I re-read this poem around 3 or 4 times..... wasn't sure what to make of it...... but I hearted you anyway... thanks.."SNOW FALLING ON AINTREE."
All of you
in the tight circle
of familiarity are woven
like cloth I used to wrinkle
until you ironed me
out of the equation--
the birthday parties,
and Sunday roast lamb dinners.
All of you bastards
who paint me mad
as Mrs. T's lover,
hide me from any display
of your public approval,
but deem me safe enough
if a secret in the attic
of your morality
with its painted window
Here is where it snows,
where days pass caught
between the faltering arms
of hope and the restless
desperation of escape,
which is never a possibility
if you carry ghosts
everywhere you go.
My past and present
polarities spin and weave--
the New Year's Eve we dressed
in gowns and tuxedos,
promising illusions of forever,
which is never a possibility,
and the snow that falls today,
and freezes and melts
as I watch from one window.
Since: Jun 08
#5579 Jan 19, 2013
#5581 Jan 19, 2013
The poem was motivated by the ones who belittle, discredit and ridicule me throughout these web sites......and was in no way intended for you.
However I must admit that I was picturing myself writing it in an idyllic setting, interlaced with the memories of genuine love and warmth in a picturesque setting.
Hope you are well ?
#5582 Jan 19, 2013
Love attends the highest court
like snow in the heart
steps going forward
and memories we make
Truth with a golden thread
dialogue hollows feelings
with snow melting
the last to age
is my heart
A heart with tears
gets born in beauty
living on the edge of a question
and a child like stare
from the soul
The carpenter of sensibilities
love to teach a sacred task
known to me, repairing ashes
and how to look best
at the sky......
#5583 Jan 19, 2013
It has been said that if you tell a lie often enough, you will eventually believe it
But what if the line between the truth and a lie is grey? Sometimes the mind can be a terrifying place, crowded with memories we want to erase
Haunting thoughts that can drive us insane, the ones we never want to talk about; the ones that cause us so much pain
We hide behind our strained polaroid smiles, our jaundiced eyes never giving anything away
Our thoughts shrouded in gossamer cobwebs, constantly editing everything we say
Sometimes comfort comes in the bottom of a bottle, or being embraced by a stranger with nothing to say
The years fade and the lies and truth become even more confused, and the bitter liquor and meaningless sex mean less and less
But we all know that time waits for no one and too late you realize you can't change the course of your Life
But all things are not vanquished to the grave, the noblest of souls are left behind to free us of our regrets; even in death.
#5584 Jan 19, 2013
I stumbled unseen and utterly alone along the cold windy seashore, searching for what should have been left of me.
Nothing but the sound of the stony silence and the torn gun metal weeping clouds lay overhead and impregnated me from all kaliscopic sides that dared to touch me.
Fat dulating hollow red worms moved beneath my bare feet and whispered a name I did not recognize.
My twisted swollen feet refused to stop; constantly moving onward towards the churning brashish green water that barely crested the dunes; never leaving a print in the thorny sand that poured from my bloodied soles.
Silence permanated all things but nothing breathed; just the hollow sick red worms that seemed stranded like me; crying out to something that could never be; and too selfish or stupid to give in to their already forgotten destiny.
I followed their briny screams; their migration to the sea..my only thought was to go where the sea changed, that place where I might find peace.
Somewhere my timeless search would end and I had to know what was waiting?
The slimy fat mouth of the red hollow worm that screamed and pushed at me; or the jagged grey arms of the watery mistress of this sea?
What name do they call out to; those swollen hollow worms? Who were they searching for .. if not for me?
Time to lie down with those that mew and push; like those black and empty caverns swollen and sick with the dead stale sea air that covers this land and marks my truth ... And nay come this way again; for surely all is unknown?
#5585 Jan 19, 2013
The land is sheltered in the opaque colors of the devils rainbow, And moss dances around the trees in the now forgotten forest, The bleak breathe of winter suffocates the last of autumn's flowers
Here is where I come to shed my chrysalis consciousness; Where whispers disturb the very nature of all living things, Reborn this twilight while the forest sleeps under the pale moonlight
I feel electrical fusing of color on some distant plateau, As luminous stars breathe stardust upon my halo of jagged thoughts, I wonder at the spectrum of light that permeates my conscious
For I am but a vessel; here to explore and divide
The knowledge I seek in revenge of lessons learned, Unbeknownst to mankind; gleamed and observed for humanity's sake
#5586 Jan 19, 2013
Midnight; and she sits alone in the dark of her room
Watching the changing of colors from her rocking chair
No longer able to rock but remembering the sway of the motion
The simple movement of being motionless
Bringing a childlike remembrance to her senses
She wonders what tomorrow will bring; if anything?
Life or maybe even death? Who knows .. and who would care?
She would turn on the lights
If she could move without the pain,
And wonders; when did that happen?
She sees the yellowing of the old lace tablecloth,
draped across her mother's antique chest
Where layers of dust sleep deep enough to catch flies
Those dead filthy things that lay waiting to be devoured
By the daddy long legs that wait and watch from all corners
Oh God; how she hates spiders! They terrify her ..
But they too are waiting .. She doesn't want to think about that!
She remembers being a young girl drawing pictures in the dancing dust;
Nothing there now but forgotten ashes, and the cold muted shards of sunlight that dare to rest there
For no longer do the innocent lines of a child's drawing remain; the ones that no one cared about, not then; not now.
#5587 Jan 19, 2013
so close that I can feel your breath whisper against my skin
so close that I am consumed all over by your presence
until I am part of the essence of your soul
Whisper my name;
softly, over and over until I can barely breathe
Look deep into my eyes;
until I am lost in their smoldering flame
ever so softly, cradling my face with your gentle tender hands
as you linger against my soft trembling lips
as we bend and arch to feel the magic of us
for I am ready and willing; more so than I've ever been
to surrender at last to my mortal lust.
#5588 Jan 19, 2013
Someone tried to steal my bleeding heart long ago, I now guard it with pure absolute restraint
I sit inside; near my solitary large window, watching the darkness
The old amorphous glass separates me from what lives outside
The night sky splashed in deepest indigo
Streaked in reds and gold and hues of rainbow
Beautiful to watch but dangerous to breathe
Better off alone for I trust it not
But this desiccated night I see no thieves in sight
But nonetheless, I dare not go into the light
My inky eyelashes brush my stained albino cheeks, My innocence oppressed and distressed
My pendulous weeping keeps me awake
Content to sit here, watching and waiting
For the early dawn to descend all around me,
And breathe in the lingering morning dew.
#5589 Jan 19, 2013
A flame wihout its
heat is as useless as a poetry without a thought.
What is man without a soul?
Can he be called human at all?
How useful is an empty house that stands on a barren hill?
A man not capable of thinking? A blank book? Or a sun without the grace of a fire?
How good is the wind without the trees? Or the birds that worship its strength? How good is the ocean without the fishes?
Or the human that embraces its wealth? All things are interconnected and interdependent.
Like air to mankind and to the trees. And trees to mankind and to the soil. Like air to the waters.
Waters to mankind. Waters to the soil. As fire to man as to the trees. Mankind to the trees and
to the soil. And trees to the soil, fire to the soil, man, fire. Fire and man. The fire within a man. Enflaming
the soul of another man. We are all relatives in the dance of life. We are integral part of the earth.
The air, the waters, the sun and the moon. Everything is hitched to everything else. The air,
the waters, the sun and the moon. The salt of the ocean is in our blood. The calcium of the rocks
is in our bones. The genes of ten thousand generations is in our cells. The fire of the sun king is in our spirits. The might of the winds is in our lungs. The most powerful element of the universe is in our hearts. The mighty winds
rage and we bend for them. The fields yield and we kneel for them. The blossoms open and we rejoice.
One could not pluck a flower without hurting a star. The wolves could not haunt for a
meal without troubling a heart. An atom could not deteriorate without worrying
the universe. But along
the way man seems
to forget. And most
of the time, man does
not pay attention to
its depth. Man be-
comes too ignorant
to understand. That
man is the heart of it
all. The pulse that keeps
the system alive. Man ne-
eds not observe but feel. M
an needs to penetrate quite-
ly as earthworms. Underst-
ands as soils absorb water. Pon-
der as the winds gather strength. Spread
as the vines that overrun the yard. Let your flame be the guiding light........
Do not let it be the fire that burns.
#5590 Jan 19, 2013
Ideas becoming ink for your pen to bleed
Visions seen, held still on once blank pages to be viewed for eternity
A whole life’s experiences boiled down
To powerful words that, once touched by the tongue is nothing less than ecstasy
If spoken able to bring you back to a place and time once known
A time machine for you and your audience to travel in
Time being bent like young bamboo sticks to the whim of the speaker
If spoken traveling through the air targeting the ears of the ignorant like a snipers bullet
Able to hit you square between the eyes
Blindsiding its victim
Stopping in the frontal lobe
It is hear where the bullet is digested
The face goes blank, no expression
Eyes roll back starring at the bullet now lodged in the brain
The person brought back to life to experience it all over again.....
That is poetry
#5591 Jan 19, 2013
F uck your unbecoming
Rant Like a child
Saying things far less mild
Deep within the Willow Tree
Keeping the third-eye satiated
Blackened remorse as we follow the course
Of the mare, riding into oblivion
Set with the setting sun
Break with the wind
Somber up immortality
Lessened by your falsities
We all believe in something
But it doesn't mean we're right
We all believe in something
I'm sure we'll learn to fight
"Blessed are the ignorant,"
Is a line I'll never say
For "ignorance is bliss"
Is a lie so far away
#5592 Jan 19, 2013
Wounded fragments of shattered dreams stain the pavement and sidewalks while we all move in a pattern unknown and unseen.
Poised perfectly in the sky are the ends of strings that pull us along, and we follow, apathetic to the vile disgrace of not being in control.
The sun neither rises nor falls, we circle around to have him stare at us with curious and diminished eyes.
The stars wink and shine like diamonds in a fog, long after their reign has ended and their souls have departed.
Half forgotten synapses and faded photographs are the pinpoint of realization in the half written tragedy and comedy of man.
Can we feel the shattered slice into our feet? Do we drink of the cup of color or our we drowning ourselves in a cesspool of grey?
Frayed and patched we are.
The wolf is ignorant while the sparrow is enlightened. They chase each other. Dream by dream, thought by thought, reaction by action, into the depths of our souls. Neither can triumph over the other and perhaps that is the design. Blueprints hidden carefully by an architect far beyond comprehension of morality and sustenance are the makings of an encore, a time for roses after the curtain falls.
For none can know the beauty and mystery behind the short circuit of synapse and the ceasing of beats.
Perception of dimensions beyond us our limited and jaded, causing lies disguised as truth. Fear of the mystery causes fear of us all. We are all that is here. We are the tourniquet and we are the axe.
Oh child of wonder… Oh traveler of distance. See us all.
We are two sides of a spinning coin. We are everything and we are nothing. Perhaps the strings will be cut. We will overcome the misfortune of breathing in that which is farthest from the truth. Be the crack in the pattern.
Be the narrow path.
Be better than us.
#5593 Jan 19, 2013
Illiterate girls are the ones I have no respect for.
They show they're body, then go back for more.
I'm not one for ignorant names, but then they wonder why they get called a whore.
They think getting high is cool. They don't know what they're in for.
They don't know that one time it's going to be too much when they go back for more.
That's when they'll regret ever sneaking out their back door.
They'll drink their sorrows, just for fun, reasons I don't even know what for.
Then they'll never go home because all they want is more.
I don't understand how anything but getting "too turned up" is a bore.
Girls that show their body and then talk about it, who knows what for;
It seems like they have everything and still keep wanting more.
It's so sick how when they get smashed they're keeping score.
Females give themselves a bad name, when they get insulted, they wonder what for.
Every day I see it, and every day I hate it more and more.
Girls, respect yourself.
And please, "you are" is you're.
#5594 Jan 19, 2013
Too lazy to find.
Perhaps too dull .
A hollow rind.
Life's love of intricacy.
You know complexity.
On a level that boggles one's mind.
Our creation is full of this.
Plain and simple.
We are wired this way.
Too dumb too dull.
No way just being lazy I say.
But to a half wit hey.
Life's still full and strong.
So loving no matter if the minds gone wrong.
There's a difference you know.
Cunning so sharp this mind that we have.
Yet so few use it wisely they say.
They roam about in ignorant bliss.
Oh the wonders of creation they do miss.
So reach out.
Much to do.
Experience the writing art and the languages too.
Or sit with half closed mind.
And become a fool.
This experience we call life.
Is so vast.
Use your mind to make it last.
The taste of the Devine.
It's a beautiful experience.
I'm not lying.
#5595 Jan 20, 2013
If I could move a mountain
With nothing but my hands,
And I could make the rain fall
An all drought tortured lands,
If I could make things better
On every single day
I could still not change opinions
And make others think my way
It is futile that we think
Another's mind could be shaped,
That with just our simple words
Their ignorance has escaped,
And yet no one does consider
That they might just be wrong
'Cause to find a new opinon
Could take too very long
When others disagree with you,
When others say what you are,
When others tell the truth,
When your argument fails,
When they use your tactics against you,
When your illusions are challenged,
When all else fails,
#5596 Jan 20, 2013
Simple was the myth
That had been told
Many times over
Yet still known not
made it ordinary
In the most
special of ways
People lived by it
And people based ideas
around the ideal
that I haven't begun to fathom
(Or perhaps I just don't care
to stare at the reflections there;
I am uncertain in regards to minds
hardened by pointless morals)
Strange was the way that ghost
had explained it to me then,
But I didn't really pay much attention.
#5597 Jan 20, 2013
I just lay awake,
trying to get some sleep.
but still I concentrate
to force a lucid dream,
of you and your eyes
It seems to last for days,
I still swim in the wake
as I rise...
along with the sun there's rain.
rainbows cascade inside,
outside, through my mind
nothing like a nightmare
Another perfect day,
filled by some simple things,
every time I blink I see
perfect little symmetrical
brown tidal waves
on the inside of lids
that cover mine,
I see your eyes
everywhere I look,
every time I blind,
I see green...
#5598 Jan 20, 2013
In my silent canvas I paint expectations of perfection and beauty.
Each note is like a crystal of rain. Its own size, its own shape, its own speed, its own shade.
Each tiny diamond helps drench my soul filling me with emotions otherwise lost.
Completing me and keeping me from wilting into a dry broken mess.
As my lips touch the soft reed, crystalline water flows from the bell. It creates a perfectly analogous circle of sound and in an instant evaporates into the air around me.
It leaves me the homely vibrations until they soak into my silent canvas.
Since: Nov 12
#5599 Jan 20, 2013
The first to come.
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