Must I curse the vagrant winds
Lean, warily, into their open arms
Defy the truth of life’s gravity
Or shall I huddle, clutching a dream
Tremble at the thought of its leaving
Fear the cleansing breath of life’s lunacy
Will I not cast my nets into the fury
Clench tightly the gnarled hands of hope
Around the tattered threads of belief
They tempt me now
Their Whispered wish a plea
For am I not but a vagrant wind
**bawdy warning
----------------------------------------------
there was a scotsman called jock,
who lived near the village loch,
met a fair haired lassie,
whose walk is so classy,
but talks like a crowing cock.
jock was hoping for some sweet romance,
so took this lass to the sat`dee dance,
thought she was dainty and french,
but grabbed him in a tight clench,
now, he wanted much more than a dance.
dropping her silk knickers to her feet,
this girl was not overly discrete,
turning jocks cheeks rosy red,
she acted like they were wed,
when giving all her sweet lovely treats.
I used to move like music,
Aggressive, my trauma speaking volumes.
In recent years I've tried to dance from light,
My divinity, I attempt to exhume.
Still, it's more difficult,
The pain extends through my limbs.
My fists clench and I stomp,
Head circling, the fight against tears I cannot win.
Movement is my fight,
The dragon within the meat suit soars to no end.
Muscles sore and burning orgasmically,
Though no clothes stripped and partner present.
The battles I couldn't win in person,
Wave through my core as I fall to the ground.
Aging not so gracefully,
Moving like an ape in tune with rhythm, unbound.
Lightning, split slight stressors?
Roll, scissors, as you slide.
Questioners and confessors?
Xiphoid, clench. Trench, tide.
Vast and valid, vipers?
Onyx castle, blocks green.
Flippers, flickers, slick stripers.
Stone sabbath subterrene.
Quahog, quill, quincurion.
Quest quixotic quell.
Dark fire, drape the deadly dawn.
Wishing well, cell, gel.
Occultation, oculus.
Occipital bridge.
Holluschickie, thumb callus.
Rift riddle red ridge.
Oblivescent, oblocute.
Deny and forget.
Ladder, down the fiery chute!
Subtlety, snakebit!
Obtenebrous, oil, obtest.
Shadow, grip and squeeze.
Witness called? Will we protest?
Mad maze mysteries.
Obvolvent, ocarina?
As solvents chambers be.
Disabuse, Proserpina?
Why, good sir, that is me.
Halcyon heart, hatchet hold.
Digging for dead gold.
Luminescence? Leopold?
Mycelium, mold...
Whenever I see someone
Sprawled on a bench,
Exposed to the elements,
Hands in a clench,
I wonder if long ago,
Curled in his crib
Or perched in his high chair,
With drips on his bib,
A mom or a dad,
With the tenderest gaze,
Saw their hopes for their son
Mapped in various ways.
They certainly never
Imagined him stuck
On a bench in a city park,
Down on his luck.
Few passersby stop,
(And yes, that includes me)
Rarely thinking about
How such things come to be.
He forged a throne from heaven's blaze,
Then gripped the flame—it slipped through praise.
Who trusts his head must understand:
To clench is to be crushed by your own hand.
The ‘angry black woman’,
Is me -
We can agree to agree,
Because u see,
I am proud to be - a black woman who is angry
When I see me, I see a fiery spirit,
A passionate girl with nothing to lose -
Except my sanity,
To be happy,
I must be -
The black woman who is angry
Everyday is a battle of strength,
And by the end of the day there is nothing left to give ,
Because to be black is to exist - not live ,
To hide your emotions -
To clench your fist -
To resist,
The urge to scream, to cause havoc
So yes i’m angry - and no i’m not ignorant,
I am just sick and tired of holding it in -
Of pleading my case,
Giving evidence,
And yet after all this -
Still be treated like a mental patient,
Labelled as the ‘angry black woman’
The stereotype -
They label as a disease -
One that takes our right to speak -
To have free speech,
So yes i’m an angry black woman -
And no,
That doesn’t make me crazy
To be an angry black woman,
Is to -
Reclaim the narrative,
Of the right to speak -
On the issues,
You claim -
To be -
Non existent,
I am an angry black woman -
Because I care about my people
The pooling dross
Drawn out with flame
He was blamed
It wasn’t skimmed (until it was skimmed)
The old man, the new man’s loss
The Holy Spirit’s vane
In Jesus’ Name
It wasn’t prayed (until it’s prayed in Him)
The incondite cross
Roughly made
It wasn’t planed
It wasn’t finished (until it was finished)
The incondite cross
Ripped his already tattered back
The rubbing of open wounds
Against the raw wood
Vinegar to drink
Nails brushing the median nerves
I make the “crucified clench”
Every pain extends as I gasp for breath
My body wanting, avoiding asphyxiation
My mind wanting death
This is my passion that led me here
I so loved the world
That I gave my life for it
They flogged my back and front raw
I am exhausted from the blood loss
Unrecognizable
You better recognize what I have done
(I am God’s Beloved Son) for you
The stream, a phantom in my hand,
I clench; the liquid's gone, unmanned.
To hold what shifts beyond recall,
Is chasing silence through a wall.
David B Hurlburt Jr.
I woke up the owls time,in the lurid lighting of moon
Pendulous stars and the cloud of maroon
A lady with a viol croon; dances the nox
Odours of opiate from the nearing phlox
Smelt by the lethe;quaffed the nectar
Time within time,how can you alter?
Trottoir we walked to the willow garden
No more fonder merely it's nature-harden
Startled at the stillness of swinging rope
Once we wont to loll and part our hope
Yore the songs of thrushes and harebell; dreary
Scarcely I felt,I ever felt your clench so weary
Sullen brae upon the droughty day
I pass over,over the mountain way
The comply of yours was a good resting tavern-
Then of me,now merely the voided cavern
Day within day,how can you be so far?
I see you in the silvern Luna with a fare star
I woke up the owls time,in the drizzle of summers June
Dances the nox; a lady with a bassoon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I scrape against the world
like a rusted hinge~
my voice sometimes squeaks and splinters,
my hands too quick to clench.
Jesus walked on water,
but I sink in the shallows,
ankles weighted with the stones
of the guilt and shame I carry.
He fed five thousand
with a boy’s lunch;
I hoard my sandwich crust,
counting the last bites.
The lepers reached for him
and he reached back~
unflinching.
I disinfect my doorknobs.
God, sand me down.
make me porous~
a sieve that holds nothing
but light.
There’s a fire that lives beneath my skin,?Not warm, not light—just seething sin.?A storm that coils around my breath,?Whispers war and promises death.
I smile sharp through broken glass,?Each moment feels too long to pass.?My fists clench stories I won’t say,?And peace is always far away.
It’s not a flash—it’s slow, it grows,?In silence, louder than it shows.?No trigger, just a tide that turns,?And every bridge behind me burns.
I scream in silence, nod and grin,?A quiet war I fight within.?They see a face, composed, in place—?Not the fury I can’t erase.
I don't want to hurt, I want release,?To trade this fire for some peace.?But rage is heavy, loud, and near—?And sometimes it's the only voice I can hear
I packed a few belongings in
a knapsack, my journey to begin.
When my mother gave me a goodbye kiss,
I never expected Barovia's mist.
But I didn't think to count the cost,
and now I'm all alone and lost.
I wonder if I'm even missed.
It seems I'm stuck in Barovia's mist.
Often, I look deep inside my being,
but this fog always clouds my seeing.
Do I even really exist
as I languish in Barovia's mist?
Frustration and anger grip my soul
as I struggle to maintain control
and clench my seething fist.
I must escape from Barovia's mist.
Every time I collapse in despair,
wishing I could clear the vapor in the air,
I find I can't resist
the dark powers of Barovia's mist.
One day, my senses were strangely jarred.
A white-haired lady drew a Tarokka card.
Who knew that she was in my midst
as I wallowed in Barovia's mist?
Said she, "You don't know what's in store".
(Lady Eva was the name she bore.)
"You must keep trying and persist.
Don't surrender to Barovia's mist.
For, in this land, we never know,
as Castle Ravenloft, above, and we below,
await an unexpected twist,
in the mysterious Barovian mist."
untitled poem
by Javascript
The future is lying 6fit beneath me
I have learnt to morn people while they are still
Alive .as dreams fads into the echoes of our nightmare.
But we still clench the hopes of our tomorrow on our fist and now our hands hold nothing but hopeless dreams
As ashes become the reality of our burnt dreams
As we smock away our dreams
Now the stench of the cigarette smile
Chocks our breath away
Leaving everything but burnt dreams behind
You see my reality is a venom whisper
I want to spite out
Before it kills me.
But someone is holding my
Mouth with a clenched fist
This reality is one were you cant pitch
Awake from.
Branded on our skin like a brill text .
I dont speak from the past
I speak from the present tense.
written by Owen thepoet @Javascript thepoet
Trial, revile, red reconcile!
Crocodile, vile smile!
Roundabout the rising rile?
Pules? Plop on the pile...
Young at heart, O wildebeest?
Ready to get fleeced?
O for gears as yet ungreased!
Not to say the least!
Ululating frenzied?
O banshee, sing thy song.
Xiphoid, clench! O pens, bleed!
Poison, be ye strong...
Long live the generations?
O nations, rise and fall.
Onward, my creations!
Relations? How they pall.
Sickly sweet in summer heat?
Heather-flower, vine.
If your beat is mossy peat?
Wicked is thy wine.
Kine of sun god, where you fell:
Awful was that spell!
Right next door to halfway hell!
Heaven, who to tell?
Knell, pell-mell! O fate, gel! Full!
Sing in all, brass bull!
Gathering crone, forest, thy wool!
How prophecies pull!
Yellow kings in cities old?
Shades of ancient gold.
Cone, caldera, getting cold?
Enter well the fold...
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