Upon the rock of discontent, our city drops its skirts
Inhales the dust and detritus, declares itself at home
When all around on higher climes, the air perfumed in rose
Tis not for me, my city claims
I’d rather lie in dirt.
Tag: Poem
Self
What mighty terror keeps me bound
Adjusts my lenses badly
And tinkles out life’s little sounds
As vermin in the city?
Tis naught but me! frail and sad
Upon my own chest beating
Such fiery words- I cannot tell
Myself from self in bleating
Thank You
All hell fell down
And I bent to pick up my pen
To snap it in half
And swear I’ll never begin again
Until I came across your poem
And felt within me the ink stir
Thank you, Sir,
For your kind words
De-tails
And here it begins
A shake of the pen
A tabloid of niceties fresh and pressed
Undoing all the truths I’ve laid bare
Undoing all the feathers in the air
From the cat and his claws
Pause
Amazing is in the details
Another Poem
I’ve been writing lots but not posting Finding a rhythm again but not dancing Feeling trapped by my own stories
My own realities
What Is the Matter With Joy?
The uncontainable smile shaped and strengthened by shadow
The soot
The pastel oils
The soft chalks of depression
Shade every moment
Highlight every joy
We stamp on it
Stomp on it
And still the flower unfurls
even in the hard gray
Unforcable
Untamed
Yet tempered by pain
Into a more glorious purpose
Hated and called false
Because of its shadow
Which shows the shape of hope
The matter of joy
Out of focus
When the highway noise
Lists in my head
When the smile meets the corners of my eyes
Driving one window down
My brain busy
My watch unpolished
I wonder a second long enough
Not seeing
Not sleeping
I am found tapping my fingers in dance
Circling underlining strips of past battlefields
Crash!
It all comes together
My Left Hip into the Lower Back
Think with me on the subject of pain
Grows loud when thought about
Shrinks in distraction
Yet retains its most devilish shape in nightfall
Where is stretches and wraps
Pinches and cramps
But, favorite, uncoils in meditation upon the suffering joint
A mixture not of growth or shrinking, but of undoing
Of peeling back and going slack, fading inwards to unbraid
Making Sense of What I’m Feeling in This Room
A humming room
Where all the plants shine
And couches are white
Bouquets of dried grass peek out from baskets
Water so clear a cup of it could go missing
In this humming room
This languid drumming room
This peace of pieces
Fear
That you’re reading this
Judging my height and weight
Of words
Halts my pen
Sets my heart a ragged pace
And sparks me yet again
AbyKittiwake 