Quotes about numbed, page 9
Of the Soporiferous Kind
And those who love to war have nothing more,
But troubled endings.
With strategies exposing a host of insecurities.
To keep the heat of fear in place.
To ensure suspicions are never erased.
And those who digest thoughts of terrorists...
Knocking down their doors,
To split their throats and wrists.
Choke in horror from nightmares dreamed.
As they look over shoulders prepared to scream.
And those who can not fall to sleep in peace...
Are kept haunted by visions from themselves released.
With purchased weapons hidden under beds.
Believing everything heard and to them said.
As they witness neighbors going out of their heads.
While relatives and close others...
Wish them dead!
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Craft
When, having finished, I shall move my armchair,
The page will gasp, awakened from the strain.
Delirious, she is half asleep at present,
Obedient to suspense and to the rain.
The heaviness of burnt-out ships has numbed her,
Prostrated, weighted down her senseless form;
You cannot dupe this one by false pretences-
It is the poet who will keep her warm.
I told her at an hour (its secret shudder
Vouchsafed by fancy) when the winter will
Light up green screeching ice, fed up with waiting
Behind an office worker's window sill,
And clocks in banks and other public places,
While drinking in the snow and outside's dark,
Will suddenly jump up and strike-their faces
Crossed by the clockhands at the 'seven' mark-
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poem by Boris Pasternak
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Simple lyric
When I think of her sparkling face
And of her body that rocked this way and that,
When I think of her laughter,
Her jubilance that filled me,
It’s a wonder I’m not gone mad.
She is away and I cannot do what I want.
Other faces pale when I get close.
She is away and I cannot breathe her in.
The space her leaving has created
I have attempted to fill
With bodies that numbed upon touching,
Among them I expected her opposite,
And found only forgeries.
Her wholeness I know to be a fiction of my making,
Still I cannot dismiss the longing for her;
It is a craving for sensation new flesh
Cannot wholly calm or cancel,
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poem by Brian Patten
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Missing
To Leucha Mary Warner
He is 'Missing,' and forlorn
Drag her days in grief and pain.
Every morn a hope is born,
Only to be lost again.
'Missing!' Almost better 'Killed.'
The long anguish breaks her heart
That's a dead thing, numbed and chilled
Till the live fear bids it start.
Now a knocking at the door,
Now a shouting in the street,
Makes her poor heart run before,
The most bitter news to meet.
'Missing!' It may be he dies
'Mid his foes and comfortless.
When sleep shuts her heavy eyes,
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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My Butterfly
I raised my face to the warmth.
But the sun always shines brightest
just before a storm.
And I was allowed a laugh: a single laugh-
a spark of happiness-
before the clouds moved in
and covered my only friend.
I could see a faint yellow light
shining on behind the merciless clouds.
But the rain came and washed my smile away.
And the sun was gone.
The only thing to light my path
was the lightning that threatened
my every step.
And as soon as I could see where I needed to be,
thunder clapped and threw me off my feet.
Pointed me in a new direction.
Numbed my ears
so that the only sound loud enough
for me to hear
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poem by Zoe Guillory
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Conservative Voices
Conservative voices,
Are better heard in the desert.
Pick one.
It doesn't matter which!
And left stranded,
With imagined visions...
Of a perfected way of life,
As an oasis.
Especially by those numbed,
And believing...
Words dripping from their parched lips,
Are not merely hallucinations...
From being out in the Sun too long,
Without sunscreen or thoughts connecting.
While feeding on a diet of delusions,
That has brought an entire society to the brink of disaster.
Hypnotized by their craze.
And influenced by their lust for greed!
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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So We Booze
Confused and duped by a cruel world.
And broken!
Until a choice is made it's better...
Accepting one's fate to lose.
The ones who choose to maneuver...
Have no time to just cruise through a life,
Undenying what's right.
Like those frightened at night...
Who can't sleep peacefully,
Because they've been deceived.
Confused and duped by a cruel world.
And broken!
Until a choice is made it's better...
Accepting one's fate to lose.
And emotionally damaged deep inside.
With a crying about a free ride...
Through a lifetime luxurized with ease and leisure!
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Nameless, Formless, Shapeless
Nameless, formless, shapeless
A fog in the brain
A mist in the eyes
Yet in the heart what vulcan flames
From the interior magma rise and leap!
So poetry is born, my poetry
So my lines arise
The genealogy of my lines lies in the fog and mist
And in the leap-flames in the heart!
By spurts, and then after the spurt
An interval of dejection
Fog and mist and blank
And then of sudden
The light shines at the end of a tunnel
The heart-pump leaps
Fanned by the bellows of the interior magma
That rises and leaps, that pumps and leaps!
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poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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Babbling....
the sea has mastered the mass
production of waves
like millions of white foamy
eyelashes
the shore multiplies its own sands
that gleam like diamonds at noon
the trees grow leaves upon its twigs
the spiders spit their own silk
just like the worms
air is breathing upon its own
molecules
no one notices all these miracles
every aspect is normal
there is nothing extraordinary
things flow like water
coolness gush like wind
clouds flit, rain pours, the winds from
the sea hushes
my hands type the words for anything
trying to make poetry unnoticeable
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lost Children
we have become lost children,
stumbling in the dark.
numbed by the face of our own hunger,
we cannot recognize ourselves in others.
having laid down the torch,
we follow flashlights....
praying to a god too indifferent to hear.
a god created in our own image,
complete with holes and burnt tongues.
we blame the snake for our desire,
and wear the mark of Cain.
we build weapons made of fear,
and bury our parents in sterile graves.
we wear the chains and shackles,
with heads bowed as mindless servants.
we close our ears to the cry of suffering,
and our eyes to the ribs of need.
so who will come, and who will shout?
who will stand and face the storm?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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