledge
kept from any who cannot imagine that truth,
we, the every day curious kinds of people,
skeptic
become habitually drawn to knowers claiming right
to tell us one may see what one believes, nought else.

Living words, in message form, why must I see angels?
Whose mind may we leave be in us, if not this one,
alive in constant readiness to give a word umph,

past last clear preconception of a call to pay attention,
today, while it remains time out to redeem in meditation,

be tween one mind's aura and another's… imagining
we see light reflected from sources undetected,
so dark sayings illuminate our directed steps,
or we so say, for we believe we know, now,

is when today occurs, and when the code is broken,
hidden meaning sought with Frankl and Anne Frank,
and dramatic reenactments of battles that inspire
judgment, know who won by who continues being,
any with a will to prove a worth, as a gift in minded
heart felt will to say
we may pay more attention
than we are willing to take.

Easily, given meaningful words… these are the medium,
this is the way we conjoin minds in hives intending
to fill to overflowing, so long as flowers need ***.

==========
Cultured pearls.

Irritatingly apparently real
as any brought to become
by merest of coincidental

rare afflictions with beauty
the initial aim, with hands
put to guiding use, knowing

the growing of the nacre
in total absence of sunlight,
of course, we can't know why.

--------

Words authored in ages past,
during times of congregation,

calling all sundry formations
from noise to align as defined

with hands commands, come
and see the other side of all and
more besides, piling mountains
as clouds in late summer, promise
latter rains on latterly sown seed.

The interpretation of this situation,
now, and not another time, here,
where your mind asks mine explain,

lay it out, tell the whole of knowing
now is when we become our self,
first formed from stories told us,

as true, to assume in storyland,
we can talk with Nature as an entity
who uses words as you would, should
you awaken in a jungle denser,

made afraid for the moment, mind
time pause, now, we think, how say
the sages past, must we treat
with care for fear of proud wrath,

encultured hero worth, a weight
in the bag we measure worth with,

each kernal of barley corn, one third
the inch, which is never taken
for a mile, given will to stretch
the wonder of learning for ever's sake,

indeed, to take each one in a myriad
of steps while helping an officer
of the law of Rome, obey it,
by keeping the peace and pace.

So, long from now, these same words
may live on loosely linked orders
of natural progression as we learn,

stories told as true as plausible,
often include impossibly fortuitous
interference in this clouded realm
of certain reasons asking rational

division of soul and spirit, despite
the rule of Rome, in year 869
of this present domineering age,
whereby soul is spirit and vice versa.

Rightly divided now, by me, today,
boldly going, where some crazies
came before me, to make me pay
attention to the will called why.

Jesus, really? Must we accept
the testimony of mystics, as more
than guessing based
on earlier guesses, up from exstacy,
beyond the first guesses given theory,
suppose, we all pretend to know,
as we are reared to become
those who teach to those so lost,
that only our knowing known stories,
can redeem their worth to truth itself.

----------
Listen, let this mindform in you, think.

In creation mode of mind,
given words for anything named
in the world wide web of knowledge,

arranged in searchible stacks, related,
tied religiously to certainty beyond Delphi,

we trust, as we trusted kings, when few
could gainsay prophecy interpreted true,
after the epoch last ended began, in truth,

measure for measure, an inch is always
three barley corns wide, no more
nor less a length, may be taken for a mile,

as we rethink the idea, charity, feeding needs,
agape, we say means charity, highest form
of love one may bestow, at no cost, true,

charity for which we pay is not the same idea.

I come to offer thought through thoroughly
sieved shards of crystaline ***** scried into,
see, there, that occlusion? that is what you

can never know, until the guru says you do.

--------------
Yes, I do recall verses written,
before exposure to naked truth
that war's glory is as the emperor's
lastest fashions, lasterly erroneously

crowning a child's sense of silliness,
when I was a child, I thought, and still
think many thoughts, what to write,
what to let slip away,
what must be folded to put away,
later, imagining I ask your eyes to see,
leaving no description light might show
either real or made up on purpose to make

believable the reason children are exposed,
to Grimm collections of secular wisdom,
unholy impossible animations, yet,

by the time, I got to Phoenix, I was knowing
days depend from days past, pendulating,
swinging arcing swipes past all pretensions,

loose the bonds of wickedness, comb
the tangled locks of dreads,
Rastaferian dread, wisdom
claimed aligned with wonder weedlike
in trembling fear of hell to pay,
what if we make believe, we two, and you,
we come to here, along these lines, thinking

why is not a factor after all is said and done,
plain and smooth, polished to high sheen,

wedoms welcome any with means to make sense,
share our dreads, show us what it is you think
you know, about the ways truth, per se, makes
where no ways was,
moments earlier, pasts past, perhaps,
happening in all that happens, once mayhap

to you,
aha,
I see, you say, lying with your eyes, but knowing
I can imagine common sense, comfort, ease,
true rest in care akin to told of care in story,

we gather to remind our hive, here we make honey.


------------
Watch the dancing bees, rethink
how few persons on earth can think
there is no mind involved in thinking that,

planning means to become superfluous,
dripping sweet memories, in precious
pricey processes of transubstantiation,

sweet, we say, at a fine fix on the flaw,
we all lie, see, we say we know, we lie,

we lieve being true, as good and useful,
the ology of everything pundits preach,
and teach that we may obey, knowing,

no lie forms from truth's first will to tell,
taste and see,
swallow, and wait… at antepartum,
all we think to ask turns bitter in the belly.
Ok.
is it happening again?
am I expelling my tears, a rare, ugly act,
my head crumpling at the thought
of stepping on, then off,
my slapdash navigation through unfamiliar streets,
the hours as red as crushed cherries.

at that age I should’ve been better.
at this age, surely, better,
or not? Soon the questions will pour in,
indigo sky thunderstorm, discovery of love
jump-scaring up as through bread in the toaster,
my conversation sieved with droll ripostes,
a flame of humour, laughter clasped in your hands.

I feel a change coming,
tastes like liquorice on the tongue.
Crumbled at eighteen, but what of twenty-six?
My flaws still surface like bottles from the ocean,
rusty reminders that I still, I say, lag behind.
Will I need your hand? Do I want it?
Tell me history has not become present again.
Written: October 2019.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for the National Poetry Day 2019 challenge #speakyourtruth. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.

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