Tag Archives: poems

Left-Handed Chronicles: 7

29 Aug


Illuminating wafts of recollection,
These splendid spells of split-perception
an intimation, of a strong sensation,
revived with the connection of your soul’s past animations.

Or simpler still, your memory book.
Your mind, prized moments, pictures took.
Or lesser still, don’t be afraid,
of horrors, traumas, ‘live within their grave.

More sacred still, to reminisce,
by chance or circumstance, the syncing of this:

A few minutes of nostalgic bliss,
as two souls recall their paths once stitched,
in one way or this way,
a wistfulness, an acknowledgment-

What once was tied is now amiss….
The moment passes,
are you often like this…?

Advertisements

Left-Handed Chronicles: 5

29 Aug


My left feet dies sometimes.
Sometimes.
I’m just kidding.
My jokes are lame, aren’t they?
They’ve never made you laugh, have they?

Oh they have?
Oh sometimes?
I’m not too unfunny then?
I’m pretty funny?

Oh.
Well, thanks then.
I know, but it’s nice to know..
I’ll keep ’em coming then (haha sucker!)

Left-Handed Chronicles: 4

29 Aug

Power to the people, except in times of crisis, which is when they really need it.

A delegating responsible majority – impossible.

A clan of fools. A simple many. There is no wisdom, no proverbs, strength of spirit and mind.

Not everybody can flourish.

Choose what to neglect.

Starve souls or bellies, and bellies, and minds.

Feed hearts, on hearts, but you can’t live off love alone, love alone.

The Bibles might be gibberish.
Emphasis, repetition.
Sometimes I have nothing to say.
And I miss my hunger for nothingness, stillness, peace, blank.

In a storm.
In paradise.

done.

Left-Handed Chronicles: 3

26 Jul

My regularity imposes itself on your most highly esteemed foot, twice or once I’ve been in danger of receiving from you  that dirty look, or have I mistook, from over that book, and admiring-ation for a disgruntled, hook-like shadowy smirk, plastered on a muddy red-eyed normality-embracing blank canvas…I took from your book about politics, that soot only need mentioning once to make moot a noble reputation, a pure discomplication, a kind word, backwards, and destroying reason for condescension—

That your eyes could speak less, and your heart more.
That your breath would create less condensation and be a lovely sensation to hear.
You’ve created the perfect environment for bacteria to fester in these temporal canals,
these sound channels,
these hearing animals,
these listening mammals.

Left-Handed Chronicles: 2 (Affection)

26 Jul

I am watching from my window sill fearing for my life.
Singing about my tired eyes, humming for my nose.

Watching and waiting, watching and waiting.

My garden is an eternity, a forever plastic spring. Softly hold my sweater babe, it’s chilly and I’m fickle, sweetie. And only touch my toes when I’m starving for it, but it’s always you and I alone know it. Heart!

Our simple mouths have always been awful at metaphor.
But our simple lips have never needed it.
But honey, sometimes I get so bored.

And I adorn my lips with it.
Sweet and sticky.
But syrup on me just feels so sickly.

Does it look it?

But now back to the cosmos….

Left-Handed Chronicles: 1

15 Jul

As I write on this bench, my legs grass’ floor, the thought occurs to me, of which I hasten to say more. This shaky thriller’s pen impedes me a bit, though with breath and experience, I may correct the tilt. Ho!, though, Woah! though, as I remember to meditate, but no, Oh, Lo, so, no one is at the gate; and I must refuse my breath it’s bait…for your’s and clarity’s sake.
I see shadows and suspicion, may well be by own natural disposition, paranoia my hateful friend, cousin to a neurotic affliction – A flick of the wrist, a glare of hers and his and my mind creates the competition – A step ‘pon a step, a creak or a click, my mind will generate a thousand boundless dystopic conclusions.

Because hop, skip,

hop, skip,

hop, skip,

pounce.

smiling girl

7 Jul

Her smile would seem more charming

if she hadn’t so much substance

her teeth should gleam more, and her eyes less

she is in want of: a less hungry air, a lighter heart, and a more carefree disposition

because she is always, always quietly burning