Thursday, 14 June 2012

Triversen #1, a poem by Adam White, posted for a FormForAll prompt at http://dversepoets.com

You choleric breath offends me;
Twists once happier guts
Around its vicious screws.

Your relentless mard-arsed stare
Burns only at the walls,
And creeps heat through the edges.

Fidgeting work hewn fingers
Plays tiny little moves
In a pointless, losing game.

Daylight quickly fails.
Sentiment follows the sun,
Vanishing beyond the horizon.

Four in the morning sprints close.
Bundled quilt between us.
I sense your eyes still open.

Nothing good comes of silence.
Our apologies rankle and itch,
Bothering our stubborn bones.

Exhaustion leads to sleep.
Dreams of a phantom always;
A promise meant to keep.

We heal strong, once our vexing love
Has blown an angry load
That turns waning days to ash.

Morning light repairs all wounds.
The bitter engine out of gas, so
We're back to smiles and kisses.



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Judgement, a poem by Adam White, poet

The remembrance curdles like souring milk,
Trapped in a bubble, itching beneath the skin.
Regret, your name is memory; is dark,
Is tangled as twisted wild silk

Woven well around an aging heartache,
Born of innocence and naivety.
Therein lies the rub, the difficulty,
The truth that spurs a better man to break.

Your deed ineffable, uncommonly cruel,
And pointed at some decaying old willow,
Bark peeling, with no fresh rings to his trunk.
A derelict arrested, out in the cool.

What cost? Groundless judgement is safe, sorry.
For this, the impression ever rankles,
Goes unturned and unavenged by the hand
Of justice. Her blinkered vision falls on thee.

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Benzedrine, a poem by Adam White, poet

Pass me the Benzedrine. Switch out the light;
[I'm feeling abortive.]
'I'm feeling alright.'
Darkened and dirty, my mind in the mud;
[I'm feeling unravelled.]
'I'm feeling quite good.'
The dust motes can settle, gone from our sight.
The tarpaulin rustling out in the night.
Something is creeping out in the wood,
But it won't come inside for my filthy blood.

My mind is the theatre. You are the play;
[I'm feeling unhappy.]
'I'm feeling okay.'
The dancers perform in immaculate time;
[I'm feeling destructive.]
'I'm feeling just fine.'
The spots shining brightly, mimicking day,
But casting no luster; just merciless grey,
Still, your form is perfect, a monotone line,
All form and function; all yours and mine.



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Saturday, 9 June 2012

Some Senryu by Adam White, poet

Not a crybaby,
Nor a simple man at all,
As hard as I wish.

We are the chemists,
Fitting to the formula,
Wishing it meant more.

Between red and grey,
Give me the blood any day.
Better dead than bored.

Pass the Benzedrine;
I'm ready to get grubby
Down in the mind muck.

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