Best Casings Poems
The days go by so faintly,
But the pain throbs in my heart.
I wish I could do this over,
And begin again from the start.
Words are scattered bullets,
That left my big mouthed gun.
They targeted my happiness,
And killed away the fun.
·
The echoes of the casings,
Still cling within my mind.
If I could touch Dali’s clock,
I’d repaint the hands of time.
To a time...when I was with you,
To restore all of my wrongs.
But this life replays to me,
Like a sad love song.
·
My actions are still hazy,
But the results are all too clear.
If I could cast some magic,
I’d snap my fingers to bring you here.
But life is not that easy,
We make things so hard.
What started out as easy,
Is signed with sorrow’s regards.
·
Man, I’m in a daze,
A dream I can’t wake from.
As the world moves around me,
My emotions are still numb.
As I achieve my accomplishments,
From all the things I do.
Believe me...they mean nothing,
If I can’t share them with you.
·
As you rest on your happy pillows,
I toss and turn on mine.
I have come to my conclusion,
That separation is divine.
Maybe one day you’ll return,
To color in this black and white sky.
Nothing I do...can reclaim you,
And only God knows why.
·
I’m speeding to get nowhere,
While staring in my rearview.
The road has gotten longer,
With still no signs of you.
My patience is on empty,
Burning fumes of creative wealth.
But when the rubber meets the road,
I did this to myself...
There are a lot of awful things in this world.
Life is generously given, then brutally taken from us without warning.
All that's left is an empty shell of grief and pain.
Some of our most beautiful moments are far outweighed by the grotesque memories of our fears.
Do we really forgive and forget?
How can we forget those things that left us crying so hard in our beds at night that there weren't any tears left to be shed?
Forgiveness can be a treacherous word.
Sometimes the people we trust, break us completely.
But we still see past this and forgive them, even when it severs the tiny thread of hope that we have left.
Our own anguish can betray us.
We live in our own misery, trying deleteriously to mend our hearts, yet we're too blind to see that we are only putting salt in the wound.
Until it's too late.
Until we are beyond fixing.
Until we are,
Hollow casings of what used to be.
As I sit here, I listen to the words I try so hard to, but cannot block out,
How is it that I have not experianced enough ridicule In Elementary school,
Why is it that I must experiance it again after so long, with no reason of it at all,
I sit on the bus, and sit in my class and do not look over at their floating voices,
Laughing at me and my misfortune, though the words they say are complete falsitiys,
I try to focus on anything I can, and block out the other voices, that swim within my head,
They whisper bad thoughts to me, to hurt him, and everyone else,
They put senarios into my mind, of bringing guns into school,
I hide my tears, within my empty eyes, and never look towards them,
Why do they not realise that the quiet ones are the most dangerous,
I dont want to be like this, I want to forebade these thoughts to go,
Do not come hither, and speak with serpants tongues into my ears,
I want to remove these images of watching their life leave their mortal casings,
I dont want to feel these things, but all I want right now, is to curl up in a ball and cry...
Now, life has almost passed us by,
and peaceful resignation reigns;
the beach, a spawning ground of old,
shrieks mournfully in sea gull tones.
The neap tide’s come to lull the shore;
crab moltings own the water’s edge.
Forewarned, am I, of nature’s course
in grains of gray and casings banked.
Now hand in hand, we lovers walk-on;
each throbbing with the pull of tide.
We sink in sands both wet and warm
soothed by the skies now overcast.
As faithful as the moon on high,
between the water lines, they spawn;
in estuaries at peace, they nest;
eggs as small as grains of sand.
Will you come when the moon is round
and leave your molted shell beside me?
Will you sense the celestial call
or let the scavengers find me?
First Published by Page and Spine
From joining the Union in 2004,
no longer Crowns, but thorns in the Euro Zone.
Dues through Asylum’s open door
Quotas from Italy or Greece,
over casings and from caters,
to step on hope and find peace.
Refugees search for compassion’s border.
Not the miles or cold nights that draw cry,
but new states of natural order
of those with new fence and wire.
Young questions, maybe one more night
with hunger and a shared fire.
There are three of them, Cinderella siblings:
shapely, deciduous, their leafy green
darkness undulating in the specter wind,
its silent snare drum emulating heartbeats
in syncopated symmetry. "Take us, Take us,
Don't stop!" say the sisters, moving as deliriously
as a woman beneath her lover, while their stripped-
down stepsister, one on one, spells out stillness
in inelastic nudity. Wind shears through her,
unconstricted by skeletal shapeliness.
Nothing to arrange here by the coiffeur wind
in the pared-down beauty of brittle lace-
work, if lacework be brittle.
One nest rests halfway up on a slender limb,
a single stem supports its phantom occupants,
imagined, their ravenous snapper beaks --
landlocked shark-lings, all minuscule jaws,
learning to prey under their mother's bellies --
inhabiting a denuded nest, awaiting a spring
of speckled eggs, cracking the silent thunder
of shells, to free those of gaping mouths, who
know nothing of being born, just that they
hunger and someone comes they do not name
as mother: She of the dependable providence.
For now, there are no newborns, only
a feather; feather, feather, whether or not,
provenance unknown, caught in a branch
far from origin like us, trapped in our casings
of skin: softness pinioned in lacework of limb;
ragged, if lacework be ragged. Here,
where the sisters have been to the Salon,
come back as frowsy as ever, but groomed
somewhat, from a blow dry and a cut.
milestones are marked by photographs
by notches on door casings that show just how grown up we are getting
by midnights spent on front porch stoops with people we only half know drinking mixtures that taste as awful as they should but let the words and movements come fast and steady knowing that it's the only time loose lips are the only things sinking ships
We were children growing up in the backseats of parents who rarely spoke to each other
the children who blossomed into the worst love poems we only pretended to read
As children we played games in the backseat
I spy
middle seat smash
guess which song
then, sometime during the middle of awkward slow dances with fresh braces and clothes our parents picked out we stopped getting up early in the morning
we stopped counting down the days until christmas
we started playing games in the backseat
feet tucked or feet spread
windows down or windows steamed
i've never,
that time changed from clueless to reckless to clothesless lasts only the length of a song
the radio cuts out in some spots around French Hill but still plays Freshman by The Verve Pipe
as we close our eyes
mouths open
breath fluttering like heartbeats
we were no longer children
not yet adults but we knew every line to every song we liked and we knew the most honest places we had and what happened when we held our breathe for too long during the bass line
Well! sycophantic misanthropist, verbose agitator of spite
Club footed whore master, couldn’t goose step for his life
Malicious propagandist, spreading hatred in every breath
His wife willing disciple, poisoned their 6 children to death
Demanding patriotic nationalism, big speech carcinogenic
Snickers in vehemence, sardonic grin, genocidal eugenics
Never dirtying his hands, an aryan superstar, not by blood
Master race aspirational, looks into the mirror then shrugs
Doctor of nihilistic supremacy, swearing hypocritical oaths
5 ft 4” gigantic paradigm, inferiority complex, slow growth
Promising victory up to the last, faithful to his fuhrers flag
Cowers from nearby artillery, blasting Swastikas into rags
Hiding amongst his sewer rats, goes insane down a bunker
Mixing morphine with champagne, to alleviate going under
Saved the best cocktail for last, cyanide and bullet casings
Fitting end to crawling malaise, and cockroach infestations.
Biting Satire Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
24/02/2021
Sandpiper Pausing...Again
What times are these
where hearts run hot and cold
ceaseless conscience alerts
remind us of steel girders fallen prone
entombments sealed
their distant voice remembered well
Compassion's lens peers through
this fallen metropolis of micro-flesh
this glass transparency
engulfed by forsaken smoke
knowing today's ethereal
descends as heart's residue
embracing darkness recalled
clock hands stopping
media rushing to air-time
yet never to be out of date
Silence remembers
fused tragedies
crumbling worlds
bodies falling
hearts broken
Yet
learning comes hard
More violence breaks the silence
cacophonous pandemonium
empty shell casings bouncing
pop pop pop pop pop
children's pleas
teachers' bravery
first responder's sorrow
parents traumatized
grievance everywhere
Sterility reigns
Washington defers
barbarity's extended abyss
the next tragic moment to define
insensitive that irresponsible behavior
will spawn new memories
destined to awaken vanquished yesterdays
Like a video game of archaic gulosity
certain chameleon passions remain insatiable
indecisive apathy-driven appetites
fuel congressional obstruction
While at the shore
A sandpiper pauses
beneath remembered ash
echoed violence
unredeemable screams
floating atop societal trade winds
seeming to be never forgotten
Like other creatures of blood that flows
eyes that see
ears that hear
hearts remaining conscious
knows not cowardice
Even a bird understands that
And so...
Even as the sandpiper probes away
its discovered sustenance hard fought
its needs remaining small
congressional appetites of power and greed
continue sated only with constituency expectation
indulging in anticipated 2013's gluttonous reward
thinking the next tragedy but finger food
the next gun sales windfall a payback for re-election
answering the next challenge of moral impotency with...
Not a problem
Not a problem
Green peas and all kinds of beans
are split open to release their seeds,
like those peas in a green pod,
that mother cooked in a huge pot!
One of my dad's friends who wore a veteran's brooch,
would shamelessly cheat to get a delicious split-pea soup;
mom didn't know he was a cheater, and surely would have hit him
with the wooden dough roller when he peaked with a grim!
And mom slowly stirred the vegetable soup,
she used to say, " The longer it cooks, the better it tastes! '
And my mouth was drooling to taste those soft peas...
that I took out of the seeds' casings without miscue!
Mother rushed in the kitchen with a roar of an enraged lion,
" That idiot is playing no fair game! He is a menace to all!
And he passes glasses of brandy to get everybody drunk! "
" He wants to win no matter what the cost...oh, clever maven! "
The split-pea soup steams like a hot volcano erupting,
the cover of the pot blows off, " What a mess on my stove! " mom screams...
" It's all his fault that I am in this state! " she continues yelling...
" I still hear his big mouth mocking...wait 'till I have finished cooking these peas! "
Entered in Nathan's Laccese contest, " Two peas in a pod "
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
We came upon a clearing
In the scattering of the town
Bomb damage as scenery
In this place called Caen
The village square we reach
Shell casings pepper the ground
Blood and spillage flows
War is all around
In the distance we hear
That the enemy are retreating
The losses our heroes
In this theatre of beating
The local school
Which had seen the worst
A tribute exists
Of the fallen first
In the debris there stands
His weapon of war
Upon it sits
The helmet he wore
This patriot
Of the land of the free
The Stars and Stripes
He will no longer see
As we continued our quest
To free Europe and beyond
So many solitary helmets
Will unify our bond
.
We half-hearts cling as scaffold
Mouths of cellophane statements
Morphia inducing as our eyes talc-storm over
Seeing nothing in everything
Like a tank we collide, by the
Edges of a summer vortex pushing as bulimia
It is only the intoxication of drink talking
However, I am yet to take even one mute glass
Empty bottles clutter regardless like rats swan-necked
And corner-slipped like zymotic casings
Speaking slow theremin thunders
Water-washed into neck-delicate walls meeting
Vapour hitting equal to bullets or butterflies
Equations of minus mixed with minus
A downward spiral of blitz-neon roars
Sekt and saxophones hitting like opium
To a rotten core; and I'm sure you remember
If you do then I hate you, and if not you disgust me
How I gave your apple back and
How my Bohemia is your gate
And how my gait is quite unassuming
But again, my sweet heart, it is only a larynx painting the air
With a true-to-type blue-blooded red-devilled roar.
STOP! This is the updated version
So now I guess this is the REMIXed version
Now the ONLY version
Poetrysoup Exclusive Version
Click the back button if ur ears r still virgins
I'll make blood drip down ur face
Throwing hands and invading ur space
I go to war like Scarface
Shell casings dropping like dimes
I told you too many times
Don't test me at anytime!
I will set ur ass in the grass
I'm all up in ur face like SMASH!
I might let u get up
Give u a chance to man up
If ur ready to fight The Champ just step Up!
Like Cassius Clay, I'm light on my feet
Bareknuckled and knocking u on ur seat
Talking trash put my fists on repeat
Spit out like rhyme sellers
I feel like it needs a hook to make any dollars
Gangsta Rap like Tupac
Investing in ass whoopings like it's a new stock
Don't let this pretty face make u think u can beat me
I will teach u to respect me and want to be me
Be careful where u r poking
I'm always laughing and joking
Come at me wrong and I'll leave ur ass smoking
Ask this guy on the floor choking....
I'll take ur lady and walk out of sight
Stepping over bodies leaving this fight
Leaving only one to tell the tall tale of that night
Poetic justice is what will be served in that fight
Words lift ur imagination to heights of insanity
Ending this the right way would cement my destiny
But there is no right way to end violence by way of fantasy...
On the sidewalk standing in the rain
the old man is a wounded dove.
Longish white hair: wet feathers
grounded in a storm. The rain is heavy
and repeats itself, like buckets of water
thrown out of windows.
The old man stands there
holding a memory or a wish.
Under the streetlight
his wet hair glistens like tinfoil.
The downpour is a creature
that’s eating him up.
Darkness projects
from a deserted apartment building.
The ground floor windows and doors
are boarded, nailed shut.
It appears dead, like an old disease,
or stripped, like a despoiled tomb.
Its bricks cracked and crumbled,
wooden casings dry rotted and helpless.
Painted in bold red
across the boarded front entrance,
a graffiti-message: Girls Rule.
Looking back at the old man,
he stands the way a king stands alone
when doubting himself.
Dark crawls around him. The old man stares
at the building. He is motionless,
in memory. Rain gallops over him.
Inside the warmth of a café,
my steaming coffee. Outside, the streets
are laundered clean of everyone
except for the old man who stares
at the apartment building. Time has grown
over his face and body, has grown
over the broken down building.
Now the rain is as heavy as mucus
and with his tiny body
the old man shuffles away into the dark
and gradually disappears
like a casket being covered with earth.
_________________________________
from my sixth book-length manuscript
©dah / dahlusion 2014 / 2015
all rights reserved
"In Streetlight, His Wet Hair" was first published in
'Switch (the difference) Anthology'
from 'Kind Of A Hurricane Press'
The ammunition greased casings pepper skull and cross lovely bones,
lightening speedily deals mortal blow persons unaware,
the final minutes/seconds of lives leased
shorn of existence, and akin to sheared sheep, this case
targeted ambushed ewe mon souls permanently fleeced
instantaneously cut short sealed mortality fate upon Avast group ceased
to exist as happy go lucky men, women and/or children
from most fearsome beast.
Instantaneous re: within the blink and/or flickr survive
er eyed, and former gallivanting live
capitalone progressive pinterest ting human con hive
ving to collide with hulu hooping unwittingly accompanying jive
vin track hewed by quick draw mcgraw holster
sending dead riders to final resting place.
Ribald exhortations and allegiance gifted who usher bereave
ment, where demise of existence experiences a field day,
whence microbes gorge viz Philabundance, while next of kin grieve
incalculable loss forsaken, whence emptiness doles bleakness
upon grim outlook that doth leave tears, brought per spilt blood and sweat
tallying cost, no miracle whipped lifeless ones can survivors retrieve.
Mortal kombat rues unfathomable payless Priceline Bourse
induces adrenaline to course thru melee,
where iron maidens sprint non selfie ish
lee to safer outlook, where moments of pain force
besiege collective asylum seekers indulge gorse
faux Joyus fancyfeast er vanityfair, whence sorrow loosed like a wild horse
diehard fanatic (attired inconspicuously like
dishabille schlepper of an outlier) source
index finger clutch released high-powered voluminous ammunition
murderous mass homicidal rates get worse.
Netzero escape those unfairly killed ceaselessly year after year
undeclared warfare,
whereby killer coolly unleashes fusillade veer
ring out the barrel to tear
whole community fabric, blithely empty lethal munitions truckload to spare.