Best Mechanisms Poems
You come to me through breathing nuances of your soul
Pinpricks of laughter, tears, and excitement
Memories buried deep within
Trickles of blood
Moments of loss
My body warms
My heart expands
I am a conduit
To receive the gifts you bring
Dancing cells before my eyes
Seducing me with their movement
Our beings so blessed with
Magic and purpose
We function, often without thought
To the complexity of the mechanisms within
That pump our hearts
Containing light years of wisdom
How precious life is
How fortunate we are
To feel bliss, love, anger, and loss
We are capable of gazing into each other’s eyes
With compassion and acceptance
Able to feel the touch
Of another’s lips on ours
Miracles happen before our eyes
We can grab a tendril, a tailfeather,
A mane, or a hand
And surf the wave to gratitude
Anticipation ignites within my soul
Understanding the delicate balance of nature
Encompassing man, woman, child, and animals
Brings welcome sweet tears to my eyes
To receive the offerings of compassion, kindness, and humility
And sharing them with others brings joy
I am one
We are one together
All of us making our way
Through darkness and light
Fluttering monarch butterflies fill the air
As we gather and rise upwards
Riding the wings of the ancient bird tribes
Unspoken words fill the gauzy lavender sky
A pod of whales below guides us
Gentle giants leading us towards
Promise and new horizons
Ushered by the heartbeats of wonder within
Being strong is his only option
Satisfaction is not always the fulfillment of what you want
when you gets stuck in an unwanted situation
Witch hunting and lynsjing
He loses control and it makes him desperate
The bitterness has taken over, as a development of a toxic virus
Bile from the stomach leaves a bitter taste on the tongue
His defense mechanisms are in constant preparedness
It's about making choices and all choices have consequences
A fear of losing his identity, total paranoia
Thoughts like a spider web in destruction
The water is polluted, rape of our world
Twisted lines of madness ...
nightmares, tears and flashbacks
He does not know the rhythm of the music
Brainstorm Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
~ 4th place in the contest ~
16.10.2018
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
The Moon is almost...
Sullen skies forewarn the frozen shroud.
Gale November winds sway bare limbed
trees, whistling in chorus with arrows of
Geese straining to steer south.
The familiar sound of the revolving lead
Goose never wavers, but for tonight.
A strange howl emanates from the current
commander, abandoning the customary
bugling, not elongated; like a hound dogs
lament, but crisp & short, a howl.
Alarm bells ring in the memory recall of my
dna...built-in decipher mechanisms fail,
all of this happening in split-seconds.
What prompted this auditory change?
what does this alternate sound signal?
As quick as I heard it this twilight fall
evening, the Geese passed, the course they
were set upon unknown, circumstances
they encountered, not of my world,
the only sure thing,
is wonder.
12/01/17
Her luxurious penthouse
is like a cocoon with plenty of pretty distractions,
so she keeps her door firmly closed,
because she prefers fantasy
over the handicap of reality.
Afraid of light,
her malingering mind,
keeps her hidden inside.
To shield her from the sun,
she won't open the curtains,
as she thinks it's certain,
her mechanisms may melt.
Shyness is her veiled excuse
to separate her from society,
But it's the anxiety, anxiety, anxiety!
Preferring to be an option,
rather than a priority
her caution from socialising,
breeds from the alarm bells,
set from abandonment,
betrayal and manipulation.
Trust is her terrorist.
People hunt like packs of wolves,
devouring her mind like a candy snack.
Fears of her heart are like an aeroplane,
shaking from a turbulent storm,
with her hopes forever crashing.
Trying to forget in a flash of courage,
she takes one step towards the door,
but the noises in her head become louder,
and Louder and LOUDER!!!!
repeating, Repeating, REPEATING!
Violent vibrations induce vertigo,
silent screams screw with her sanity,
struggling to breathe, feeling like
air is being sucked out of her lungs,
she vomits, collapsing to the floor.
Nothing can take off the 'edge',
the therapists do not work.
There she remains in her internal prison,
away from her eternal nightmares.
Safe in her sanctuary,
from engagement with stranger's eyes.
Like a chocolate bar
in her shiny wrapper,
that looks so sweet
but feels so darkly bitter.
A child's view:
"Why did you leave us dear mom and dad?"
"Did we do something to make you mad?"
Tears on our faces, as we see you drive away.
"Please come back, we'll be good everyday!"
Our foster mother hates us, we don't know why.
Maybe she hits us, because all we do is cry.
My sister tries to protect me, but she gets beat instead.
It's hard not to hate her, she raps her knuckles on our heads.
But I'm just 3, my sister barely six.
We don't know what happened...how do we fix?
"Where are our brothers? We miss them so!"
"How can you love us and just let us all go?"
An adult's view:
Scars of abandonment haunt our souls.
Self confidence battered and full of holes.
Hate and resentment learned so young.
Our spirits crushed, our sorrows unsung.
Trusting of others is extremely hard.
Self protecting.......eternally on guard.
Escaping the past, we run away.
Coping mechanisms always in play.
Failed relationships in abundance.
Struggling against all compliance.
Memories buried in recesses of the mind.
Lessened only by the passage of time.
"Where does it hurt?"
She asks, clipboard like a shield,
pen cocked like a firing pin.
"Here," I say,
pointing to the silence just beneath my ribcage.
Not the lungs. Not the liver.
The place where sorrow goes to calcify.
They send me down long corridors,
all white noise and flickering fluorescents—
like memory on a bad day.
I wear a gown that opens in the back,
like every conversation I regret.
Inside the machine,
I lie still as a kept secret.
The MRI growls like an old god,
searching my insides
for evidence of war crimes.
I think about the shrapnel—
not metal, but moments.
The look she gave me
the night everything broke,
like she was already ghosting
through the wreckage of my voice.
I tell the technician:
It’s there. I can feel it.
Each breath razors against it.
But the scan is clean.
No foreign objects. No narrative.
They call it “psychosomatic”
like it’s a compliment,
like my body is staging a play
my mind refuses to direct.
Back in the doctor's office,
she says, "There's nothing inside you."
And I laugh—sharp and wrong.
Isn't that what pain is?
The something that feels like everything
and shows up as nothing?
I ask if she can x-ray a metaphor.
She doesn’t smile.
Just types and nods and offers
a pamphlet on stress management
as if I haven't already built
cathedrals from my coping mechanisms.
I leave with no diagnosis—
just a quiet war still raging
beneath my skin.
A soldier in peacetime,
saluting ghosts
that never made it
into the file.
Materials are arranged into an element table
As complete, clear, reasonable as possible
All they have been most ideal
So, heat balances and explosions stop off
Slowly come the wind and the sounds of
Flowing waters, birds, and people
Mixing up the fragrance with invisible
And the mechanisms set to be mysteries
As boundless and complicated as the Stella
The stars in the sky are either dim or bright
The earth is therefore successfully born
The Creator was worried a lot
Human beings acting as ignorant kids
Who may Happily dismantle their home
That's to date not actually impossible
So before went out for a tour
He crushed the mysteries of nature
And spread the pieces into people's mind
Left no one could restore it as a whole
The mechanisms still remain though
None of a piece could easily be told
To acquire knowing the essences of nature possible
Only is no one ignored and free speech restored
No matter what they say as long as they say cordially
It should have listened and carefully mapped out
12/13/20
"Why Is It?"
Times of crisis
The cause of our own destruction, and being lifeless
Is more complex than science
Sometimes it involves an appliance
Sometimes it's considered sacrifices
Often from violence
Or our own devices
Quickly will pay the price quick
And might just die if
You never try to fight it
An ongoing virus
Having an impact on the sinus
With me, don't try to get righteous
Or pious
I'm not one sided
Or biased
I remain silent
Holding a trident
On an island
Among redwood giants
No matter the climate
I spied it
And saw with my eye this
There's too many tyrants
Folks kept calling them "your highness"
Such B.S., never once did I buy it
Always remained quiet
Became friends with pirates
Such knowledge and experience is priceless
Turning on the light switch
Not so blinded or simple minded
Gaining mileage
Shining like a diamond
And still enlightened
Paying no mind or trying to fight the system
We've no proof, of if extra-terrestrial life visits
Why is it?
It's nice and vivid
The world can be quite wicked
At times I find it twisted
You don't have to agree, just don't be blind to it
Why kid?
Don't try to fib
Living a lie, why live it?
Often saw the back of my eyelids
Getting so high, I'm lifted
Mixing alcohol with it, if it already didn't
It's about to hit quick
Was or wasn't predicted
The same can be said for it being scripted
Spirits risen
Despite so much division
A lot of content is encrypted
Continuing the expedition
With ambition
As was written
The truth not fiction
Taking out all competition
Remaining driven
Nearby mechanisms
And organisms
Made my decision
Many schisms
Everyone has opinions
Did or didn't involve criticism
In and out of hell's kitchen
Often I've been conflicted
I don't just sip it
I dive in it
Wasn't always able to fit in
Either I did, or I didn't
I'm different
I listen
Keep my hand hidden
Using wisdom
And vision
To take care of business
From the start to the finish
Yet I'm far too dependent on substances and liquids
It's really sad, I know isn't it (it is)
No,
not I,
I see clearly through
the rotten wedding veil,
clogged by cake turning stale,
framed by arachnid pageboys;
I see cracks on pale pink lacquer,
on the mannequin face below,
eyes mad and staring, aglow,
the sick dead holes of eyeless toys.
No,
not I,
my dear,
I see the madwoman in the attic,
frozen in her rocking chair,
cobwebs floating in her hair,
gibbering to her inner void;
I see the child she used to be,
alone beneath opiate skies,
pulling wings off butterflies,
things of beauty she destroyed.
No,
sorry,
no trace of me at all,
no reflection cast of me,
I am not real, don’t you see?
but, of course, that doesn’t do;
I watch the self-delusions form,
your mechanisms justify,
projecting blame on passers by,
when all there really is,
is
you.
There are no cogs, springs, wheels, or gears inside of me.
I'm a flawed human whose mind and heart often disagree.
I don't have parts, interior mechanisms like those inside a clock.
but if my heart makes a decision, my mind puts up a roadblock.
There's no symbiosis between them, nor a willingness to agree.
Each day is a struggle for me, from which I cannot break free.
Mechanical parts of a washing machine sometimes need repair,
but when heart and mind are at odds, it's a hardship I must bear.
It's pugilistic sparring and I'm overwhelmed with doubt and fears
because I'm the one who always gets hurt, bringing me to tears.
I can't get through to my heart, and simply cannot make it clear
to a stubborn mind that tunes out what it doesn't want to hear.
I've pleaded and tried bartering but neither one will take heed.
I've accused them both of having an ego and an attitude of greed.
The interior machinations of my mind and heart often malfunction.
My heart seeks love, while my mind is smug with selfish unction.
I can't really remember when the last time was, they ever agreed.
They're an enigma, each one having its own beliefs and creed.
"The Circe Effect" (Part 2)
In solitary confinement, she remained all alone
in a big old mansion in the middle of a woodland zone
there she sat weaving on her loom all alone
on that Island of Aeaea, until that good sort, Odysseus
walked into her home.
Athena, sent Hermes to warn Odysseus “Beware Circe’s wizardry! Beware!”
and handed him a sharp sword with some Moly to imbibe,
“Protective powers! Added benefit!”, she prescribed -
with her final parting words, something to this effect,
“Odysseus, dear friend, Goddesses are not mortal, they are extremely treacherous in bed!”
Circe’s powers were far too strong and before very long
she had Odysseus
hooked on her magnificent wand.
He remained on her island for one year,
feasting, drinking wine, dancing merry with our Circe,
where he slumbered in a meadow full of flowers with her,
to avoid getting dirty.
Eventually it was time for Odysseus to continue on his quest
where Circe, our clever and dear girl,
gave him final directions to The Underworld
you know, that other dubious
place to rest.
(Lovejoy-Burton/ Dec 2017)
"Underworld Blues"/The Mechanisms
https://youtu.be/wkWkk7Di2YU
I do so love harvest thanksgiving,
That time of year which celebrates agriculture,
When church flips from being god-centred,
To remembering farmers and good food manufacture.
It’s not an Armenian or Amish allusion,
‘Cos tins are given no problem;
Natural remedies aren’t primed as better,
Than medicines, to the mind and body superior.
As a child who regretfully attended church,
I thought on that day of poverty and Christian giving:
That their offer was kind of a respectable food bank,
A silent redistribution of wealth, income and living.
No food bank is respectable, of course,
But they can channel wealth efficiently and appropriately;
And that the Church offers such for just one day,
Should be celebrated as a positive sign most definitely.
God is sometimes just such an abstraction,
Academically, he’s for the objective mind;
He’s not comforting when your needs are just so real:
Physical, emotional, psychological: he can be so unkind.
When you just need a meal on the table,
And need it supplied by someone else,
Whether by government, food bank or church,
It’s a person that's there, not divine impulse.
I thought it was moral to impose that on believers,
As a kid who just so wanted to talk and shoot,
About real mechanisms, real structures and methods,
Which made life’s systems, dynamics, art and roots.
Being grateful for food, diet and health,
Eclipses salvation humility and responce;
Eternal purpose lays as distant and non-tangible,
To people and belongings which have an unimpeachable force.
Farmers need to be remembered, given relevance,
For their labour, dedication and sheer love of the job;
It’s that occupation and training which ensures,
Our basic daily needs are met not just with contours.
The harvest basket every year means to me hope,
Nourishment for those who starve and scrape;
Church wealth rides so high and mighty on average,
That this real examination is something to advocate.
The electronics clambered, numbered incessantly the pixels
Evermore they quoted as they looked sheepishly beyond the waving kelp
But how many fonts hold fast to the batholiths where benthic crawlers lurk?
All sounds resonate truly never resting they attest to organisms organized
Materialized from matter without flatter, all is jargon even tarragon
So have you planned usurping what is beyond the seamless light?
Fishing for extinct species yet landing luggage makes one uneasy
But oh so few have caught the ride switched on by myriad microchips
Looking into the lightened halogen afforded space upon the brazen hillside strata
It is all an electric race for peace with resistors, electrons racing past hazards
Imagination pictured impossibilities precisely placed to soothe the softened goals
Remotely fusiform he held in his own untrained hand although he dipped at times
Mechanisms, anachronisms and microcosms of life go on to divide or multiply
They form a landing, certain coiled spinning prisms an animate defense of green
Can a pixel bring a timely recompense or electrons reap a harvest?
I stepped on a lizard on new year's day,
then I slipped and I screamed
and hit my shoulder on the fridge,
toppling the chair,
scaring people at home.
Ahhh, klutzy me on the first day of the year
thinking now,
it is funny, when I imagine
myself sprawled on the floor.
In all honesty,
it was the thought of
killing the lizard that horrified me,
the act of hurting it
feeling that squish,
bruising that flesh,
breaking the itty itty bones
dear goodness,
how in the world can I step
on a lizard?!
imagine my sort of relief
to see the broken off tail
on the floor
thank God for survival mechanisms
the tail was still twitching,
another shorter piece fell off,
and yet I still wonder...
Is that lizard alive?
Did it actually make it?
Is it still hurting?
When will it heal?
Is it traumatized?
Was it pregnant?
I don't know why,
but that last question popped to mind
when I saw the shorter piece,
I even thought it was an egg...
Sighs.
I hope it's ok,
will be ok. I really do.
Sorry lizard, I truly am.
0101022014
CONTAMINATED
Contaminated
Don’t understand it
Fell in sewer, can’t stand it;
Live and dead rats raccoons;
Walkin, floatin
Dirty, polluted waters
Manure other unspeakable sources
Don’t understand it
Contaminated
Harmful bacteria on food
Food poisoning
With bacteria, viruses
Chemicals or poisonous metals
Such as lead or cadmium.
Contaminated
Something unpleasant
Is harmful if spreaded on
Ends up in food, in our lungs
Land dirt, grasses
Air, animal/human skin
Even breathe in can happen in one of three ways
Physical spiritual condemnation
Contaminated
When items such as hair, glass, plasters, dirt, insects
Other foreign bodies are present in food.
Usually visible,
Contaminated
Most time hard to live with
Variety of mechanisms.
Inadequate hand washing
Mouth to mouth
Touch to touch
Body to body, yuk!
Body to inanimate objects
Contaminated?
4/2/18