Tagged: #good stuffs. #poetry


that crashing madrigal of diamond bead
curtain composed from the pediment,

that splash into a shatter christening 
sweat to ambrosia, tired to inspired,

that fluid fall of undressing sky, an 
undaunted lynx naked and gray.

(via howitzerliterarysociety)

Watching Thought Pass

They complain about their
pedigree, I say, “Good day.”

They say to me, “I shouldn’t’ve
come.” And yet
I’m here all the same.

They talk, and chat, and spew, and pout,
I watch it unfold
in my living room,
through my window,
into the world outside
on the news;

and here it comes to pass
that I agree
yet disagree with what
they always talk of doing,
or what they insinuate
with words unfolding
like arrest warrants
and clams breaking
from tiny aquatic walls—
excavators dislodging
steamed bodies out
from their death beds.

I say, “Add it with the rest,
good sir.”
Finish the soup, and stir,
then serve.

Summer’s Swift Portrayal

Cut the cords

we’ve no more room today

no more rooms
they’re gone, I say

Goodbye, push back
your hello—pull a thread
on the word farewell
tightly along your lips

let that sink in
like the ship at sea
now one with the swell
now alive and well
against rocks, against fish

sand and salt spray
like that in our skin
the ship settles in
to a home of washed light

and I, its captain,
have gone and made
some tea from seaweed.

And within our shells
we toast with the water
we breathe, and dance
as the tide would do.

Tagged: #poetry #PC's poetry

Old Stitches

The embroidery of these seconds
sinks against my brow
and life sits still—so quiet.

I’m left without a sound,
but the future nestles
like a devil against my ear
and tells me that I

have many more miles
to walk,

and the weight from my
stitches and pieces of time
makes me weary—
but a couple more years
and maybe
I’ll be strong.

Bees at the Orchard

I watch them
pick the fruit from the trees.

Some pick the fruit
gently at the stem.

Some rip the ripe meat
from the branch.

Some saw the branch down.

And there was one
small boy, who brought
with him an axe.
He spent all day
sweating, with eyes
nearly closed from the pain—
his hands blistered, swelling.

The tree fell,
and the young boy
gorged on the fallen fruit
and slept—

leaving the next day
with his axe and his
full belly, leaving
the rotting meat behind.

Stings Against Gentle Hands

Monsters carry venom,
a vile solution used to
dissolve and break down,
injected amongst sweat and spit

Monsters bear craftiness and greed,
they’re callous and confused,
with one simple goal in mind:
to devour

Monsters claim its their right
to take of flesh and bone
that’s born of another soul

and monsters bump in the night
so that they can keep
the glee of destroying without
being known

They take, they break,
they see no fault
in the mirrors they keep

And yet they know—
they know!—
the torment they bring,

and smile knowing well
that they will get away—

since there is no defense
for the bright colored mouse,
too young to have seen
a monster’s bite.

(Source: preoccupiedthoughts, via aquietjoy-deactivated20140608)

An Old Foreshadowing Thought

My writing isn’t beautiful

My writing isn’t dark

My writing isn’t some great mystery,
some great expression,
some great something
that I felt had
to be relayed

My writing is my thoughts,
my feelings, my need
to breathe, the result
of my yearning
and my unease

I’m writing
to share the world,
or at least parts of it,
with you -

cause, sometimes,
it’s hard for me
to walk closely, or
make a call
so that I can share
those moments too.

There are halos in the wind,
the air we breathe in are wings
for both angels and demons
and our luck,

and reformation, and renaissance,
clings to thoughts we think,
the ones expelled,
the ones brought in
like an anchor holding on

heaven on earth
and we mix it with
our hell—
we get the grey,
the brackish water

we’ll have something
at the very least to drink,

and we’ll drink to ourselves -
glasses raised even as
hearts stay heavy

like a stone lifted, though,
day in and day out
the muscle grows strong

don’t let go—
not until you
can throw the weight
far enough outside
of the blast zone.

Prose - Monster


What makes a man a monster?
What simplest word can cause the tamed lion to bite?
The gentlest rainfall can turn into a thunderstorm in a matter of minutes,
The light crackle from an April shower— it can bellow up into a terrifying shudder—
Shaking the Earth below it,
Rattling the wooden limbs above it.

Everybody has a Mr. Hyde,
Though concealed with false words and a pressing smile,
Even the bat of beautiful lashes, or the teasing words of a delicate whisper,
Sometimes things are like a rose,
Stunning to see, but hurtful to touch.

They say, “what a wretched creature; crack the whip”,
But I’m telling you this,
It is what it is.
Those who do not believe,
Have not yet looked in the mirror.

Tagged: #poetry #PC's poetry

Duck, duck…

The choices amongst me
are an infinity.
The star filled sky
is a straighter road
than the one I walk - with
possibility circling
around me just as
a vulture from above
hunting in wait for
the putrid dead
to ferment and decay.

Each road I’ve
been shown
carries thousands of
footprints, numerous lives
already marking the trail,
yet the sands of time
blow anew over every
new soul to wonder
against every winding route.

So I’m left here,
to choose which trail
in this winter
will turn to spring,
or turn to cliffs
and falls - and leaving
me to falter, prolonging
my search for a
life to finally lead.

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