Slow, seeps the stone,
under a ripple,
on the water.
Washed afresh in foam,
where a trickle,
leaked an augur.
Prophecy, was cast. Spun grave,
in skipping pebbles,
prone to fall.
Like, long-established waves,
crash,
‘gainst steadfast rebels,
alas,
grown ashore.
Solace, only found, in each bounce,
that lonely lingered, ‘cross the lake.
Until, their mounds, were numbers count, on lowly fingers, born of fate.
© poormansdreams
I remember everything: a curse of recollection.
Ingrained like sand grains
in my Cerebellum’s crevassed crevices.
Though, unfortunately,
without a holiday to a dark pit.
Where I can finally find some peace.
I don’t even try to conjure the memories.
They just appear.
A window,
screening glassy bygone events
that scream smashed panes.
The shards cut me
when I try to hold them in.
Scars on my body show my attempts
at subduing the wreckages.
I used to worry that not forgetting
would lead me to become permanently insane:
luckily for me it was only temporary.
But, I still yearn
to wash my brain at 90 degrees
in that spinning machine.
Ridding me
of the inky see-through stains
where the world had it’s way with me.
Nowadays,
I just revel in my survival:
the overriding evocation
that vanquishes all others.
A sword I drew
from my innermost scabbard
that became the foundation
of mettle within me.
My sharp renewal.
My thrusting lifeforce.
Always at my side.
Always coursing through me.
Like seppuku in reverse.
My imperfect jagged point that I chose.
I struck to be it and stuck to being..
..me
© poormansdreams
Blown
is the almanac
like collected
desert grains
succumbed to
white-hot
glassy pressures.
Our Time
while precious
smashes easily upon
misfortune’s
sharp, endangered edges.
© poormansdreams
Slumber’s crashing visions, green-
go-under, Past’s collisions. Where,
I, sleepily, bump — broken, sev-
ered. Detachment, he comes, speedily.
Avoids, picking up, my limely, shrapnel pie-
ces. He unputs me, bilious, back together.
Wreckage strewn in metallic, scurvy sweat
drops. They shine on a motorwaying
shroud. In straw bedcloth’s revving night.
Slumber’s crashing visions, never wait for me
to cross. They’re laughing amber’s crunched
derision. At my tunnel’s, citrus face, aloss.
Crimson trickles: traffic lights; all red, running from, scarlet
sharp-brake eyes.
A doorway, enters,
through me. Where,
Your exit..
..is marked,
‘Yours truly,
Ours falesly’.
As, the cause,
like, Your hair: greys.
Time — seasons.
Each follicle, for me,
with; bitter pepper
and stung salty.
Rendering,
black and white;
the fool in me.
Whilst memories,
pile up,
like, a plated myriad,
begs for..
..clean slates..
..to just forget it.
There, really, was,
only,
absence in..
..the notion of..
..yesterday’s
paternal love potion.
Before I crawled.
Packed
were your bags.
As, I,
packed bags..
..under my eyes;
of melancholia sad-
ness. Until they’re
filled to burst.
Into — supernovic oceans.
© poormansdreams
This poem is called, ‘Camino’.
It is about the answers I thought I would find from walking on my own. But, only discovered once I took a journey in league with therapy:
The pilgrimage I made,
no destination stayed,
other than the circles,
run around,
my broken pieces.
I stepped on cracks,
in pavement slabs,
where deep purple,
run aground,
reddy-blue releases.
The red was raw,
the blue was bleak,
the purple,
it filled my brogues.
With vacant sores,
that through me leaked,
an emptiness;
to my soul.
I walked and walked,
for miles and miles,
convinced that, I,
rich with cogence, wasn’t;
searching only for,
those lonely whiles;
that litter the poor,
old roads of prophets.
So, today, I bide,
hand-in-hand, alongside,
with those that I;
crawled with first,
then, strolled, and ran.
Together, we remain in unjaded lanes,
me and my broken pieces.
Yet, I never took the strides,
to, truly, understand
them until now.
And, now, we know;
what peace is.
© poormansdreams
I went over Pacific Edge Way
where mythic clovers
cover unicorns at play.
The verdant gleam
intersects their platinum coats.
Glistening like the milky lush
below the mountain lair.
Where inside a lored dragon
embraces shimmers
from coin-cached bedfellows.
Unisi in flocks together float over
silver-emerald-meadows.
With turned luck’s horseshoes
looking down upon the bay.
Gilded with molten remnant decay
from my old phantastic prison.
That gold barbaric cage.
That gold barbaric cage
enclosed by alabaster grange
sat atop a tower
beset with elephant tusks arrayed.
It was made with the intention
of keeping me
afraid
to leave from it’s retention.
Seeking freed exploration
within my inner caves.
So, aft I’d plucked feathered courage
to form my pinions for to fly.
From a window of the grange
beside that gold barbaric cage
I plotted my escape
with a flit, descending eye.
Off the tallest reaches
of a tower eleven heavens high..
..I plummet.
Chasing the cascading tears I cried
into the caverned myriads of change
that came with each and every age
that I went over & through
under a metamorphosising sky.
That gold barbaric cage
unforgiven
within my heart it stays.
As an unbled, scarred reminder
that dreams of owning golden bars
release the worst of evils
in the most well-meaning people.
And so I’ve striven
for permanent vacay
here over Pacific Edge Way
where I can bask amongst the stars
with the Unisi
and Unicorns that are much kinder
than the worst evil in those people
with imprisoned dreams
of golden bars
and that gold barbaric cage.
© poormansdreams
For a patch of earth.
Our compassioned dirth,
will spill innocent blood.
Brand ill lands,
with crimson floods.
Whilst a child’s laugh is killed,
for evil’s mirth.
All for a patch of earth.
Poisoned woven threads,
will purge this quilt of man.
Until the cloven seabeds,
swallow the guilts of man.
And, as the frost binds,
to eternal night,
sewn are our rimed
stars in place.
Iced berth, under which,
we will be made to lie,
freezed, at the seam, splits
our tawdry face.
All for a patch of earth.
Our human nation divided
by it’s stringly purse.
Fabricated to betide our
conquered curse.
All for a patch of earth.
© poormansdreams
I lost my balance in your slipstream.
Which made me a black dolphin.
Water-fallen.
Hydrogen’s, Oxygen’s moleculed fool.
Mocked by the squalling,
squawk of rocks.
Disregarded like me at the bottom.
Surrounded with wet ridicule.
As, afterwards in scorn I’m walled-in.
Navy blue hues, shank at,
gloomed bile.
Melancholia.
Impales my stomach.
A black, gutted sea dog.
Skewered on a goring spear,
from out of my depths.
By the bluest blue marlin.
No soppy words, nor,
sentimental sentence,
could atone for my life spent, silently; whistling-clicks, bawling.
Searching for you,
in a roaring sea’s unanswers.
At the damp hands,
of your unrepentence. Your unfathering.
In which, unbeknownst to you, you carry, Irresponsibility’s goring spear, violently.
And, that is when you;
transfixed your own son.
And, became, a harpooner’s gun, called;
‘The Bluest Blue Marlin’.
© poormansdreams
As water wielded down on me,
wet wonders wept,
from weirs, oaks and willows.
My quarterstaff, fielded,
battlegrounds afree,
crept s-lumber leapt on fears;
soaked on wooden pillows.
Crackling barks,
trunk’s firmed resound,
did stand, aloft and proud,
in unshackled parks,
turning early worms around,
to command the squirming crowd.
Seeds, roots and stems,
met sopped drops, driply beads
to form green, brown and blue
moist-incandescent chains.
That meld the hems of reeds in place
while leaf, stock & misted dew
rise; suprastanding in their f-ireful place.
poorman'sdreams 