The Poetry Thread

You

When I was young, the world was vibrant
Then, it became a decaying gray.
The music, once, a resounding symphony
Became nothing but a frigid silence.

The boys and girls, once playful and resounding,
Became men and women that were just dying.
The playful chatter, the little laughters, the sunlit earth...
All swept away, as if they never were, never have.

Yet still I prayed that in the infinite days
The ocean would turn to sea-salt blue,
the sky a sweet mix of cerulean white:
That in the greying crags of life would come
A sunshine that would bring me onto flight.

Sometimes, I would bring myself to flight;
Sometimes, the colors I, myself, would see;
Sometimes... the music would soar with my play.
But only I was able to see and feel these wondrous things...

And all the more grey it all became...
For there was none to see or feel but me--
The playground, deserted; the earth, just barren.
It was just me relieving things alone.

And I realized then that there could be no life,
No fantastic colors, sound, or any fury
Without the feel of "another" at my side
To sense it with me as I age.

Then you came along and showed me,
Showed me that it all still existed:
That I had just grown old and wanted,
Wanted for someone else to see this all as well.

The truth of the decaying, the grey, was simple:
Loneliness, and nothing more. That was my despair.
To not share the many sights, sounds, and tastes
Was a Hell that turned me the bleakest black.

Then you, Another, told me you have felt all this too
And that you searched for another to play with as well:
To see the sights, to hear the sounds, to taste the air--
All this, you said, was all we simply wanted, needed.

And so to You, my love, I am grateful--
Grateful to see all the colors once again,
To hear the symphonies once again!
It all feels vibrant, beaming, oh so bright!
Thank you, you wonderful You.
Thank you, for finally giving me light.
 
A Life, Forgotten

You died, but you don't remember why.
God Himself is hazy on the details
on when, how, why you arrived.

Yet there you are, in the conversation
with Him
in a room more blank than your existence.

He says you've been here before:
As an entertainer
A president
A solider
A bum
But He can never seem to recall your names.

He says, all eventually forget you.
Some by choice
Some by death
Time eventually erodes it all, he says.

It is this, that all the memories are gone.

And to your horror,
you see you are talking to no one,

All that was speaking was a faceless reflection
In mirror of devoid of any meaning.

And then you began again.
 
A Triplet on Death:

You can have a million followers
But eventually, they all will die.
And so, too, will You.
 
a decastich necro:

Wallowing winds whirl past the hot sun.
Warming the heart for a child's by-gone cheer.

Possibilities of old, classes done,
the brook still sings of a walk yesteryear.

Friends we would be, through the schools, one-by-one.
So we said, that we'd hold each other dear.

The times went by, away the years did run.
Faces changed, friends were no longer near.

Away, you went. A new life had begun.
Reminiscent and undone, I'm still here.
 
From my most autismal book so far. I used Joyce's "Strings In the Earth and Air" as a vague base for it.

“Prison Shower Choir”
LXIX

The fruits of Sodom bloom
In hothouse fog;
The fruits of Sodom's doom
Grow in this bog

O' wretched peril slipping past
My inattentive hand,
Down into Narcissus' pool and
Toward the uprais'd mast

A portent of chamber despoil'd
Booty in plunder;
Oe'r a barrel the king's rule foil'd
Arse torn asunder
 
A Terrible Poem About Squash

Little squash plant,
with your leaves pure and green,
Make me a casserole,
The kind that makes you lean,

Don't use any butter,
For dairy makes me fat,
No cheese or cream,
Or anything like that,

Onions are great,
They go well with you,
And garlic and parsley,
Make a casserole true,

Once in a valley,
During wartime in Spain,
I saw a man,
Who was holding his brain,

A soldier had shot him,
And left him for dead,
He didn't stand a chance,
For profusely he bled,

And as his last words,
Reached softly towards me,
They told of a story,
In a garden so free,

No bombs or bullets,
Only squash all around,
As far as he knew,
They just sprang from the ground,

He asked if I'd plant some,
When at last the war ended,
I told him I would,
So he wouldn't be offended,

And now everyday,
These squash are my treasure,
I'll never stop loving them,
I'll eat them forever.
 
Some short pieces I wrote:

Gab on, contortion
Turned on, tucked away
Intent flooding every duct
The color of stain and sunshine
Shining through a one-way mirror

A lovely thing
Sprawled out in the doorway
Signs pointing them toward the wrong path
A compact path
Eight feet high and blinding
Torn and cut
They stand, tempted
A visitor rising

You
Armchair martyr
Sent forth kicking, screaming, hurtling dirt
Towards an unofficial statement
Claiming, clawing, chopped
Until a time for apprasial
 
On ravaged shores
Endless screams from a tumbling doll
With a million eyes and sour flesh
Tall enough to block our sun
beckoning for new masters
it rolls forward toward endless ocean
mud and smeared blood left behind
A boy looks from his window
seeing landscapes at their unmaking
On ravaged shores
with cracked stones
and vermin crawl
When you see what you know what has always
Been a part of what you are
a protoplasmic horror
a tumor with a brain
which water receives
and will never again be clean
in songs filled with violent metaphors
 
At such a wedding party as was attended by our Lord,
at Khafr-Kana where first did He turn water to fine wine,
not far from there do the shepherds still their dead deplore
the scent of burnéd flesh and sight the buzzards come to dine,
off with these unclean, coward birds, did fly the hov'ring drones,
black chickens wing'd to roost after grim and torrid flight:

—We'll battle them with bombs and rifles, if that failing, stones,
vow'd men regarding kindred blood at baleful morn's twilight.
Thus doth each strike perpetuate the game of death herein,
this beautiful and fierce and fertile yet accurséd Land,
perhaps this happen'd not afar whence Adam learned to sin,
or perhaps we're now set East, as Cain; in seas of shifting sand.

War without end, or so they say, ouroboric in its kind,
Yet with diamond-clear beginning, disastrous design;
I shall ready kill his brother, he who's slaughtered mine!
But did not all of this begin with one document malign?

Lord Balfour sits in country Manor or in London-Town,
With stiffen'd lip, starch'd collar, and in lordly manner stern,
One paragraph scribes he, mistress waiting in her gown,
And thus was set with pen such fuse as needs but spark to burn.

(The 101st Anniversary of the Balfour Declaration was 2 November 2019.)
 
I've been writing a themed 5-7-5 each day for the past 12 days to celebrate the holidays, with varying degrees of crassness and quality. My gift-wrapped coal pieces to you all.

The season of snow!
Wrapped, bundled, and gloved, you leave.
The season of rain...

Winter looms ahead.
Please don't masturbate outside.
Your dick will snap off.

Barren tree branches
fan out like capillaries
for an unseen host.

Nipples pierced with rings,
A mistletoe hung between,
He goes on the prowl...

December numbers
Children count each passing day.
Adults, each hour.

Milky moonlight pours,
Then splashes on ice and snow.
A field where stars fall.

A shock of scarlet
Amidst dulled, dull onlookers.
A public stabbing.

The overnight chills
Nurture sparkling icicles
That fall on victims.

From the haze above,
Patches of rainbow peer through
Like paint on canvas.

A choir of angels
Sang bright melodies all night.
Time to shut them up.

Empty cubicles.
Everyone took vacations
Except your dumb ass.

The radio plays.
You sing carols with loved ones
As snow gently falls.

Merry Christmas!
 
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On This Thread

Such beauty I struggle to explain.
Words of atrocities, words of love,
How do both hold me in such equal measure?
How is there beauty in both?

Words of poetry carefully composed,
Words tossed off without a thought,
Each a window out of the writer's eyes,

And isn't beauty to see through another's eyes? Isn't love?
And as their words drag me to look at Hell or Hope,
It matters only that they share this invitation with me,
"Come, see," they say. "See through my eyes,"
And in the sharing is the beauty.
 
DER VVEEN:


There once was a teen who had no E-Peen.
And kept messing with Chris Chan's life by being a vveen.
All the kiwis on his profile deemed him as a sinner.
But to he himself, he thought he was a winner.


On the last day of his 'tism, he got doxxed.
All While being mocked by Null.
And facing an IP ban for his exceptionalism.
While not having the brains for conceptional 'tism.
 
Eyes closed walking down the trail
A thousand times the feet have trampled
Always uncertain, Always lost
Never minding until the eyes open again
To see


Spring turning to Summer again
Green leaves sweat under the heat
Cicadas humming, salty air sweetly inviting
Eyes closed walking down the trail
Never minding until the eyes open again
To see


Summer turning to Autumn again
Pine trees cutting through crisp winds
Blaze of colors in the last moments
Eyes closed walking down the trail
Never minding until the eyes open again
To see


Autumn turning to Winter again
Cold air and Evergreen remaining
Cut short by sudden Summers burst
Eyes closed walking down the trail
Eyes open again
Remembering


A thousand and one times the feet have trampled
Always certain, Always found,
until the Summer bursts in Winter,
Eyes open,
Stumbles forward again,
Praying no one else saw,
With eyes closed
Walking down the trail again.
 
Forgotten

Words don't hold any meaning:
You may repeat them a myriad times to a lover,
And only years down the line will they remember.

And then mock you for how eloquently you used to speak...

How you used to say your words so precisely:
How sharp, were the words, so succinct...
Then they forget how you spoke within the moment.

Yet nevertheless,
You must carry on...
As if you never spoke, never said a word before.

Because if you speak,
They mock you
And soon forget
The essence of your very Soul.
 
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Humanity's Roots

It is not in the excitement
Nor in the turmoil of the winds
Nor in the the waters raging
That the seed seeks to sprout.

But in the soft, heavy soil,
In the tepid calms of darkly forests,
In the stagnant pools of water long forgot
Buried beneath the Tradition of Rot.

And so it is with the Human Soul,
To fester and decay amongst brothers and sisters,
Rather than to be free and alone.
 
Yaniv. Period

Day and night,
like the Victorian explorers
who came before us
we search for the source
of Jonathan Yaniv's period.

Discovering new strains of mold
under the folds
of virgin swamp crotch.
Mile after mile
like Stanley and Dr Livingstone
sniffing out the Nile.

Yanivs premenstrual tension
fat Thunderheads
in permanent suspension.
Male to female alchemy
yelling at us from the balcony,
raining down lawsuits
that fall around our boots.

Is this anal sweat
or something more
that dampens
the cellulite
under our crampons?
Blocking the door to
the ladies restroom,
Jonathan Yaniv
panhandling for tampons.
 
Barred, darkened walls before him
Rose like mountains dissappearing into the dim
Locks, chains and gates torment him
casting his will into grim
mirrors, laughing and staring
never ending; never caring
Reflecting himself and neither
both ending his career
His decisions, his mind
yet another re-iteration of his kin
paths curved ahead of him
already travelled and filled to the brim
Himself, and another
standing, walking, breathing
Running, crying, dying
Killing, laughing, playing
Another thought, another mind
breaching boundaries he thought unyielding
eyes staring, hearts never feeling
"How much we think us different"
He did not whisper
"Yet we see ourselves over and over."

He did not whisper.
 
Someone Taken I Cannot Find

I remember you used to have a chippy grin--
so delicate, yet roughly sweet it was;
It felt firm, tight, cheerful in its embrace.
Why did that go far, far away?

It's cold these days in the middle of Summer,
and those toothful smiles are shut out by night.
Where did they go? Why can't I see them?
I wish to know where you went.

Now there's just the hush, the brush,
The sweep of clouds over the air
pressing on my skin like icicles
That freeze me to my core--

A forbearance, a premonition
Of days long dry of radiate hushes,
and brushes of your words and beard.

So now I just look to the star that gives your name,
and maybe one day the sunlight from it will break.
And maybe... just sunlight will break for me again.
 
Sun always rising,
even lazy poems too,
sun always setting
 
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