Mar
28th
Drawings
By Depth Writer
There was a subdued illuminated craving,
neath the crystal clear river
It sat silent in a breath-less wind, neath consequence
Stepping to the beat of rhythm,
bringing to light this event
Sand slithering through tangled fingertips
spewing to an untold story,
one you felt you couldn't part
from the existence, the residence of your soul
...wanting, yearning so much
learning that your words
meant nothing, as you travel
down dead end streets of morrow
...eyes peer through closed doors
astern the swords pulled from the caskets of the dead
around dreads,
knees bend to the freedom of choking tongue
Drew above your head-
the sun scorching the blade
wearing yesterday's blood on its sleeve
Worn till the death of both...
carrying through the weepy voices
begging for mercy... on the ocean drowning you
(c)
neath the crystal clear river
It sat silent in a breath-less wind, neath consequence
Stepping to the beat of rhythm,
bringing to light this event
Sand slithering through tangled fingertips
spewing to an untold story,
one you felt you couldn't part
from the existence, the residence of your soul
...wanting, yearning so much
learning that your words
meant nothing, as you travel
down dead end streets of morrow
...eyes peer through closed doors
astern the swords pulled from the caskets of the dead
around dreads,
knees bend to the freedom of choking tongue
Drew above your head-
the sun scorching the blade
wearing yesterday's blood on its sleeve
Worn till the death of both...
carrying through the weepy voices
begging for mercy... on the ocean drowning you
(c)
Nov
13th
We hold the Distinction
By Depth Writer
Vaguely, beyond
realm of shadowing atmosphere
beneath soil carpets, wire fences, a wall begins to emerge
not built from the sweat of a soul, or the endeavors of you
so much as the ingredients we transform... from our love
I suppose that Science has begun to involve numbers,
thoughts wired for space, into the partialality of society
all its mello-drama government issues, acts, and words
wallets bulging from over worn Levi jeans, or trousers
Men/women in four-piece suits flashing there pin-stripes
overly, bearing struggles... the day that the earth came
down
crashing city, upon city, cosmos into the underlining
universe
Technology fell into the inner-urban distruction, the battle
began
Our wells hold the poison of infliction, slashing the flesh of
enemy
mountains contain the building blocks, the creation of glass
house
while the children flank the bow, the ships mass raising into
sky
and you, afraid to leap the immaculant sea afar, its floor of
ice
Chilling the imagination of writer, poet a whirlwind of
color
dramatized from over-use, and cedar block tied to the cloud
prisons held in space, a playpen of hypocrasy, home grown
desire
fearless of the sunrise, its glimmering contemplation existing
with will
More over, time evades itself
merely from the vastness it once was
its hands halt, and the breeze capsizes
over fluctuation, and moderation today
We must all learn, the mistakes of the universe
for it is the distinction which we must pick apart
reaching the outer core, the beat of its heart
pulsating, gushing spirit about, the checkered lives
by karen dewitt
2010
Jun
8th
You're gonna miss me....
By Depth Writer
(Drums are snapping)
You're gonna miss me
when I am gone
Im gonna walk away
head for the city lights
where I can feel alive
when the rising of dawn
peers over the mountaineous sky
gonna erase my name
from your fiery dreams
Beat em drums, pound them
feel the vibration of me....
You're gonna miss me
when I am gone
rising of dawn
the heart pounding
under clouded empathy
and compassions founding
gonna set the rose, in the colored vase
watch it wilt, and shine, die, and rebirth itself
becos' you stole my heart, crumpled the love
tossed it out the window, to nowhere...
It flew down corruptions staircase
dripping of sweat, I ran like hell, to catch it
instead it splattered, and shattered before your feet
You didn't deal with it right
didnt fight hard enough
Ima leaving
you're gonna miss me
when I am gone, under the belt of dawn
beat em drums, like you did my heart
lay em open, the vibration of me
Devestation has seated itself
where my heart once hung
You're gonna miss me.....
(c) Karen D. 2011
You're gonna miss me
when I am gone
Im gonna walk away
head for the city lights
where I can feel alive
when the rising of dawn
peers over the mountaineous sky
gonna erase my name
from your fiery dreams
Beat em drums, pound them
feel the vibration of me....
You're gonna miss me
when I am gone
rising of dawn
the heart pounding
under clouded empathy
and compassions founding
gonna set the rose, in the colored vase
watch it wilt, and shine, die, and rebirth itself
becos' you stole my heart, crumpled the love
tossed it out the window, to nowhere...
It flew down corruptions staircase
dripping of sweat, I ran like hell, to catch it
instead it splattered, and shattered before your feet
You didn't deal with it right
didnt fight hard enough
Ima leaving
you're gonna miss me
when I am gone, under the belt of dawn
beat em drums, like you did my heart
lay em open, the vibration of me
Devestation has seated itself
where my heart once hung
You're gonna miss me.....
(c) Karen D. 2011
Jan
6th
Creative Minds Beat Poet Generation~ Revised-CONTINUING THE BEAT
By Maria Mosaic Poetry
Continuing the Beat
From the beginning of time,
Generations of ears,
Heard life a little differently,
Ears annoyed that twitched,
There have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
All the while trying hard to synchronize,
Registering the rise and fall ,of all around they saw,
Alarmed, they were, by complacent minds asleep.
Restless, growing haunted, by white noise loud,
There have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
A Generation of feet, seen as awkward,
Unable they were, to follow the steps.,
Refusing to accept, the common beat,
Ears refusing the tickle,grew hot to a burning itch.
There have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
Fearless they did not cave to mediocrity,
Listening to chords, of reverberations echoing,
Trusting the rhythm from within,
Bravely they stepped out,
There have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
Some called them ~Gifted,
Revolutionaries and, Extraordinary,
Prophets, Rebels and Lunatics,
For their eyes saw mass need
Enraged they did not fit,
manic lit, refuting the
ordinary
Some saw passion, some saw manic,
Their have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
To internal truths, young and old, they marched on,
Vibrating, shaking up the mundane,
With guitars strumming, harmonicas blowing,
Voices rung parched, released to microphone, to their own beat,
There have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
The Hope together with bleeding feet, cracking,
Deeper meanings, beneath layers of’ trusted’ constructed mud,
Unearthing truth, answers told uniquely in expression,
Stomping out of tune, with the power to free,
There have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
Some saw passion, some saw manic,
Their have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
To internal truths, young and old, they marched on,
Vibrating, shaking up the mundane,
With guitars strumming, harmonicas blowing,
Voices rung parched, released to microphone, to their own beat,
There have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
The Hope together with bleeding feet, cracking,
Deeper meanings, beneath layers of’ trusted’ constructed mud,
Unearthing truth, answers told uniquely in expression,
Stomping out of tune, with the power to free,
There have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
From the beginning of
time,
And now, you and I, in or out of rhyme,
Voices continue to follow heart visions, irregular beats,
With power in the stride, unwilling to hide the promise of change,
There have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
Some call us idealistic, dreamers,
With passionate pens in hand,
Continuing to pound with feet that crack,
And ink that bleeds, for future Generations Need,
There are those still pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing Tantrums
We call ourselves Poets and Activists!
©MtMjA, Mosaic Poetry,Maria Martella
And now, you and I, in or out of rhyme,
Voices continue to follow heart visions, irregular beats,
With power in the stride, unwilling to hide the promise of change,
There have always been those pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing tantrums,
Some call us idealistic, dreamers,
With passionate pens in hand,
Continuing to pound with feet that crack,
And ink that bleeds, for future Generations Need,
There are those still pounding stone ground,
Thought throwing Tantrums
We call ourselves Poets and Activists!
©MtMjA, Mosaic Poetry,Maria Martella
Jul
16th
on Losing Virginity
By Cochise
on Losing
a Virginity
laying in arms of someone i didn’t even know
virginity was a crumbled foreskin
incarcerated behind a jagged cage
an alabaster mime in a crowded denim park
wagging for a porcelain nun
with peeking garters
and rosary bead
praying to metal toothed gods
with its pathetic pouting eye
and forgiving droopy chin
lying still in hollow caverns
sprouting grass in tufts of testicles
gangs of pubescent hormones
rioting in streets and inner alleyways
a restless eye throbbing from its hole
through bursts of skyrockets
pearls of menstruation breaking strand
exploding onto vaginal canvas
quivering hands against mammary vine
jowls swallowing forbidden fruit
this virginity leaping full throated
like aboriginal faces from metallic reeds
from steaming gates of primality
sick with swelling and urging strain
this ecdysis of phallic metamorphosis
from unexcused fumblings of illiterate
to quoting candle-struck quatrains
of Shakespearean pussy
exchanging the next forty years of insanity
for just one moment
to climb back in
© W.w.Lyles jr. 2010
a Virginity
laying in arms of someone i didn’t even know
virginity was a crumbled foreskin
incarcerated behind a jagged cage
an alabaster mime in a crowded denim park
wagging for a porcelain nun
with peeking garters
and rosary bead
praying to metal toothed gods
with its pathetic pouting eye
and forgiving droopy chin
lying still in hollow caverns
sprouting grass in tufts of testicles
gangs of pubescent hormones
rioting in streets and inner alleyways
a restless eye throbbing from its hole
through bursts of skyrockets
pearls of menstruation breaking strand
exploding onto vaginal canvas
quivering hands against mammary vine
jowls swallowing forbidden fruit
this virginity leaping full throated
like aboriginal faces from metallic reeds
from steaming gates of primality
sick with swelling and urging strain
this ecdysis of phallic metamorphosis
from unexcused fumblings of illiterate
to quoting candle-struck quatrains
of Shakespearean pussy
exchanging the next forty years of insanity
for just one moment
to climb back in
© W.w.Lyles jr. 2010
Jul
10th
Since Rumor has it...
By Cochise
Since Rumor has
it...
after realizing that every card has a
trump
my
stepmother used to spit down onto me
it's not how
many times i knock you down
that pisses me off into oblivion
another pang across my 3 a.m. shoulder and i feel the blood worming its way down the center of my shoulder blade she would grin with a red dot from my lip thumb wiping it down her jowl from a ricochet while she crammed an allergen of dill into my mouth cackling while i swoll up waiting for Nothing
smacking my face with chunks of somebody else' diamond filleting pasty white into garbled pink
she would gouge her red dipped finger hooks deeper into 4 a.m clot of teenage loam-skin a thud headed fist for each blouse not folded thud thud thud for the wood rack being empty again hey bastard boy, bring me a glass of tea my thyroid is hurting tooonight i'd clean up after another all-night snort-fest sweeping up condoms with wasted hits of cocaine cum wetting into alabaster paste in the dustpan
crumpled beer cans with nooselet ashes hung lifeless while sipping quarter inch coffee rings from used mugs some with red lipstick half-moon prints from a hopped up junkie who fell of the dining room table i remember she offered to blow me once if not for her rottening out teeth i might have agreed
i watched the non-related old man shoot dogs or drown the Pekingnese longhairs that yapped too much always messing with his buzz and interrupting his records
i'd shiver in mid-December snow-quakes in the van with crunchy pleather seats and one afghan while she sucked off some county official's cock for rent or electricity or to put green beans on the table only for me to live to fend off another bottle worshipping primate with his Wild Turkeeey in one hand and some me in the other
kicking in my bedroom door for a midnight round of manhood until i grabbed him by his snowglobe throat watching the white run through his face and the lights going out in his bloodshot windows squeezing the Holy Holy for that final snap into a gargling red clown with doll eyes
she'd been better off giving him that advice earlier it's not how many times you knock that boy down it's how many times
another pang across my 3 a.m. shoulder and i feel the blood worming its way down the center of my shoulder blade she would grin with a red dot from my lip thumb wiping it down her jowl from a ricochet while she crammed an allergen of dill into my mouth cackling while i swoll up waiting for Nothing
smacking my face with chunks of somebody else' diamond filleting pasty white into garbled pink
she would gouge her red dipped finger hooks deeper into 4 a.m clot of teenage loam-skin a thud headed fist for each blouse not folded thud thud thud for the wood rack being empty again hey bastard boy, bring me a glass of tea my thyroid is hurting tooonight i'd clean up after another all-night snort-fest sweeping up condoms with wasted hits of cocaine cum wetting into alabaster paste in the dustpan
crumpled beer cans with nooselet ashes hung lifeless while sipping quarter inch coffee rings from used mugs some with red lipstick half-moon prints from a hopped up junkie who fell of the dining room table i remember she offered to blow me once if not for her rottening out teeth i might have agreed
i watched the non-related old man shoot dogs or drown the Pekingnese longhairs that yapped too much always messing with his buzz and interrupting his records
i'd shiver in mid-December snow-quakes in the van with crunchy pleather seats and one afghan while she sucked off some county official's cock for rent or electricity or to put green beans on the table only for me to live to fend off another bottle worshipping primate with his Wild Turkeeey in one hand and some me in the other
kicking in my bedroom door for a midnight round of manhood until i grabbed him by his snowglobe throat watching the white run through his face and the lights going out in his bloodshot windows squeezing the Holy Holy for that final snap into a gargling red clown with doll eyes
she'd been better off giving him that advice earlier it's not how many times you knock that boy down it's how many times
he keeps getting back up
© W.w.Lyles jr 2010
Jun
28th
Mistaken for Strangers
By Cochise
Mistaken
for
Strangers
looking through pictures of friends i miss
their heads spinning round like the dizzy of negrous records babies on backs of worthless phonographs unrecognizably inarticulate albums of mispronounced warbling jarble their eyes in unfamiliar cowls like wilted rapture of muzzy tulips in paltry sockets of egg crate like contempt of melting snow in swollen hand-valleys of angels their smiles twisting in asymmetry like worn out licorice sticks in a warmly lit theater like portly filaments of Christmas lights in a snow-screened shop window their impious integrity dripping like slow brew of ungodly coffee through diaphanous veil of filtered response like buckshot compassion traipsing through grapes of mortality their gutless smell is familiar like ministering angels of sweat stains on woven beads on Bohemian t-shirts like pulsating limbs of menstruation to paraplegic stumps of pheromonal boys they are my oldest of unutterable friends mistaken so easily for strangers
© W.w.Lyles jr. 2010
their heads spinning round like the dizzy of negrous records babies on backs of worthless phonographs unrecognizably inarticulate albums of mispronounced warbling jarble their eyes in unfamiliar cowls like wilted rapture of muzzy tulips in paltry sockets of egg crate like contempt of melting snow in swollen hand-valleys of angels their smiles twisting in asymmetry like worn out licorice sticks in a warmly lit theater like portly filaments of Christmas lights in a snow-screened shop window their impious integrity dripping like slow brew of ungodly coffee through diaphanous veil of filtered response like buckshot compassion traipsing through grapes of mortality their gutless smell is familiar like ministering angels of sweat stains on woven beads on Bohemian t-shirts like pulsating limbs of menstruation to paraplegic stumps of pheromonal boys they are my oldest of unutterable friends mistaken so easily for strangers
© W.w.Lyles jr. 2010
Jun
13th
The Crucifiction of Empty
By Cochise
The
Crucifiction
of
Empty
after a vivd dream of
being crucified with Jesus
a one-eyed street lit cataract wedging headlong into its lonesome eye threads its pitch yarn into midnight cruna
an amblyobic yellowing lense of metal helmet staring out with hazy acuity behind its pencil thin torso of corrugation its head tinging in the metronome of a rainstorm like a sudden paraplegic beneath useless umbrella phantasmic arms outstretching on a wet crucifix with falling pearls from a breaking strand that God is snatching from an aging neck of a cloudy headed Bitch that keeps rambling off cupping white heaven in her trembling palms as if her teeth were holistically ungummed before letting her cosmic volta loose rinsing down a wall of kaleidoscoping eyes in dirty driven penny weight doing no damage to oil and wine
so night on her Black Horse and tipping scales rode with an empty carcass of Me splayed along gibbet of a park bench legs splintering under clubs of Crurifragium head drenching with a stormy purse of a Judas kiss it was only then a Nazarene wind whispered Eli Eli lama sabachthani and with smearing titulus hung from chest cage
poured out of its bones in a melted heart of wax through a cleaving tongue and exhaled it is finished
© W.w.Lyles Jr. 2010
a one-eyed street lit cataract wedging headlong into its lonesome eye threads its pitch yarn into midnight cruna
an amblyobic yellowing lense of metal helmet staring out with hazy acuity behind its pencil thin torso of corrugation its head tinging in the metronome of a rainstorm like a sudden paraplegic beneath useless umbrella phantasmic arms outstretching on a wet crucifix with falling pearls from a breaking strand that God is snatching from an aging neck of a cloudy headed Bitch that keeps rambling off cupping white heaven in her trembling palms as if her teeth were holistically ungummed before letting her cosmic volta loose rinsing down a wall of kaleidoscoping eyes in dirty driven penny weight doing no damage to oil and wine
so night on her Black Horse and tipping scales rode with an empty carcass of Me splayed along gibbet of a park bench legs splintering under clubs of Crurifragium head drenching with a stormy purse of a Judas kiss it was only then a Nazarene wind whispered Eli Eli lama sabachthani and with smearing titulus hung from chest cage
poured out of its bones in a melted heart of wax through a cleaving tongue and exhaled it is finished
© W.w.Lyles Jr. 2010
Jun
7th
Balance of a Circle
By Cochise
Balance
of a Circle
A balance of a circle is more than the sum of the lines it so carefully aquiesces to become with its cyclical ripples where a pebble has fallen like watery winks from a concentric eye then in silent shadows effaced by a meadow breeze wiped new in stale patina but the sum still exists in the birth of a current sloughing away its glass skin in this river of the snake perhaps it’ll linger still on the lips of this waterfall before twisitng out into the white a pout of a meniscus moon left gaping wide by night like the roundness of a jaw caught in condylar dislocation No No No a balance of a circle is more than a sum I think of the lines it so carefully acquiesces to ever become
© W.w.Lylesjr 2010
of a Circle
A balance of a circle is more than the sum of the lines it so carefully aquiesces to become with its cyclical ripples where a pebble has fallen like watery winks from a concentric eye then in silent shadows effaced by a meadow breeze wiped new in stale patina but the sum still exists in the birth of a current sloughing away its glass skin in this river of the snake perhaps it’ll linger still on the lips of this waterfall before twisitng out into the white a pout of a meniscus moon left gaping wide by night like the roundness of a jaw caught in condylar dislocation No No No a balance of a circle is more than a sum I think of the lines it so carefully acquiesces to ever become
© W.w.Lylesjr 2010
Jun
7th
E Street Peaches
By Cochise
E Street
Peaches
on watching a teenage hooker cross the
street in Fresno
a saddened peach plucked from her concrete vine moaning in alleyways for crinkled dollar bills running to rinse cum hands into rainwater how Mother had taught me to girlishly suck wanting from drunken tongue to swirl in soberesque minuettes with daddy so i wait for him still under a milky eye of warming stare beneath his scruffy moon face shivering in lace lattice like irises in the Fall wearing my snowy white wedding gown caged in fishnet thighs and patent stilettos the smell of burning cigarette and the chicken shack
waving down the new arrivals in August pan-fry at the Greyhound station across the street welcoming home or abroad with a handjob the swelter of summer heat in Fresno pasting my makeup and rouging my thighs but mama always taught me to close my eyes when the men starting talking sweet and that i should be sweet back to them she said i should carry myself away to a peach orchard where i am standing barefoot amidst the fuzz nostrils dancing in euphoric breeze
for now though i see those lusting coal black eyes striking their gruffy urging stare
the bleeding has stopped for now anyway it is only for a short while daddy i murmur he presses his field stained hands to my breasts his unshaven chin sandpaper to my skin he talks in slur of two day old whiskey and wives begging for his handjob and goodnight kiss urging closer and closer now
in a sweat of daddy summer storm
another good girl peach with seedlet eyes jagging for grunt of another bastard father left rotting in the warmth seeping through my pajama top
© W.w. Lyles jr. (Cochise) 2010
a saddened peach plucked from her concrete vine moaning in alleyways for crinkled dollar bills running to rinse cum hands into rainwater how Mother had taught me to girlishly suck wanting from drunken tongue to swirl in soberesque minuettes with daddy so i wait for him still under a milky eye of warming stare beneath his scruffy moon face shivering in lace lattice like irises in the Fall wearing my snowy white wedding gown caged in fishnet thighs and patent stilettos the smell of burning cigarette and the chicken shack
waving down the new arrivals in August pan-fry at the Greyhound station across the street welcoming home or abroad with a handjob the swelter of summer heat in Fresno pasting my makeup and rouging my thighs but mama always taught me to close my eyes when the men starting talking sweet and that i should be sweet back to them she said i should carry myself away to a peach orchard where i am standing barefoot amidst the fuzz nostrils dancing in euphoric breeze
for now though i see those lusting coal black eyes striking their gruffy urging stare
the bleeding has stopped for now anyway it is only for a short while daddy i murmur he presses his field stained hands to my breasts his unshaven chin sandpaper to my skin he talks in slur of two day old whiskey and wives begging for his handjob and goodnight kiss urging closer and closer now
in a sweat of daddy summer storm
another good girl peach with seedlet eyes jagging for grunt of another bastard father left rotting in the warmth seeping through my pajama top
© W.w. Lyles jr. (Cochise) 2010
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