Poems

Cut Me Deeper

 

I feel the ink flow through my veins,

After fearing it all had dried.

As once again, reality awakens muse,

When all hoping again, has died.

 

For a jolly poet, simply cannot write,

Unless it all goes tragically wrong.

So to hell with all the make believe...

And to hell with being strong.

 

I'd rather feel this release again,

As from me, this blood pours out.

A letting of this verbal plasm,

Pouring forth from an emotional spout.

 

A too-tight tourniquet of sorts,

Long staunched, a healthy flow.

But now, like before, it flows warm and red,

And eagerly fills again, a river of woe.

 

So muse, now cut me deeper still,

For we have poems to be created.

Since life prooved to us, yet once again,

The tempests will never, be abated.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

No, I am not now, nor have I ever been a cutter. It's a metaphor for the poetic 'RELEASE'...ie: ink, like blood.

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The Mat

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"Say it ain't so,

trapper in her own little world,

the sounds, smells,

and whirl of the ceiling fan

 

spins unnoticed, 

unfelt,

with the security 

and familiarity of her headphones.

 

The music,

unknown, 

the art that is decorating 

her time

 

sealing away

the ugly world around her.

Given unto her

the superpower

 

to make the whole wide world

completely melt away.

Her eyes never breaking 

a horizontal plane,

 

not out of submission, 

but from avoidance.

The lack

of eye-contact

 

can be unsettling to some, 

perhaps to the ones 

who cannot stand silence.

 

But in silence she works,

folding her laundry,

being sure to block all view

of any unmentionable 

 

she plucks up

to fold.

To the observation 

of the outsider,

 

an observer

would see or anything 

practically any and all

back story

 

only to be

most likely 

incorrect.

 

And she will never care,

never know

she is the topic of light scrutiny, 

so that script can be written, 

 

the unaware volunteer

for the unwarranted play

playing in front.

For there is nothing but a scene,

 

of washers and dryers,

an incredibly clean location, 

and with the only movement 

being the one

 

who has made a point

that she does not want

attention; 

she becomes the only subject 

 

on stage.

A boring play.

Smelling of fragrance;

after the rain."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Memories of a day at the laundry mat.

Personality Theft

The day shall be imperfect until I find myself
It's pretty hard, I keep trying, I got no inner health

 

 

The cracked mirror
I impatiently wait for the day to be fixed
Hidden fear or
darkness, I couldn't say, the feeling's mixed


Trying to find light within the cracks
Breaking out of night as I listen to the heart attacks
Of the people of broken health I called me, once worn
In the city of myself, not meant to be, a battle born


Cracked skin!
Poison within,
a smile locked in, but inside a fight you couldn't win

Could I stand here and speak lies that this was really me?
Not really, I don't have much of eyes left to see.
as I just kill another one impatiently
so violently.


Until there's a void with complete darkness and nothing left
Just another alleyway destroyed, another empty something, just another personality theft,

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national poetry day

 

 National Poetry Day

By jfarrell

 

 

 

KEEP RUNNING!

The stinking tendrils of ancient decayed flesh envelope you,

Engulf you in a nicotined-coloured fog;

Your devil has arrived, demanding payment.

              - horror

 

The moment I saw her face;

It was like a thousand rainbows shone;

All the stars of the heavens bursting into life again

My heart was hers. I would die for her.

                    -romance

 

There was a miserable sod, wrought from Bermondsey;

Dark clouds, thunder; all his life followed he;

But, when to ‘Wales’ he went,

A promised holiday was the event;

A ‘pain in the bum’ was all he received.

                -limerick

 

My madness has made me a god,

Or, maybe, I’m just a conceited sod.

                   - couplet

 

In the shadows, I watch and I learn;

The deep longing within me burns;

To love one, such as you;

And I know my love would be true.

                -rhyming

 

Why poems?

I offer five reasons, five themes, five experiences;

Today is National Poetry Day.

Thank you for coming. Please enjoy your stay :-)

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

happy national poetry day :)

Poverty Do You See It ?

Folder: 
Ken Squires

Do You See Poverty ?

 

Everywhere I go, I see poverty.

Do you see it ?

I don’t mean the homeless begging.
I mean those that when you look into there eyes you see the struggle.

They’re barely making ends meat to keep a roof.

They’re barely affording shoes and socks.

They barely afforded dinner last night.

That is growing larger and larger.

People are putting themselves in that hole.

The other day I drove into a small town, full of small houses.

Then I noticed the town was expanding, its not a small house.

They want the average person to live in a mansion.

How can one afford that when the average one can’t afford clothes.
I don’t have to go into a town to see poverty.
I live that shit, every day.
I can’t afford to move out.
We live pay check to pay check.
We are one step away from food donation bins.

Kennie


Nobody There To Help.

When are people willing to help.
They help the rich to pay less on taxes.
They try to help the homeless find a home.

They don’t help the parents who have devised a plan of suicide
Since one of them got laid off and they’re watching life crumble.
Nobody wants to step up and help them out.

Nobody wants to help those swimming in credit card debt.
If it wasn’t for credit cards, some people wouldn’t be able to eat.
I’m not pointing the fingers are certain types of people.
Whites, Blacks, Mexicans .. I’m talking all of us.

We are all in that same boat.

Kennie


We All Have The Tools

 

We all have the same tools to do good.
But the problem is, chances.
This isn’t monopoly, you don’t get to land on “chance”
This is life, you need someone to give you a “chance”

In order to start helping out.
You need someone to step up and offer you a job.
No matter if you’re the most qualified or lease.
Everyone needs a job to earn money.
If it wasn’t for the world revolving around money.
Then I bet people wouldn’t do a lot of things they do.

If the world was based on kindness.
I bet, whose on top of the world would be in our shoes.
We would be the ones on top.
We would be the ones not struggling.

Kennie


Can Only Ask Nicely So Many Times

I get it, I really do.
Your like me, you’ve kept knocking on doors.
But nobody wants to answer anymore.
Nobody wants to give you a hand.
We all need a hand to get started.
But if nobody is willing to give it.
What’s your alternative ?

People don’t want to listen.
They think they’re better than us.
They feel that they are still struggling.
But they got a job.
They are at least helping a family out.

We’re still on the outside.
Knocking, waiting for our turn to get in.
We’re still looking waiting for our time.

I know I’m still waiting for my time.
I don’t know if it’ll ever happen.

Kennie

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Preconceived Creativity

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"You're free

to be

as creative as you are;

or so they say. 

 

Yet. 

Every time, 

the artist guided,

unwarranted. 

 

Unnecessary. 

Why is the artist

so restricted? 

IS it concious? 

 

Do those who commission 

Art

know they can be stifling it? 

Or, 

 

is it a lack of trust? 

Not enough of it 

to go around, knows 

the budding artist

 

with lack of portfolio. 

No trust 

goes to those

with no reference. 

 

So often are we told

we are free, 

when we are not. 

Their own opinion 

 

trusted first, 

unintentional or not, 

before the artist, 

the one who creates. 

 

When one asks another

to create, 

to stifle the flame

is to put it out completely. 

 

Trust is a must, 

we must learn to 

give our hearts and minds

and souls 

 

to others

to mold.

 

And that's the hardest thing to do."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

So often am I told by other artists they are held back by those who ask for their art, creativity. 

Rusty

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"No excuse, 

but the metal has rusted. 

An unkept armory. 

Barrels with red, 

 

triggers peppered orange. 

Springs stuck, 

pins, unmoving. 

Bores obstructed. 

 

The whole weapon set

useless, 

to the trained eye. 

But

 

a gun is still a gun, 

the potential it has

to kill, 

ever present. 

 

Rusty or not, 

it is still recognizable, 

months of no use

not enough to erase

 

the sizable impression

of the shape, 

the indication

of the handgun, long gun. 

 

The task looming, 

Armorer, 

keys in hand, 

sighing. 

 

Unlocking 

the cages, 

duty tumblers turning, 

locks coming free. 

 

So long, 

had it beem

since maintenance

had been laid

 

where it belong. 

The familiar metal

began to fill hands, 

twist, turn,

 

rifles broke down, 

pistols slid apart. 

Rusty was the

mind, 

 

as were the firemans, 

but both began 

to be broken

free. 

 

Rag, brush, 

break-away sprayed, 

assemblies oiled.

Pieces began to click, 

 

operate smoothly, 

unlike language, 

where lack of use

means disappearance, 

 

past tense

isn't the demise

of functionality of things,

like bike riding. 

 

or an armory. 

 

The Armorer will be busy,

it may take some time.

But he will pass inspection. 

 

With work, 

with determination, 

desire 

and time. 

 

It takes time

for things to rust. 

 

It takes time

to fix such a lack of use. 

 

The best solution

isn't busting rust, 

but daily use, 

rather." 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Time to write a book...

Other Life

Folder: 
Hand Written

"First, he says, 

 

first and foremost,

the cub has it's roar, 

or did I mean Lion? 

 

He tells me, 

performs for me, 

the vivid imagery

of the courage and strength, 

 

trying to give unto another.

No script, no paper, 

off memory, his poetry

is in his heart, 

 

and apart from my written word, 

wow, can i perforn like

the one singing bump and grind? 

Well, I most definitely have 

 

not the voice. 

But, 

the artist has instead

his art in his soul, 

 

and no pen or pad

or book in hand, man, 

this man has it. 

So does She

 

giving me sweet epiphany, 

alliteration and onomatopoeia, 

hyperbole, dreams of red velvet, 

a memory of perhaps

 

succulent treat, 

and after a beat, 

another artist approaches,

such powerful words. 

 

All of them, 

potential no longer blocked, 

mind unlocked,

her voice giving me thoughts. 

 

I am home, 

I am surrounded by poets, 

artists, lovers, dreamers, 

those who have suffered

 

more than I, 

hearing some of the pleas. 

It would indeed be

enriching, more imbued positivity. 

 

And perhaps comical

as I watch one poet

almost run over another

on trip to couch.

 

I grin, laughed, 

laughed more when asked

to rurn to page 24. 

Hands, the color red, 

 

subjects being poured about

by all these great writers. 

Such emotion, 

they read,

 

I listen.

Tonight isn't about me, 

this is about them, 

and I am humbled again. 

 

Tonight is about you,

and you, and all of you 

who pour their soul, 

so vulnerable. 

 

Lessons, being preached to me, 

wise words, being brushed 

across my canvas,

their paint so vibrant.

 

Their pain so real, 

like my own. 

What I strive to do, 

being done unto me. 

 

They want to write, 

they make me want to 

write, right now. 

Never stop writing, 

 

requesting got returned keys, 

being alive. 

Poetry has kept me alive. 

You, artists, breathe into me...

 

life."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I wrote while observing a poetry reading of other poets. I read this piece during the 'Open Mic' portion, each poet smiling at my own nod to each of their own pieces. A good night of art.

Corpse Pose

Folder: 
Hand Written

"Feel it, 

the sensation of breathing, 

with a new friend. 

Not

 

the addition, 

but the release of a union

of muscle and sinew, 

effort

 

cast to the side. 

The breath

enjoyed

with the support 

 

of the floor. 

The ground, 

the dirt below, 

thinking now

 

of feeling the green grass

in between your toes, 

the Earth, 

our Earth. 

 

Nay, she is not ours, 

we are instead Hers. 

Your breath... 

given strength by Mother Earth. 

 

Do you feel it? 

The ebb of the Earth, 

the beat, 

the ancient, encompassing embrace. 

 

Do you feel the flow

of the Ocean,

the breath of Mother Earth

made manifest?

 

Do you feel the presece

of the energy,

in this room, 

right now?

 

The energy that is still, 

the energy that links us, 

neighbor to neighbor, 

the energy of the mightiest wave

 

crashing onto the shore,

the wrath of the surf

felt as fury by the surfer

that Hell hath no. 

 

The energy of the exhausted canine

resting finally on couch

with the child who so tenderly

ran it tired. 

 

The energy when Autumn comes

when you're not quite done

kissing Summer

goodbye.

 

Do you feel the breath? 

Do you feel your mind 

spiraling all over this

whirl of whimisical words?

 

Do you feel the heart? 

Your heart? 

My heart? 

The flow of energy 

 

of the one to your left

or right? 

Us all, limited not

to labels

 

or categories, 

not by old, young, 

American, skin tone, 

the foolish boy or the sweet lady.

 

Try Human, 

Homo Sapien, 

try Earthling, 

giggling practitioner about spirit fingers. 

 

But, 

you know what? 

I do not

need to instruct, 

 

because I feel it. 

I feel you. 

I feel joy,

stress, searing pain, 

 

us joining as a whole

with our Om. 

So beautiful, 

you people. 

 

This is it. 

This is you, this is me. 

This is Mother Earth. 

I feel it.

 

And maybe you do too."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The piece I wrote for Lululemon's UNITEd State campaign, during a yoga session I sat and observed.