poetryriot

[poetryriot]

cross posted on pinterest

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[poetryriot]

White Out

I live within walls,

neither inside nor out.

I place my hand as on skin,

softly pushing in.

The resistance is mine,

pliant and divisive:

less a protection

than a prison.

There is no key,

nor knife to slice

the callused flesh,

the polished walls—

only silence to absorb

the incessant whispers.

(January 29, 2024)

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[poetryriot]

I wonder

how your body

would be

against a window

freezing like dew

in the dawn

holding on

to my charred wings

fuel to the holocaust

of our sickness,

mutually understood

psychopathy

burning like stars

eventually into nothing

I wonder..

- the most beautiful poetry you ever inspired. Behind bars.

Whatever.

I fucking wrote for you until I bled out.

I still do..

-R

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[poetryriot]

Is it grandiose to promise

forever to someone in a wilting cage?

I'll never know the reach of

arrows slung from my eager pulse.

Their impact.

How long my magic lasts.

Until I do.

Patience is power.

But I'm weak knee'd in the face

Of tomorrow's tomorrow.

I have to know.

That she'll be there.

So I write my prayers

In the shadow of doubt.

Forcing them to take hold.

Burrow deep.

And will myself to believe

That starlight is a promise.

That we will never be lonely.

If we burn bright enough.

-James Kelley 2024

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[poetryriot]

Expel

push out, like wastewater, to purge the black rot and leave pink tissues healthy and clean

you stalked the carpeted high school halls, an earthbound vulture in a badly-fit, off-the-rack

suit jacket and boring ties, seeing me as a cancer thriving among the sweet meat of the student body--

i was a sentinel node pointing out the rot, the tumor growing, even as you stabbed at me with your

administrative scalpel, expulsion, a surgery wholly unsuccessful, as i still walked to pomp

and circumstance

meanwhile, the clean-cut boys who cooked meth smiled and simpered and went to bible study, were ignored by you,

who watched the weirdos, freaks, outcasts--and that is where you (righteous surgeon of christ) cut and cut

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[poetryriot]

The Obsolete Past

My thoughts spill

onto my pillow.

I rummage through

their detritus

in lieu of

dreaming; I find

shattered video game

cartridges and

scratched CDs.

I

play with the

glitches and

skip along to

the electronic refrain

but only

until daybreak when I

move on

to the blank page.

Robert J. W.

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[poetryriot]

Time is askew with a poet’s watch It’s funny how I finally have a pretty watch, well-made and a little too nice for me, yet time seems to have become a little askew. My heart spills over sunrise. Days are quietly industrious. I can find words better now in the dark. I like to look at the watch throughout my day - not for the time, but for the shiny glass, sparkling diamonds, and the moon’s phase. A touch of beauty on my arm to daydream by when the world is angry and the day is long.

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[poetryriot]

I bought an empanada from the oven at a cafe and sat in the corner to eat it. There was nobody in the cafe, except for me. As I ate the emplanada, I noticed that it was dry because it dried in that oven where it probably spent hours before I bought it. The emplanada was tasteless and resembled cardboard, but I continued eating it. A guy from the counter approached me and put on the table a brown package. I said, what is it, are you closing? He said, no, this is an emplanada for you, because that emplanada that was from the oven... I don't want you to waste your money. I thanked him and accepted his gift of another emplanada. I packed what I haven't eaten and retreated. I was uncomfortable that he paid attention that the first emplanada was dry. Was I not supposed to eat it? Sure, it did not taste like anything, but what did it matter if it still was relatively edible? Even though I was not hungry, I opened the second empanada right away on the street, out of curiosity. I was wondering how different the normal empanada was supposed to be from the first empanada that became its own dry shadow. However, the second empanada was raw. It consisted of a raw dough and a mess of a chicken that had one thing going for it: it positively wasn't dry. Nevertheless, I was very grateful to have my day full of empanadas, two, not one, so different from each other, and for the kind guy who actually cared that the first empanada was dry and wanted to make it better. It did make my day, and the rest of the universe, a little better than it was before, in my eyes. There was some space for kindness in some corners, after all. What is more to it, there were plenty of such corners, moments, and people, more than we were willing to acknowledge.

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[poetryriot]

What does December mean you to you?

It's the season of humanity's dormancy;

Consciousness is shelled by blunt fallacy,

Shattered, splattered all over erasure,

Bleeding smiles of dead angels,

It's the promise of the earth; —seeds

Of grief and anger, the rage of return

Sown on fields of olive trees' roots

Entangled like umbilical bonds.

Our corpses' shreds are our names

Etched in winter's silence; the graveyard

Of the jailed memory will be the orchard's

Ground of a free revenant spring.

December 2023

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[poetryriot]

"If I must die" by Dr Refaat al-Areer

A Palestinian poet, writer, and professor who was martyred by Israel today, 12.07.2023 the 61st day of the siege on Gaza Strip.

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[poetryriot]

1.22.24 lid pops up

on the mantel

beneath the old photo from

before

it happened a third time

and next to the red candle in

its collectible holder

I've left for you a

set of instructions

hand written

on a vellum scroll

to be read

in the event of my return

if you were to read it aloud

you wouldn't be reading it to me

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[poetryriot]

The technology arrives In time with itself Enough to photograph Deep space Enough for AI To fake it

Three conspiracies theories I hate: Flat earth Firmament Moon landing

All the best movies are sci-fi Especially Contact Where devils are human And aliens are angels

Which are real, though Angels or fairies? Are UAPs Interdimensional Or just bird poop On the infrared lens?

Cottingley Fairies Fox Sisters Aleister Crowley Earnest frauds all

Double exposure Cracking toes Opium delusions Illusionist cults

I can respect a good fake Taking a break with Well-told fiction Magic vs magick

Power of the word Word to the wise Curses on you And your artless lies

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[poetryriot]

1.27.2024

There have been seasons I've felt so content I couldn't imagine ever feeling otherwise again.

Then little by little, I squirm around a bit, and a bit more until I reflect one day and realize that yet again;

I feel broken, lost, forgotten, confused, and all of the wonderful signs that I am completely human.

I am deeply grateful I know the enduring answer is always in returning my attention and questions to that gentle parent that created me, and created all that is.

It's funny too, that as I shift my focus this way, my next thoughts are not about me at all, but for those I love and care about. I am equally grateful I have people to love.

I love you.

nobody

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[poetryriot]

Nusta On Watching The Leaves Fall

in the delicate dance of leaves that fall a subtle rebellion stirs each descent ~ a whispered proclamation that even in the hushed surrender there lies an ember yearning to be kindled "ought they not to birth fire from the stoic stone," she says a testament to the unseen sparks within

the world, it seems, hinges on the precipice of our descent as if our fall could orchestrate a universal symphony in solitude, our contemplation becomes an affair of interest to the butterflies delicate creatures entangled in the intricate lace of our musings and there...amidst the lost gold of afternoon rays we find a currency of moments each one more precious than the last

the fawn and cobalt walls witness the fading peaks of ancient volcanoes silent spectators to the eons that have passed sunlight, ever the audacious adventurer plunges beyond the hills awakening leaves to their arboreal reverie it's a waltz with the wind a dance with destiny as the world unfolds in hues of twilight

"to discover, my people, that a world yet remains to be crafted on the canvas of a sunset is a revelation that sobers even the stones" she says the weight of existence lightens and in the quiet surrender of the day we find the brushstrokes to paint our world anew

in the cadence of our presence the verses of life find resonance as the sunGod dips below the horizon know that it is not merely the leaves that fall but the barriers between us and the uncharted realms of passion and possibility our world a canvas of shared dreams awaits the strokes of our creation

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[poetryriot]

I feel I am composed

of a great silence today

seeking for a way out

of the great maze I run

round and round

in my mind

understanding

I’m likely not so much stupid

as imperceptibly blind

the blacknesses

sinking into some strange shade

of darker still—

the impossibility of

both a way and a will

—The Hollow Quiet

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[poetryriot]

It’s crushing me,

My battery is at 20 percent

I sit on my window seat, my feet stretched out

The window cracked open, a breeze brushes my hair back

The wildflowers I planted are burst disks of yellow and blue and pink

I’m far from the nearest outlet, let my phone die

For the sun is dipping below the houses

There’s so much I’m obligated to pay attention to

It’s crushing me, what I can’t do

What I can’t fix

What they say I could fix

One person can make a difference

But the real of the world is getting more real

The tree produced so many lemons it’s drooping

Lemon grass rustles and sways over there

Abundance is everywhere

Nearly 300 lemons from one dwarf tree

My kid has made friends at the new school

He’s squealing in the living room

There’s so many more real things to think about

I tell myself

My characters are emerging as full bodied and complicated and I’m writing nearly every day

The sky is throttling color from yellow to orange

The trees are beginning to look black

I’m making notes on what I need to focus on, how best to teach the new material we’re starting

How to illustrate the use of words

The passive voice of hostility in history

I made a triple lemon cake

Lemon batter with lemon syrup drizzled on top

A lemon icing with candied lemon pieces I made

My cat, black as the night coming, just noticed me

She stretches and saunters over to me

Her paws on my breasts, she looks me in the eye

Drizzles purrs on me through her open mouth

I retreat

I’ve surrendered

The next wave of their anger and stress crests

I’m supposed to worry about what others think, how they perceive,

I’m to remember what words they chose for me —Circular Thoughts to focus on this week—

Talking points, the world comes with talking points

I can’t pretend I don’t care

I retreat but can’t leave

I still believe we can turn it around

We’d have to fight upstream through the sea of their incessant talking and entitlement

We’d have to be the undead

Ceaselessly crawling to stop them

Ah the sky is orange now, going towards red-orange

My cat has curled up in my lap

I’ve a book I’m reading

It’s a story of the loss of memory, collective forgetting

And my phone is almost dead

Dinner is carnitas I left to cook all day

The tortillas batter is in a bowl, almost ready

The lemon cake waits for the end of dinner

After we’ve eaten and talked and maybe laughed

I do just it. I listen to nonsense.

But the urgency they press is met with pajamas

We’d have to die to stop them

They want zombies - unthinking, not really alive

Drones in droves driving profits

The trees is full of lemons still

I’ll pick some more tonight when the moon’s high and the crickets chirp, not knowing it’s winter, the temperature will be dropping but not low enough to require shoes for the short time I need to pick a dozen more lemons

I’ll feel the cool of cement, the wet of grass

Maybe I’ll make lemon curd tomorrow

/katrinnac

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[poetryriot]

It's not enough to bare ones heart, vulnerability as your hoarse vocal cords call into the night, knees planted to the soil under the light of the moon, knowing she sees everything beneath , her silence will never speak to midnight confessions, a bleeding soul praying to the dark sky, shes only a witness to words no one will hear.

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