po3try-and-anarchy

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Poem 13 || 03/01/24

People look at you differently

When there's not a cigarette between your lips.

They will avoid your gaze as you pass,

If you have one in hand.

You can observe the world without interruption,

Though the smoke will obscure some things,

To both you and others.

They will know you don't care for yourself as they do,

They will know you carry yourself differently.

You will leave behind still-burning cigarette butts in the yards of the lives of people you used to know,

Some will burn out.

Some will catch the grass alight.

Either way, the cigarette butt will still remain,

As will you.

[po3try-and-anarchy]

Poem 12 || 03/13/24

The birds will chirp regardless,

The wind will blow too.

The sun will rise and set,

And the rain will pour down.

Your world is yours,

But you can only do things for yourself

You have to avoid thinking

About what you can't change

Always thinking about what you can't change,

Never what you can.

You owe it to yourself,

Take a rest.

Breathe and take a step outside,

The grass will blow in the wind,

The birds will chirp,

Regardless.

And you'll realize you aren't

Really that alone.

[po3try-and-anarchy]

Poem 11 || 02/19/24

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, those I love

I'm sorry, those i loathe

I'm sorry, those who lay

I'm sorry, but it's just another day

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, but the sun still rises

I'm sorry, but the moon does too

I'm sorry, but I can't wait

I'm sorry, the gate is closed.

I'm sorry, those who breathe

I'm sorry, those who I've peeved

I'm sorry, those who feel

I'm sorry, you who has skill.

I hope you can find some sort of peace from this,

The peace of being the one who...

I'm sorry.

[po3try-and-anarchy]

By Czech writer Karel Čapek.

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Poem 10, 01/24/24

Five subjects. 

Subject five is a graveyard and home of sorts, though they all are. 

Subject four is dismayed that it is not first place, not to mention that we're counting backwards. 

Subject three is not like the others, but they and subject one are siblings. everybody forgets. 

Subject two is the cheap black sheep of their family, carrying on the con artist family name. 

Subject one seems bland, but they are painted in all of the colours of the earth, if you saw it from space. 

Four out of five can kill.

Subject five is honest. You see them somewhere and you know why. You know what it could mean for those around them. They keep everything from spilling over on their good days, as long as they can remember to take the trash out. On their bad days they form cracks, and leave messes on every surface. They don't clean on their bad days. 

Subject four is regal. They are good at hiding their intent. All empty promises and show. The threats are never mentioned. They're there though, written in between the lines. 

Subject three is different. They are short. They are weaker. They are alarmingly red, multiple shades of blood splatter them. They cannot offer you much, but their welcome is always warm and personal, even if it makes you dizzy. 

Subject two looks to be cut from good cloth. Tall and dark as night. They're there for you the whole night, and the moment you turn to thank them, they leave you on your toes, alone. After they're long gone you learn they've died. They even wrote you a letter. The  wax seal has your initals etched into it. You never opened it. 

Subject one is happy for you. They may not have much, but they are happy to be with you. You've known them since you first picked up your worst habits. They are painted in shades of blue green and white. Their energy is comforting to be around, but you're unaware they are slowly taking your life from you. You don't resist. 

All are killers, or a home for killers. All are known to be. 

Yet, they are still dearly loved.

[po3try-and-anarchy]

Poem Without an End

By Yehuda Amichai Translated by Chana Bloch

Inside the brand-new museum there’s an old synagogue Inside the synagogue is me. Inside me my heart. Inside my heart a museum. Inside the museum a synagogue, inside it me, inside me my heart, inside my heart a museum

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Poem 09 01/23/24

stormclouds at night/80's pop music/a freshly packed bowl/smoke rolling in clouds/blueberry flavored blunt wraps/five cent wings/coming home knowing theyll be waiting with a smile/taxi cabs that stop on your first wave/old well-loved tarot decks/smores/sundays never changing/watching movies as birthday parties/the eigth through twelveth wonders of the world/growing up/afternoon college classes/realizing at last you're not alone/sleep talking/just dance/champagne glasses filled to the brim with boba tea/noon on the dot/the sun and moon being lovers/parasols/newspaper sailboats/fresh honeycomb, still dripping/nintendo/forgetting to buy waterproof mascara until the next time you cry, and then forget again/wilted daisies and healthy roses in the same bouquet/those cheap see through lighters you get from gas stations/road trips in your head

loving despite/loving despite it/loving despite it all

[po3try-and-anarchy]

The drunkenness of things being various

Louis MacNeice, ´Snow’

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Poem 08 01/19/24

The thought of you leaves me unbearably ill, but not in such a way that I am sick to my stomach.

No. You are like an illness of the mind,

One all-consuming.

I have built my life around you, your tendencies, the thoughts you have inspired in my soul.

Sometimes you are the reason my heart is beating when there is no one else around that it can beat for.

Sometimes you are the reason why my heart drops to my stomach.

I am reminded of you, of us, whenever I reach for the packed bowl.

I hear your voice in my mind when i strike my lighter. I see your eyes in the flames as they burn.

You are multiple things in this world, and the space you take up inside of my head is indefinite.

When i think about the day we meet,

When i think about getting off of that plane,

Well.

I can see you.

I can see you seeing me.

I can see me seeing you and you seeing me see you.

We look so happy.

You bring me to those special places you've always wanted to show me.

You show me that shop you've been talking about for years.

I buy us both little british figurines,

We keep them always.

Despite everything,

We are still here.

Almost four years, to date.

It's a long way to the end of the park,

I'm glad I've got you to walk with me there.

[po3try-and-anarchy]

Poem 07, entitled "Likeness" 01/19/24

I stare at your likeness in photographs.

My pencil rests against the page as i sketch and sketch.

I hold up the photo, comparing it to the picture i drew.

Sighing, i throw the picture away.

It is not even close.

It's hard to capture your likeness in a drawing. It's hard to know where to begin.

Wispy golden hair? River-water blue eyes? The sharp angle of your glasses?

It's all much too complicated to translate into drawing, much too difficult to capture precisely.

I take out my watercolours, and fill a cup with water.

I paint your likeness in lines of blues, yellows, pinks, and greens.

Although the picture does not capture your physical likeness, it seems as though it captured you perfectly.

I paint small stars throughout the swirls of colour, and they stand out against everything else.

I step back.

Although this was the closest I could get, it's hard to actually capture your likeness.

You are unique.

There has never been another like you.

[po3try-and-anarchy]

Poem 06, Entilted "Optimism." 12/9/23

Red meat sizzling on cast iron.

It'd taken several days to convice you

to cook such a meal for me

I was so very excited,

Staring with glee

Gently reminding you,

That i preferred it rare

We played music,

And I made the salad.

Sunset's light dancing

Across the wooden walls

I had been so upset

It'd had taken so very long

To convince you to cook for me.

I suppose it was in the same way when

You got angry that i would not cook you french toast

How ironic

We were very angry people

You moreso than i

I like to think you were full of love

Instead of hate

But sometimes i am just optimistic

And things aren't actually what i view them

To be

Your book of poems,

Led me to believe we were

The same.

So i left you a note,

On the page,

One that I can no longer remember

The words of

And when i left,

I left you that notebook of poems,

Ones I'd written about you

I hope you kept them.

I hope you burned them.

[po3try-and-anarchy]

Short poems 01

It's a sort of unwell feeling.

A nagging thought, a tug on your sleeve. Gentle at first,

But then it's a pull. A hiss.

[po3try-and-anarchy]

Poem 05, entilted "Bookmark." 06/16/23

A turn of the page and it seems to be creased,

The crinkle of the makeshift bookmark that falls from its spine

"What is happening?"

A knock at the window,

A quiet gust of wind.

"Where has everyone gone?"

All is quiet again.

A lean, the warmth against skin

Radiating.

The sound of rain pattering against the tin roof,

The dripping down the windowsill.

All is quiet.

Are you alone?

[po3try-and-anarchy]

Poem 04, entilted "It was never raining at all." 06/16/23

It is raining.

You still have seven days.

It is raining, and the clouds go by.

It is hard to focus on a single thing.

Where is your head at, friend?

Why is it so hard to understand.

It is raining, still.

The pitter patter. The "tap tap tap." It drips.

It is not raining.

It was never raining at all.

You have seven days.

Are you okay with that? It doesn't matter.

You wish it was raining.

You are listening to the sounds of life.

You are listening, and you are breathing.

You are wishing.

You are wishing that it was raining.

[po3try-and-anarchy]

Poem 03 11/08/22

When I think of you, my mind turns shades of blue and pink,

Soft and dreamy,

Comforting.

Those are not the only colors i see you in,

Infact,

I see you in every color.

On nights when the stars are shining, and air pollution is low,

The deepest purple of the sky says or name to me in little whispers, the gusts of wind only emphasizing it.

When i see the trees, or look at the leaves on the ground,

I see you, in those oranges and yellows and reds. Faded-out shades of green. Browned and crisped edges of the leaves-

You are these colors to me, these things.

The cherry of my cigarette glowing softly as i inhale,

The dull grey of the ashes left over once the filter has burned away,

The tan filter at the end that I inhale through.

The deep red, and soft ivory of my cigarette pack.

Or, even,

A blank piece of sketchbook paper,

Untouched,

So much potential.

The white filling the pages slowly filling in with color.

You are so many things to me,

So many colors.

I think of you when i see nearly anything.

You cannot be limited to a few small things or colors,

There's much more to you than you let on.

You are so unique, so rare.

You are all the shades of a gemstone,

You're unlike any other.

Gemstones cannot be copied. Nor can snowflakes. You're those. One of a kind.

A shining red ruby, or a deep emerald gemstone. Or perhaps- The soft glimmer of a citrine stone.

You are warm summer evenings,

You are a blizzard in late January,

You are the rain that falls from the sky each year, on my birthday.

You are so many things.

Most of all, you are you.

And that's more than this world deserves.

[po3try-and-anarchy]

Poem 02 09/10/22

Pressed flowers did not mean much to me until I met someone who liked them.

I did not even spare a glance, or think about it,

All the little things you never notice until you meet someone,

Until you have an experience to associate it with.

When you think of flickering lights, what comes to your mind?

Pause and think.

.

.

.

.

.

What came to your mind would not be what was thought of by others.

Everything is in your own frame of reference.

It changes things.

As each human eye sees colors differently, the light still reflects the same.

Now, imagine stained glass, the colorful sunshine pouring over you,

It dapples your face in sunbeams, warm.

What colors did you see?

.

.

.

.

Perhaps you've been somewhere with a flickering light, or colored windowpanes.

Maybe that influenced your view of what you envisioned.

Was there emotion that came with it?

It is an interesting subject to think about.

These views, these frames of reference are from past experiences,

Past experiences of each individual, that are unique to them and them only.

They make up who you are now, and what you're going to be.

[po3try-and-anarchy]

Poem 01 ; 02/09/22

And you could be my moon and sun

But where would we be without the stars?

Where would we be without our solar system?

What about the seasons?

The cycle of night and day.

It is all meaningless without something to devote oneself to,

Yet there are so many things you can care for, and strive to be.

I nearly just sit on the brink of my thoughts, considering,

Silently wondering.

If I could just think,

Somehow

Someway.

I think,

Someday.

I'll find my way back to you.

Through the months and winters froze,

I'll remember to keep my own.

Running through the icy snow,

I forgot for just a fleeting moment my origins in this world of ever-revolving things.

There are so many feelings. You can't describe them all.

But you can always relate them to another.

Perhaps...

Maybe it's the warmth

Of sunlight dappling your cheeks,

Or maybe its the warm breeze,

The one that crept through your cracked window in the midst of summer

The shining lights of the city on the horizon at night,

You can see them from where you stay,

But you can never quite reach it from where you lay,

Pondering, keeping those little thoughts at bay.

What do you want to think, and to say?