Bleaney Poems

Obsequious, and gorged on words, he straightens faded dust jackets: Barthes, de Beauvoir, Brautigan. Thin skeins of nicotine dissipate over ancient oak, whispers echo amongst carved shelves. Thoughts weave their tangled web through the melancholic mess of his marching mind.

Winter has the taste of melancholy; my window puts on a cloak of glass, wraps its face with a shawl of lead and drops cold tears, each time universe shrinks. (2) Migrant birds have a travelling homeland in sky and

He started in an infirm tone as if the poem were escaping through his clenched behind, images and meaning forcing their way out, evoking a limp echo from his moist mouth. It had to be some elder enthusiast reading a

A step into the real world Putting her first foot forward she hesitates, Though exploring the realms of the unknown excite her, Enthuse her to find her own niche; find for her a new domain, Nostalgia holds her back. Faraway

When benevolent rain God showered his furious benevolence … …. life in a light flickered and died a sudden death!!! When scorched Earthlings pinned, prayed and got an ass and a frog married to sate the rain God.. He poured

She ran out to the woods Chased adventure all the way down to the lake Black like tar and anger and emotion and hatred She jumped in trepidation and cold and fire and that sound of stone cracking against stone

Why do we argue and fight? And hurt someone we love? Why does it take years to make and maintain a relation? But just a second to break one? Why have we become so insensitive? And have stopped finding a

A brick window, your name in between the cracks that light doesn’t dare to touch It’s fitting really, that you should be immortalized in secret like the hush of thunder; they hear but do not see you you have your

The pain of being ignored With lights of peace burned out Leads irritation as shadows Claiming the darkness of anger beside Supports loneliness to creep in the hole Ignorance in the state of mind With chances of partition so deep

It slithers, the tongue trying to find the rage on cold words. A window shuts on fire for a deliberate withdrawl from conflicts. The virgin iron becomes a corpse under the golden amnesia of hot greens. The colors are changing

Melancholy doesn’t leave it settles in paints the world grey and yes it’s a beautiful monochrome but sometimes even sight becomes lachrymose, then tone is known as just a piece of soul in a different pitch, life seems loud and

See here came again Independence Day with pain. This day says that we are free From bondage of British decree, They troubled us with tyranny And looted our mind and money, Much blood was stained And Our freedom was regained,

“I see words…….. psychedelic words…. fluttering all around and I am stupefied! for they are talking……. like I don’t exist and they ignore like I don’t matter! But they don’t go away even when I scream and shut my eyes

Every time i look at the stars and enjoy its sparkle I wish you would be near me and hold me close and tickle. Every time i see a lovely couple standing by I wish you would be next to

Well and we are just like One big happy family Travelers by day, party Animals by night, singing And dancing around Firelight… Some are my lovers, Some are my friends Still I love all of them And I am their

Her eyes hid a shade of beauty A sense of a deeper struggle, restrained behind dried up tears and sealed lips A tale of always searching for acceptance in mediocrity Next to a society determining what beauty is, from a

Nature is Natural. Nature is Wonderful I have never seen anything more beautiful than nature An afternoon breeze expels cold air, Along with the fallen green leaves. The sun hiding beneath the trees, Making my skin warm The music plays

I’m alive though all the years of abuse, but I’ve not been able to truly “LIVE” because my head is full of fog, confused and don’t know who I am. Suffering from anxiety and depression. I live in a prison,

Wake up look around, what do you see A door to a world that you have a key See the wonders of nature, wildlife and the land Through the tide, oceans and the serene sand Marvel at the birds, animals

Could be in the past May be in present too You and me disagreed We quarrelled, fought Argued in bitter words For we all wanted to Make our World better Perhaps never realized A simple point to ponder That’s universal

I think of myself as a heavy cloud, waiting anytime to pour down. But it is in me, trying to restrain my inner cloud. Though the sky is gray and it seems I keep falling on the same gravity. Sometimes

I have peeled off my eyes. Fear of unbeing creeps in, genes were escaping. The thin affair bends under the burden of vague uncertainty. A smoke rolls out from choking throat. A word leaps high from wounded pride. The author

Little boy, what kind of world are you born into? The hard ground for a bed and a bag of cement for pillow The color of your sleep in bleak rest is laid, But your dreams, they are as colorful

O my friend Jerry, You are a sweet cherry. You have perfected your life, After a great great strife. You have maintained self discipline, Marking your life neat and clean. As a poet I can understand you, For you are

The starry night then sunshine bright- I wake with you beside me- My dreams of you so precious few- Your scent it smells so lovely- We have some coffee and a port- I want to touch and hold you- I

I was surprised To see that person Busy with repairing Old things in his shop. Smart and courageous From face to his heart Respect towards customers With a calm and smiley face. How powerful and energetic His thought to self

How I chose to live my life. I’m wired at birth, my personality in place. I’m sculpted as a youth my environment had its say. The combination of both molded me as artists molds clay. With all this in place

Let’s go somewhere far, Somewhere where I’d hold you tight. Hand in hand. Wherever you’d like. Whether train or plane. An automobile or an boat. Either way will be home in justification. Journeying through each other’s eyes, a different aspect

The grafitti marked the new beginning The rubble in the streets A telling symbol of political decay A girl crosses the street A new way on the other side An outstretched hand calling for democracy I see vestiges of propaganda

We were always meant to be “SEEKERS”. The true joy of explorations dwells deep within the soul of a man. It is an instinct you cannot ignore as it is the only dream that is real. An Unveiling of a

you wouldn’t know them except for their orders gliding like dolls hovering, footless, wearing bright dresses that brush the dusty floor the kind a proud mother would pick out then stand behind their chairs distracted trying to tame their cowlicks.

Insane I turn around an amputee to live, for not living fighting the inner war speared, lacerated, like neanderthal in cave my weapon the serrated moon cried in fluted dark a glimpse of bare bones the ash of a bleeding

Behind your face was cleaver releasing past poem. The sensual milk flows from the palm into your lake. Grieving for the torn wings of pink light. Cruising on thighs with eyes closed death utters a shriek. The eternal flame closes

maybe my father was a good but lonely man when my mother died he was all I had and I was all there was left of his world he grew so sad after her death that he couldn’t work anymore

Grand Rapids smell of burnt toast Moves like a pastel mall-walker defying Predawn blankness, sub-zero cold. The other stunned migrants sit folded In practice for the confined transit to come: Uncommunicative, unsmiling, unsure. Because small disasters are bound to occur:

A primordial fear takes over. These pathways are not reaching anywhere. I am leaving blank papers for you. This was dark matter, you start dying from birth. A fireball sails through you reaching for the shadow of the soul. The

The show is on. Sedition will play with death now. Deceitful black knives, white gloves. No hope, battle lines are drawn. The wasps are whirring at a furious speed stings ready to inject venom. Bronzed body, huge turbaned skull. Eyes

The glory of this world may live on may live on the tales of valour may there be recitals of history may the greatness be talked of this is the land where I belong this is the land I was

It was indeed orchestrated by providence, for two hypnotized by love on social media. It was indeed the innovation of the times that united two once unbeknownst to each other. Separated by tongue, culture, values and distance. A French kiss

yesterday we used to pray today you say it ought not be that way I was born in the gutter my mother was a whore she sold her junk in the trunk in back of the liquor store I was