My Sieve and Sand
by Tucker J. Collins
My Sand is my emotions
My Sieve is my mind
My Sand moves through the motions
Whilst My Sieve looks behind
My Sand is my emotions
My Sieve is my mind
My Sand moves through the motions
Whilst My Sieve looks behind
The hollow, the hole
The emptiness in my hallowed heart
Has spat out all internal emotion
Creating therefore a lack of incentive medium
To speak the way I feel inside
As I do not know the truth of what may be spoken
whether you are aware or not
my ability to write
epic poetry of love and life
has been reduced
to that annoying little whine
coming from the breaks of a ’57
chevy station wagon
stacked with a whole house’s
worth of furniture
mattress
desk
rocking chair and all
up to the top of the
cottonless cotton tree
and almost as sad
Inspiration comes
inspiration goes
unpredictable in
when it will again
overflow or when
it will peter out
like drips from a
faucet, keeping me
up all night long
in sheer annoyance.
an ode for things i’ve lost and cannot find
for the times we had but left behind
my “car”
your shirt
“don’t hate me because i’m beautiful”
and then the “sidewalk talks”
airing our dirty laundry
opening ourselves up to hear rebuke
and how it all went awry
when she disagreed
or what about when you got speakers
great speakers
mounted in your car
but only a radio? terrible quality
remember how excited you were?
an ode for things i’ve lost and cannot find
for the times we had but left behind
and infernal discussions
he shopped at women’s clothing stores to buy
“pimp” hats
and corduroy pants with pockets big enough
for what? 16 coke cans?
an ode for things i’ve lost and cannot find
for times i had, so glad to have left
behind
I may not love my students
but I know I have a wonderful plan
for at least their writing,
if not their life, so
seeing their casual disregard
of what I know is best
for their future grades
displeasures me, giving me
insight into how God must feel.
today i thought
if he could
then i can
but i was so much
mistaken
I saw the doctor today
he looked into my eyes and
smiled. How could he?
He took a look at my finger,
my mutating thumb stared back at him
How dare he?
The old vivacious man thrilled to meet me
like I made sense, wind in the right direction
It is what no one ever sees
a girl in a chair facing the absence of truth
cold sympathetic eyes
mouth uttering empty words
“You’re a good girl”
Was I mistaken for a dog?
Those words were meant for pets,
the domesticated fools.
Maybe I’m the nature’s pet
fed with low-weight hope,
whole healthy lies and
juicy bones.
How long before I’m put to sleep?
How long must I wait for my free run in the park?
Until then
I piss on nature’s greens
th3 eagle will fLI at midnyte
They will arrive at six
and then it will begin:
she’ll feel strange,
in a strange place
with strange people,
including a future mother-
in-law, sister-in-law, and
of course me, a future, possible
brother-in-law, who will
enjoy sitting back and
soaking in the awkward
silences, and perhaps
even contribruting to them by not
contributing to the conversation,
which will fit in perfectly
with the lattitude permitted
to me by my laziness.
Calves and Quads
burn with soreness
as I walk down stairs
wishing with each step
that I was in better shape
but not enough to keep running.
jobs to big for you
i can man tain
water too cold for you
can be held in my
man teen
you eat bananas
but i eat
man tains
you do things ten times
i do them to the man teenth time
and people are impressed
you carry a multitool
but i carry a mantool
and you drink beer
i drink maneer
and poop
manooer
i’m more manly and drink
man 2 – oh
while you stick with hydrogen
and my manercise
makes your pilates look even more feminine
i do one-armed man ups
and man presses in my sleep
but usually i only feel
mantastic when i’m around my woman
living the life of the elderly
while my dream
probably does not mostly
just entail
cane shaped umbrella handles
and a lazy gait
but slow they go
because they’ve no
choice in the matter
depends.
I find myself surrounded
by Mulder’s mantra,
both on my computer’s
background and on my mind.
I want to believe
that everyone can think
that everyone is smart
that everyone is equal.
I want to believe
that I can help
that I can teach
that I can make a difference.
I want to believe
that people are good
that the world is good
that God is good.
And out of my want
I will make reality
I will choose my reality
I will believe my reality.
what i would kill
to command this language
in the way you do
to bring to life the light
you’ve chased
(and yes i’ll chase it with you)
to have mastered the crescendo to
bring to life that which we have forgotten
taken for granted
your worship (whether you’re aware or not)
it brings Him glory as you have mastered
that which He created
set laws to govern
skill to feel
grace to
embrace
master
for a guitar
and a stage to lead people
to Him like you do
to glorify
the savior you dont even seem to
know
recognize
serve
bow before
but your gift
(so obviously supernatural)
brought forth from the sun
endowed by the father
graced with the spirit
if you only knew whom you worship
how you yourself would bow
prostrate
before His glory
waiting for eternal glory
you are
need an invitation? you must
her it goes (and what)
i would kill for your skill
with which you’ve been graced
waiting for attention
i’m not
yea
but His acknowledgment of who you are
and
amen
Summer morning sunlight,
glinting off bags
of black and white;
lined up and down the street,
shimmering and beginning
to smell in the heat.
So many
I had not thought households had produced
so many.
I sneezed again in the car today,
nearly giving my life away,
making me consider the facts of life
and the inevitability of bodily functions
(like sneezes, coughs, sperm, and diarrhea),
making man’s free will impotent
in the face of bodily necessity.
O how many summer mornings shall be filled with anger
When cooperation can be the first solution ?
*
O how many summer mid days are filled with joy
While pain exists so deep within our souls ?
*
O how many summer evenings drag on in dullness
Without distraction or relief from all the hurt ?
*
O how many more days must I wait in the heat
While time continue to pass me by ?
missing things i used to do
with music blasting loud
the sounds that beat deep i my ears
are lost now without you
my chevy s10
how ugly and functional you were
and how much i miss you
“I think of you as a brother,” SHE says
The words-like a spell-unlocked FEAR
Which attacked my heart relentlessly
To the point where I have now died my first death
*
I am dead inside
My heart bleeds profusely til the blood is no more
MY FEAR has taken solid form
And now exists to torture me
*
“I think of you not as a sister,
But something much more than that,”
I wish to say, but
My heart’s voice is being strangled
*
Did I speak far too soon?
Or did I speak far too late?
Did I release myself too quickly
Resulting in not relief, but the emptiness I feel now?
*
The Hurricane of Tragedy has broken
The Levees of my heart
Which suppressed my innermost emotions
Now the light which should guide me
To safe ground, has been Relinquished
And through the dark I must move alone
rime:
fabled lake of western lore
blue, green moss of sandy shore
joy and smiles none the more
laughing at my face of bore
hike you:
loss came to me once
with blackened raven – ed poe
he stabbed it dead
limb er… rick:
although i never kicked him down
along the river did he frown
by brook and stream of moon so bright
bore he my burden in pants so tight
and smiled as he ran aground
cup lit:
epics are oft too long
to ever be made into song
tripe lit:
carp on log
and cooked with frog
smells like bog
and fine all lee:
on discovering chuck norris could whoop my ass
i discerned my calling was not to ask
him if he could or not.
creature born out of spite
contemptuous flesh of mud
How long before the garish sun
turns you to dust?
How long before the teary sky
washes you out?
contemplate him not,
Heed not his shrill cries,
abomination is upon him.
creature born out of grace
luminescent piece of heaven
The jealous moon turns pale at
the sight of you.
The wind weeps in awe at the
touch of you.
Revere him,
seek his warm soothing embrace,
God is on his side.
creature born out of a random drop
innocuous crack on the surface
Puppet in the circus of life
Pauper on the floor of the world
Trample him not,
feed not his ravenous sorrow,
time will spit him out.
i finally found the heart behind the holiday
but thankfully, i wont have to ever again
i planted
100 trees
not so much to save the planet
but so
i can sleep in guilt free
for
100 arbor days
i don’t expect to outlive that
There exist
stares, glances
which break silences
or spoil mornings
when she seeks a soft word, a loving word
at the foot of the bed
where only used slippers should lie adrift,
out of choice.
She said she dreamt a hope and hoped a dream
where I could be her protector.
I grimaced a smile while shamefully wishing
her to fade somewhere beneath the pillow or the carpet.
I can’t even snore in peace anymore!
She is always on the lookout
for a slip up, but
I was a faux pas from the first day we met
She mistook my drunken cheerfulness for a pleasant personality
She even thought me a sweet thing or maybe a sure thing
These days, she just pokes, pinches me at the crack of dawn
hoping to catch and squeeze my vulnerable self before the sourness kicks in.
In my long short life I’ve never been big on refunds or exchanges
once something is in my hands,
no matter how chipped, dysfunctional or useless,
I still keep it.
But that painful light
so heavy under her eyes
she calls it love; and I want it away.
I want to bring her back to that street, to that time
where her smile was full and her eyes less needy and sad
I could bathe in chocolate and strawberry creme
but I would never be the satiating treat she craves;
all I can do is give her up.
They say that the pen is mightier than the sword
and while that may be true
it is unfortunate that no one uses pens anymore
at least not for any important business,
except for signing documents, created on a keyboard.
So I’ll interchange the words,
pithily creating a new truth, saying
the keyboard is mightier than the sword,
albeit much less sexy and less like a sword,
for have you ever tried to stab someone with a keyboard?
the darkness of my blackened soul
what fear of love
and shame of loss
that i should forth my self its lame
but wallow in this earthen fame
you grace my heart rejoice my weakness
given my pride
and forthright guile
if i should seek myself once more
you should turn your face and me abhor
oh life of loss
so filled my fears
that i called out in shame and tears
to know my life a passing shame
to know your son for me he came
Beginning tomorrow,
for a limited time only
I will for the first time ever
teach two groups of students about
poetry.
And while I write a poem
nearly every day I do not feel
that i know the first thing about
poetry.
Except that it sounds good
when rc creates beautiful phrasing
when roger plays with words’ meanings
when ned tells poetic stories
when freaky challenges expectations
when tucker speaks from his heart
when josh creates vivid images
when tim stops slacking.
Thus I look to the sand and the sieve
for most of what I know and like about
poetry.
The man in black walked along the highway
swinging his black cane with each step,
not for stability but for style,
searching for what had not yet been found
along busy highways, possessing only
haste, pollution, and trash,
feeling the hot sun furiously
beating down on his black, leather jacket.
