Posts Tagged ‘poet’

Their ways of understanding fill the steel basin,

As they want, not a drop more or less.

Let the stillness reflect their feelings,

Cool as floor tile, sharp as business kills.


Everyone heard about those stock market uncertainties.

The king hangs off the rung above,

Tersely slips a heating plate underneath,

Set to boil. Bubble over, let the liquid

Take its place, rain running fire starter.


Disguised in crystal clear, the liquid’s granulated sugar water,

Fore the king charms the bees, ants, and all naive.

The bishop passes down his orders, sacrifices his pawns,

And is wooed he will not be next.

Somebody please, bring a towel, this has gotten to be quite a mess.


When a pawn warns their bishop,

He can only watch the signal flare with unmoving eyes.

Cold and silent, their ways of understanding fill the basin,

But there’s not enough for anyone else, but the king and the game.




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Mourning Blues

Dip my Nikes in a city, 

Where they click to beats under flickering street lamps.

I’m pointing at windows with pretty every-things

But what makes it perfect is-

I’m in the city with you.

I’m growing up and getting ready.

Adventure here I am- but I don’t know much from there.

I bore from dried days, mourning blues, lost working until I bear wrinkles,

While slipping concentration of what to be and where.

I want to remember each melody like a hit single.

Blue skies, brown eyes, not sure why,

The path seems appropriate with you.

I’m bursting wings from my fingers,

And I want to fly my writing on thru,

To gently make you feel special,

So our struggle isn’t so long.

I’m not fortunate to be an angel but,

We’ll get somewhere someday,

Creating a saccharine halo around our heads .

Life is about the strangest surprises.

Where, you think you know one thing,

And that one thing is more than just one thing,

It is a lot of things,

Then it is a book’s length and you haven’t a clue where to begin.

But the answer is at the end.

And I know you hate page skipping,

So read on. I think we’re getting to the good part.

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Mother(The Time I Got Between)Earth

It has been so long, here,

Six feet underground,

But no, I am not at peace.

I would choose to stay

Where you put me,

But never,

Will you come back to place me elsewhere.

During these times,

The Sun and Moon were a fucking aggravation,

I laid when reluctantly admitting to Sleep’s nag,

Prayed, because sometimes, that is what you just do.

I was afraid,

When you, The Tangerine, rotted off

My Tree of Life, so suddenly.

Desperately, I needed to learn how to depend on myself.

Eventually, I did.

Throughout the process, though,

I encountered in battle,

Once again, The Struggle Within.

To where I self- tested and experimented with

Orgasmic pinnacles to pressurize every tender & callous feeling.

Dawn after dawn,

I bashed together loose clay

Collected from great depths in ponds of my thought,

Trying to sculpt something useful.

Shaded pencil marks of me will never return,

I color with crayons now,

I burn the wax to paper,

Convincing myself to remain

A Blue-Blooded, bold Jasper,

Wishing for rounded edges like new millennium cars.

Now, I am an adventure-

Merrily digging upwards through the dirt with bare, bloody fingers-

Amending my friendship with Sun, Moon, and Sleep-

Budding flowers on tips of branches, anticipating fruit sweeter than a Tangerines-

Preemptively bombarding The Struggle Within so it lacks will to flare-

Firing the kiln in anticipation to glaze my utilitarian ceramic-

Admiring every color just the same from red to indigo.

I am an 88’ Pontiac Safari and content with my jagged resemblance to a wooden box.

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Rumors from a crowd of eavesdropping reporters

Claimed you were flying through cyan skies,

Across the city, like a comet. It was shattering news-

But it mattered not to me.


Then, one day, When I watched a noisy plane push on by,

I saw you-

Momentarily bending and dipping away from your leisure,

To look closely at all the souls reflected in your wet, glass-ed eyes.

You stopped in mid-air. To return a smile I gave to you.

Then you swung over and picked me off my feet,

Something only some Superwoman could do.


We flew away.

I had not been so high in ages.

I could see your fingers sifting through clouds,

Gliding delicately into the sunlight,

While I clung onto your back,

Gazing down at the souls that were reflected in my wet glass-ed eyes,

Feeling once again, where I had been, when I was just an infant.


On a cosmic Summer meteor shower , we drew close to the ocean,

To smell the sea breeze of conches and algae,

To watch the asteroids reflections skipping along the waves,

You were holding me as tight as can be,

And then… you weren’t there-

Saltwater filled my fluttering lungs,

Until they acted as anchors, and I sank to the sandy bottom.


All the while, I stared up in the sky,

Watching your tail reach the ends of Earth and disappear forever,

With all the asteroids,

With your Motherly embrace still holding on,

Superwoman left me and she never said why.

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Dream off

Every road has something in between
From where you start
To where you dream.
A pebble, broken glass, nails, or fiery ants,
Could waste a journey
To find your chance of chance.
Have you in the desert
hacking cacti down
With the tire iron in the trunk,
That smells like oil
Coated in a slick, dripping brown.
Have you naked, tying knots
With the rags you call clothes
Spelling help, in the sand, while peyote skis down the narrow marrow tunnels of your frigid, rigid bones.
Everything is tight like wet pants, and the sun sheds a layer of light, scorching all the plants.
You may die on the road,
Or off it if you choose
So. Just know
The road has something
In between, to thwart the weak who falsely dream.

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 He swallows his rampant two- headed tongue,

The Good Ole’ Sandman has brushed against his eyes. She breathes



The lamp upon the nightstand is killed,

And she releases her head atop a feathered pillow

at the foot of the bed.


A fireplace doused of flame smolders in ash.

Framed pictures hide faces and shows the flappy tail.

All of my life, people told me to make sense, but I’d rather not anymore.

A stirring dream the night before brought revelation to now.

Curtains seal in the mourn that tries to reach the moon.

Above and beyond, the mind catapults terrible memories over a barricading wall,

That apparently was too short to keep The Potente of Crimson thwarted.

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Alone in an alleyway,
Brains are bashed and bleeding,
Crack collision on concrete,
Death daring to dive deep;
Erase the enigma of
Forlorn fading fate.
Give it a go.
Hammer his head.
Instead, they incise his insides.
Just (they’re jackals)
Learn to lie.
Most of my muggy memories
Openly offer
Paved paths to the past.
Reality reassures a race
Sealing the souls stolen,
Trapping and torturing them.
Under unaware understandings,
Veiled vines of veins
Waste, while
Zealous zims.

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