Changing, shifting, like the seasons of the year
Forever fluid, to never still, I fear
And for past days, past yous, shed no tear
All that's real is now and here.

Two spirits or more within my mind
Every time I look, there's more to find
Someone careless, someone kind
The river of mes does onward wind

None steps in the same river twice
But if you take my strong advice
Make your river somewhat nice
Or you may roll 'one' on life's dice

I don new clothes every day
Wish I could shapeshift the same way
Don't hold me to what I say,
If I said it yesterday
It was not me then anyway.

This whole time I speak of flux
Who is this 'I'?
Someone surely speaks of change
Someone needs to break my chains.

I know why you have to go,
and it's not because you hate me so,
but even so,
you should know,
here you'll find friend,
there wherever you go,
you'll find only foe,
until the end

Why oh why do good folk die
And evil folk wither away
Fore they see the light of day?

What's the reason for passing of season
When winter kills summer and autumn does rain
What's the point of the muck and the pain
When all of it's sure to happen again?

What is the purpose of this awful world
Where pain does flourish, and suffering unfurl?

What can we do to destroy this foul place?
What can we do, not just in my mind pace
And think and ponder and suffer and moan
But still in the end, still useless and alone

I stare upon the phone
The words on the screen, like a horrible dream,
Telling me things that I don't want to know
I want to know truth, but the truth is so bare
News makes one believe that good folk are rare
And even if not, if one suffering is there
It still means that our universe isn't fair
And for some stupid reason, I felt bound to care
Rather than just escape to the air

I have to do something, but that something is what?
What can I do that will make pain not?
I can't make the universe cold if it's hot
I fear that my true goal will never be got

Little Miss Moffet
Sat on a tuffet
Eating her curds and whey
When down came a spider
It sat down beside her
It looked like a beautiful day
The spider it saw her
And it did implore her
To share of her curds and whey
She gave some with pleasure
They sat down in leisure
Eating their curds and whey

The bones gallery
Covered in every direction by earth
Under the sea
Above bedrock
That will eventually subduct and consume it all

A dozen pieces escaped, surrounded by nothing,
Still, while Earth moves away from it at breakneck speed.

It is near noon of night but I have no fear
Although dark conquers light, they are here
With their anvils and hammers and people called Larry
They'll make noise through the night, until the light and dark marry

The symphonies play of color and sound
The moonlight shines, the loud bangs abound
The scuttling noises of tiny insects
Unsettle the mind for what happens next

Until suddenly laughter tears asunder the sky
The union of lovers, the pleasure of brine
The happiness shattered, the cold on its way
But nobody cared, once they heard her say:

"Oh, you ugly people, the trouble you make
Thinking your choices are made for you by fate
When the only real thing I can now know
Is how much you'll suffer in the fiery glow."

They turned to their fellows, and said with a smile
"If the cause of my actions is truly myself,
Then I decide to be in the utmost of health.

The greatest of houses, the tastiest of foods,
The wildest of lovers, the happiest mood.
And even that Satanic realm that you imply -
Why, I decide to simply pass my way by."

"In fact," they continued, getting carried away
"I'd free those of who old Lucifer holds sway.
They can of course join my lifetime of sin
Of pleasure and happiness - come on, join in!"

But tragedy struck, as late was the hour.
And not a pumpkin was seen, but a small orange flower.
Alas, that's become of those who Metatron defy
They have to, of course, protect their great lie.

Oh, the man, the woman and boy
None of them knew how to get the great joy
Sunset came, and sunrise rose
But for all of their days, no song was composed

Swiftly
Softly
Slowly creeping
Stab - crack!
No one is weeping

Those who would cry at the death of their lord
Blew away into dust as their thoughtless minds soared

"Nevermind," the old man said, sitting in the bench in the park.
He slowly bent down to feed the birds - a pigeon, a dove and a lark
The grey Oxford sky over his head, the harbinger of impending rain.
He wrote his last word with the pen in his hand,
And far away where, a girl's name was planned
For the last time, her name was uttered
While in sadness, the old man muttered.

God save our feeble king
God save our noble king
God save the king

Send him far over us
Where he lords over us
Up in his palaces
God save the king

Send him to your own land
So he is out our hands
Up in those fabled gates
God save the king

Oh say can't you see
By the moon's sterile light
How the people all lay,
As their stab wounds lay gleaming

Oh say can't you see
What this country is truly
The land of the few
And the home of the pained

A crescent moon
A silver slice of lunar rock
Glowing in the night
Pinpricks of light everywhere except the dark side of the moon
True blackness
False emptiness
Uncertain perception

And if you close your eyes, you won't see the monsters
And if you close the door, the banging is just the pipes
Close your mind, never mind what might be out there
Just close your eyes, for me, my lamb.

It's gone, don't worry,
In fact, it was never there.
Your pain, my hurry
You can never say I don't care

I care for you
I love for you
I love you

You are the reason the monsters stay away
Those monsters that plague me in my mind
Those monsters, I'll make sure they never trouble you
I'll hold you in my mouth tonight

I'll hold you in my arms tonight
I hold you in the arms of a monster tonight

I heard a word
I meant it in my brain
Another word sounded absurd
Everyone thought she was insane

The second word in truth they said
Was 'I', but it was never known
What speech the word, what tongue the talk
What power has the telephone

And in the end when words are null
And all is but an inky black
The power of the word is clear
The word's power is only here

"Ok!" I cried, amire in misery,
"Never take this choice from me!"
"Aha," he said, his voice harsh with fire,
"You never had which you desired!"

"Avast!" he cried, "Let's man the sails!
Your life's not over, you haven't failed,
Just because you have no child,
It only means you can be more wild
Live your years, a myriad await,
waste it not on what you call fate!"

"One verse at a time, just live your days,
I promise nothing you do can faze!"
"But," she said in a shaky sigh,
"All I want is to finally die."

"What did you mean?" a small voice said,
"When you said you made the choice to be dead?
What other option did you think you could allow,
If there is none, you have no choice even now."

"I don't care if it's choice, I don't care if it's free!"
At this point the small girl shook on her knee.
"I don't care for a thing, and that's what I need.
Oblivion will fix my need to be freed."

"Forget all that, emotions are dumb!"
The great sailor cried,
"All I need to know is that one equals one!"

"Do you think that'll convince me?"
The girl snorted, despite herself.
"I am a dwarf, you are an elf.
Emotions come to me as facts come to you,
How do you know one does not equal two?"

The sailor and dwarf sailed under the moon,
That night two became one as they passed on the waves,
As when he returned, only the sailor remained.

Someone once wrote a word.
I read it in my mind.
Someone once wrote a word.
It I never did find.

Somebody once did sing a song,
At once, I begun to sing along.
Somebody once wrote a song.
It never left their mind.

Somebody once did scream in fear,
I gasped, I cared, I felt so near.
Somebody did once cry in pain.
Alone, they wept, their tears like rain.

A person wrote a poem to me.
'A word,' I said, 'well, now I see.'

Hi y'all, I know I'm posting a bunch of my own poems here with no additional text or commentary in the poems themselves, and also some are quite metaphorical or surreal. If there's a problem with any of it, or I'm spamming the community, please feel free to tell me a better place to put them, or remove my posts with warnings.

I intentionally don't provide commentary to avoid guiding your thoughts before you read them, if you want to hear my thoughts or explanations for anything, please don't hesitate to ask me in the comments here or the appropriate post :3

Say the silence, be the rain, patter against their windows
Don't play their game

The conversation has just begun
But the talk has continued for centuries
Only one will be just one
But drops of water make the seas

Poems fight against the dark
But nothing will come to us all
The greatest word, the brightest spark
Will fade before the final fall

Sadness is a useless state
Happiness will come too late
None can control their own desire
As much as we try to light the fire
If we mope we cannot grope
For joy which is simply absent
But when it arrives, like a mystic surprise
Seize the deceitful gift to cope

And no one who ever said their piece
Felt glad to be done, at peace with their call
But let people digest, let them feast
Lest they be overwhelmed and lose it all

Good intentions fall onto the floor
As misguided carers harm their care
Always the ones who have the means
Are never the ones who have the will
To help, selflessly.

It shifts with the changing of the days,
Melancholy gives way to hope,
Calm becomes fatigue
Joy fades when empathy alerts to the world

How dare you!
How dare you pull this mantle from your sloven
sleeve and think it worthy enough to cover my boy.
How dare you judge when you also wallow in this mud.
Society has turned its power over to you,
relinquishing its rule, turned it over
to the man in the mask, whose face never changes,
always distorts, who does not live where I live,
but commands the corners, who does not have to await
the nightmares, the street chants, the bullets,
the early-morning calls, but looks over at us
and demeans, calls us animals, not worthy
of his presence, and I have to say: How dare you!
My son deserves a future and a job. He deserves
contemplation. I can't turn away as you.
Yet you govern us? Hear my son's talk.
Hear his plea within his pronouncement,
his cry between the breach of his hard words.
My son speaks in two voices, one of a boy,
the other of a man. One is breaking through, the other just hangs. Listen, you who can turn away,
who can make such a choice; you who have sons
of your own, but do not hear them!
My son has a face too dark, features too foreign,
a tongue too tangled, yet he reveals, he truths,
he sings your demented rage, but he sings.
You have nothing to rage because it is outside of you.
He is inside of me. His horror is mine. I see what
he sees. And if my son dreams, if he plays, if he smirks
in the mist of moon-glow, there I will be, smiling
through the blackened, cluttered and snarling pathway
toward your wilted heart.

—Luis J Rodriguez

Old but gold.

This poem is not in the book shown. This was transcribed from an instagram post made on June 18, 2024.

Take your pick of politicians, out of touch so deeply.
Who crave your vote to steer our boat jump into bed to sleep li-
asing with corrupted frauds who desecrate their post.
The parliamentary parasites who wank to Thatcher's ghost.
What I really think is not politically correct.
I'm sick of seeing sycophants whose job is to perfect
The art of causing chasms and dissolving public unity.
A poison, puerile, pestilence polluting our community.
Where's the money skimmed from taxes getting siphoned for expenses?
Where's the justice for your mates who commit criminal offenses?
Where's the empathy for humans that don't look or act like you?
What are all the citizens who are in poverty to do?
Where are all the refugees who simply need our help to go?
Just stick em on a barge or plane; maintain the status quo.
Use them as an excuse for why we can't afford to heat
The homes that we will never own, the food our kids can't eat.
Pick the one who's gonna rule us with the minimum disruption.
Who'll only break the records of malfeasance and corruption.
The way that they are hollowing out Britain starts to grate.
Taking try of this country giving back the right to hate
Anyone who's black or brown disabled, queer, or working class.
A woman or an immigrant, to them the blame will pass.
If the people fight among ourselves, divided we will fall.
When we look after each other and seek liberty for all
A rising tide will lift all boats, do not let them distract
Because the people have the power and it's time for us to act.

If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze—
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself—
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love
If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale

by Ada Limón

All these great barns out here in the outskirts,
black creosote boards knee-deep in the bluegrass.
They look so beautifully abandoned, even in use.
You say they look like arks after the sea’s
dried up, I say they look like pirate ships,
and I think of that walk in the valley where
J said, You don’t believe in God? And I said,
No. I believe in this connection we all have
to nature, to each other, to the universe.
And she said, Yeah, God. And how we stood there,
low beasts among the white oaks, Spanish moss,
and spider webs, obsidian shards stuck in our pockets,
woodpecker flurry, and I refused to call it so.
So instead, we looked up at the unruly sky,
its clouds in simple animal shapes we could name
though we knew they were really just clouds—
disorderly, and marvelous, and ours.

tried to post this in the lemmy.world community since it's more active, but it loaded for like 10 minutes before i gave up. i'm curious if it'll work here.

image version

The Figure

You sit at a window and listen to your father
crossing the dark grasses of the fields

toward you, a moon soaking through his shoes as he shuffles the wind
aside, the night in his hands like an empty bridle.

How long have we been this way, you ask him.
It must be ages, the wind answers. It must be the music of the wind

turning your fingers to glass, turning the furniture of childhood
to the colors of horses, turning them away.

Your father is still crossing the acres, a light on his tongue
like a small coin from an empire that has always been ruined.

Now the dark flocks are drifting through his shoulders
with an odor of lavender, an odor of gold. Now he has turned

as though to go, but only knelt down with the heavy oars
of October on his forearms, to begin the horrible rowing.

You sit in a chair in the room. The wind lies open
on your lap like the score of a life you did not measure.

You rise. You turn back to the room and repeat what you know:
The earth is not a home. The night is not an empty bridle

in the hands of a man crossing a field with a new moon
in his old wool. We abandon the dead. We abandon them.