Submissions by nomoth
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
.
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
19th Mar 2020 2:44pm
19th Mar 2020 2:44pm
notes: landscape engines. 1817-1819 Woodhouse
visual poem
#flowers
#environment
#nature
595 reads
4 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
7th Mar 2020 1:19pm
7th Mar 2020 1:19pm
nicosia
nicosia
#home
#city
#travel
692 reads
4 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
6th Mar 2020 12:43pm
6th Mar 2020 12:43pm
horse is broken
horse is broken
#animals
#freedom
#horses
838 reads
8 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
20th Jan 2020 8:37pm
20th Jan 2020 8:37pm
in the sheep skin, in the milk and in the theft.
my ankle was a thing in their eye, that turned
so I made the bed, wrote the note,
scripted the edges thirst
onto sheets of flower-parlour'd mayonnaise, up unto it's collar, the lips of it.
like I knew that my family had landscaped a magnificent garden
and unabashedly presented in vases their soiled underwear;
from their...
so I made the bed, wrote the note,
scripted the edges thirst
onto sheets of flower-parlour'd mayonnaise, up unto it's collar, the lips of it.
like I knew that my family had landscaped a magnificent garden
and unabashedly presented in vases their soiled underwear;
from their...
#family
#confusion
#StreamOfConsciousness #anxiety
#StreamOfConsciousness #anxiety
602 reads
11 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
24th Sep 2019 11:45am
24th Sep 2019 11:45am
upon telephones and repeating blanket wallpaper patterns of an iris blooming
it's as if this miniature of experience
should have been written upon the backs of cows
in the muddy fields.
and as men we talk amidst ourselves
laying steps
the steps;
we lay each step that we walk upon,
upon glockenspiel rocks like we know
how we should cope...and play in orchestra
of how we could cope
with mechanic and soldered arms,
with the machinery and the tools and their use.
we look so...
should have been written upon the backs of cows
in the muddy fields.
and as men we talk amidst ourselves
laying steps
the steps;
we lay each step that we walk upon,
upon glockenspiel rocks like we know
how we should cope...and play in orchestra
of how we could cope
with mechanic and soldered arms,
with the machinery and the tools and their use.
we look so...
#BestFriend
#marriage
#breakup
#storm
#separation
699 reads
16 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
14th Sep 2019 9:38pm
14th Sep 2019 9:38pm
notes from deputy to head gardener; landscape engines: 1817-1819 Woodhouse
Notes from deputy to head gardener; landscape engines: 1817-1819 Woodhouse
-in the stables. Jacob ran through lists
that the garden would take care of such; the kestrel’s
stall, kills of clawed thigs; the foxes hungered
and the hunt and their piano teeth bared and ...and...
what bears had escaped, what the hunt
had produced, what they felt in their afterward, what songs they displayed
-...
-in the stables. Jacob ran through lists
that the garden would take care of such; the kestrel’s
stall, kills of clawed thigs; the foxes hungered
and the hunt and their piano teeth bared and ...and...
what bears had escaped, what the hunt
had produced, what they felt in their afterward, what songs they displayed
-...
#flowers
#nature
714 reads
11 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
7th Sep 2019 7:16pm
7th Sep 2019 7:16pm
the capes, the drawls, the runs through the door.
(for The Love Song of T. Stearns Eliot competition)
smell the lamb before it breaks,
before it is sold by the butcher,
before he pins up his notaries
of meat available.
his slimy hands back-slapping slap of chop sliding
and the baying tongue will
lick his grime back into the fleece; its ashtray
of ( forgotten things)
- the bottom of a lane mist.
- beneath the cushions of a velvet armchair.
- the impetuous run...
smell the lamb before it breaks,
before it is sold by the butcher,
before he pins up his notaries
of meat available.
his slimy hands back-slapping slap of chop sliding
and the baying tongue will
lick his grime back into the fleece; its ashtray
of ( forgotten things)
- the bottom of a lane mist.
- beneath the cushions of a velvet armchair.
- the impetuous run...
#LifeStruggles
#memories
#nostalgia
#StreamOfConsciousness
#TSEliot
641 reads
11 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
11th Jun 2019 5:10pm
11th Jun 2019 5:10pm
lambs ears
(When Dark Doves Fly competition)
wrested from a flight
I whispered back, each stem’s name
that had fermented in her perfume.
a collapse of my head
upon her nape of morning mist,
where blood had flowered
anabatic musks; guiding me
under a nettled raiment.
…and I shoplifted, scruffed this moment
and placed it into the crosshairs
my on/off switch
as her flushed spine, unzipped
with heavens weight crumbling.
caryatid; from whom each cracked pore
poured red dusted sand...
wrested from a flight
I whispered back, each stem’s name
that had fermented in her perfume.
a collapse of my head
upon her nape of morning mist,
where blood had flowered
anabatic musks; guiding me
under a nettled raiment.
…and I shoplifted, scruffed this moment
and placed it into the crosshairs
my on/off switch
as her flushed spine, unzipped
with heavens weight crumbling.
caryatid; from whom each cracked pore
poured red dusted sand...
#love
#death
#separation
666 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
4th Jun 2019 5:20pm
4th Jun 2019 5:20pm
two mirrors
(Fear of oneself: Sharon Olds tribute competition)
It was as if he was scared that the sky-blue
anger in his eyes would become dull
if I became a better person. When he died
I tore through; sauntered creepily; shamelessly
removed all the drawers, emptied all pockets,
shook all bags, opened all the books for clues
to know why, whenever we had talked,
we were in two different rooms.
We had a couple of large mirrors
in the house, angelically bordered with rust, ...
It was as if he was scared that the sky-blue
anger in his eyes would become dull
if I became a better person. When he died
I tore through; sauntered creepily; shamelessly
removed all the drawers, emptied all pockets,
shook all bags, opened all the books for clues
to know why, whenever we had talked,
we were in two different rooms.
We had a couple of large mirrors
in the house, angelically bordered with rust, ...
#father
#childhood
#memories
826 reads
21 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
2nd Jun 2019 6:03am
2nd Jun 2019 6:03am
wiping the eyes from your sleep
This is the last line
and this song has turned lead-heavy
and the cantors face is turning blood red…
a stumbling cantation for asenath
…despite us being drunk buddied-up like a forest fire,
delinquents setting light to delicate groves
where we’ll linger around
scorched hay and former lambs
and we ain’t waiting
we just stand impressed.
No-one’s going to reform this con
(Old dads whistling tune, his eyes bird-light blue in the pocket of your jeans)
still...
and this song has turned lead-heavy
and the cantors face is turning blood red…
a stumbling cantation for asenath
…despite us being drunk buddied-up like a forest fire,
delinquents setting light to delicate groves
where we’ll linger around
scorched hay and former lambs
and we ain’t waiting
we just stand impressed.
No-one’s going to reform this con
(Old dads whistling tune, his eyes bird-light blue in the pocket of your jeans)
still...
#love
#mother
#MentalHealth
510 reads
4 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
27th May 2019 9:10pm
27th May 2019 9:10pm
to butter the cups
let this appetite wander with the dog
so not collared, in sovereign heat
where no howl falters
on spirit bed-thrown sheets, spread skin-deep
linen lain, they scrawl;
and limbered up
entwined with the dust-bowls within their twirls.
each beast nose-kissed,
each more tender than the last
humbled to know that this has never been more
than finding that perfect architect
...
so not collared, in sovereign heat
where no howl falters
on spirit bed-thrown sheets, spread skin-deep
linen lain, they scrawl;
and limbered up
entwined with the dust-bowls within their twirls.
each beast nose-kissed,
each more tender than the last
humbled to know that this has never been more
than finding that perfect architect
...
#dreams
#LifeGoals
#respect
473 reads
5 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
22nd May 2019 6:24pm
22nd May 2019 6:24pm
qumran
throwing fists down my throat,
down the spine to the boards,
scrambling to grab by the scruff of the neck
my slow burial; excavating
some idea of an immortal gestalt
that I had no skill
or say in configuring
though would sell for a penny.
so gladly
and it’s
as if these hands on this core would be a conclusion;
a destination to debark:
from this view of a coward's island
I am the...
down the spine to the boards,
scrambling to grab by the scruff of the neck
my slow burial; excavating
some idea of an immortal gestalt
that I had no skill
or say in configuring
though would sell for a penny.
so gladly
and it’s
as if these hands on this core would be a conclusion;
a destination to debark:
from this view of a coward's island
I am the...
#love
#heartbroken
#aging
614 reads
12 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by nomoth
