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Jesse stillwater Jun 2018
Time is fleeting
as the spring river runoff
that gushes out to sea

A heart trickles out
a moment,
minute by minute,
in a timeless ink drop;
unmeasurable expanse
     immured in spilled ink ―
   manifest in the lexicon of poetry

For only purged words
cannot quench this thirst
that is loneliness;
it's a hunger that gnaws
like an unsatisfiable ache ―
a starving emptiness
all hearts
do one day taste

Left in the sight
of doubt
and eyes that fail
to believe what they see
lain fallow in the silent
indifference

Lost in a lingering void
unburied all around,
bespoken out loud
alone in plain sight
a feigned understanding;
reticent letters shape
reluctant words
to hold forth
enunciated breathe

The only words
that still echo unstilted ―
uttered  words
indelibly felt
from lips once sweet
as daybreak dew
    upon musing tongue ―
tasting the only
voiceless truth
that ever broke my heart

a vanishing wave
that moved an ocean
   deeply ...


Jesse Stillwater ... 06 6 2018
Notes:   unstilted:  Adj. - flowing naturally and continuously

Thank you for listening to my 2 cents ...
traces of being Dec 2016
Coyote’s  mournful  cries  echo  across  
the  bitter  frozen  wi­ntry  darkness

A deepening silence thrums as loudly
as the echoes the unanswered bays

Snowflakes mute the fading wails
coyote’s softly questioning appeals

An eerie answerless hush echoes
                                  through the boughs,

writhing  in the  piercing frigid 
                                  wildwood blackness

The howling east wind gathers in
the throes of the lonely bespoken pleas

Carrying the weight borne a bone chilling
silent ache, beyond with the frozen autumn leaves


                                                 *wild is the wind ... December 8th, 2016
KathleenAMaloney Apr 2016
Black Key
My Body This
How could I Complain Against You
When I Have Loved You
And Ever Have

I Felt Your Flesh Upon My Waking
Offering In the Light
And I said Yes
Nothing More Be Set

The Appetites Came
Again, and Again
Fertility Invoking Rhythm
Pleasure Of the Speak
Glistening Initiation

Completion of this Beginning
Light, Your Touch
My Strings Played
Beloved
My Secret Ravi

No Mastery Greater
Have I ever Known
For this Beauty of Creation
That I Weep the Love of Singh
Your Hearts Pleasure
Seen Always as My Own

Soft Teardrop Now Risen
To the Certain Touch
Of Bespoken Marriage
Lights Caress Upon Your Forehead
Shatki 

Beauty's Welcoming Horizon
Visions Mark
My Touch, Your Muse
Your Light, My Love
Our Understanding
Beauties Vision, One Life

I saw your Body Upon Mine
In the Privacy of the Light
A Single Photograph Given
Your Smile
My Eternal Life
r Sep 2014
Your eyes-
coal black fire
mirrors of my desire

Your mouth-
warm bath of oaths
bespoken for

Your *******-
rouged red-bullet tipped
honeysuckled bliss

Those hips-my reins
move you the way
I need you most

and your kiss-
like a hiss from a dip
of a branding iron

burn me with your lips
and make me yours-
ride me into the abyss

-of sighs.

r ~ 9/25/14
\¥/\
  |     §
/ \
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
perched atop a muddy graze          
amongst the reefing centipede        
does lady jade a’ponder days          
  from whence the eldest had decreed.

"what's this a'fuss upon the breeze
that sings a song of fallen trees?"

          a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
                                        a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..


was broadening—a shiver, swift—
bespoken of her crown to rest?      
what way whereby these spirits lift
      that hide should (of the head) contest?

"what, unbeknownst, should overwhelm
this silv'ry shoat, what's felling elm?"

          a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
                                        a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..


amidst a cruel cacophony,                
the lady seed, she must concede      
the razing of her progeny                
beholden to appease a need.            

"what's this in want of dire good
that preys upon upholding wood?"

          a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
                                       a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..


on arbor brawn does ardor dine    
    does earthen daughter march to meet
as tireless as the vile design              
divesting mother's gen'rous ****.    

"what subtleties uproot the heart
as bodies from their souls depart?"

          *
a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
                                        a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..


∘ ⊱‧⌍  ⌈✞⌋  ⌌‧⊰ ∞
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
JP Goss Dec 2013
The question is
Where to begin?
Why, with honest heart
And boldly sin!
And sin I must
Against myself
Pinning the inkwell
A bespoken purpose
--The poetic confession
Since speech commands silence
And advances regression.
My courage it falters
And guts turn all queer
Neither could reckon
With our distances near
And confessing this outright
Is just plain absurd,
I hope I have made
My cowardice clear.
True, this is petty
And prideful at best
Poem’s the proper vehicle lest
My weakness runs wild
As ornery thoughts
And binds up my tongue
And stomach in knots.
But onward! I bore you!
My pen spitting gibb'rish
Thinking sense and writing none  
I’m too far to turn back
And the day is yet won!
But can I be blamed
For nerves all on end
When the single string in every thought
Goes day’s beginning to its end
And all around and back again?
This whole semester
I’ve felt a fool
Beside this mind of eloquence
Of enervating sensation
Like, I, a simple candle
And auroras’ collocation
On the clearest luminescent night
With incensing breeze blown left and right,
Coupled with creative flair
And womanly chic, short, brown hair
I’m distracted, diverted stupidly
A boy's been made
Of the man in me.
I’m a mustard seed among
Religious men,
And profanation blossoms
Brought to transcendent, if divine heights
My words reaching an Elysian place
Touching new Heavens
With (excuse the pun) Grace.
Please don’t hold daft obligation
That you must reciprocate
The sentiments, here, laid before you
And mushiness innate
But the purpose is here
Not to woo
Nay, to salve this tiny,
Yet consumptive flu
So for stoic, normal me
This is something radically new.
So excuse the upheaval
And heavily borne load
It’s just perseverance
Through pessimistic mode,
I know this is weighty
And clichéd and trite
But I've been made weary
(And that’s creepy a mite)
Through countless embattled days
And resultant restless nights
With no intention to do so.
I hope this has struck you
Not perturbed or amused
Because right now I’m trembling
Sclerotic and bruised
And will follow, oh follow
This to its end;
To see this message
Read in your hands.
But until then, condemned
To sleep sad and wake gaily
To think only one thought
And think that thought daily
And thought is of you
Of you,
–.
nvinn fonia Apr 2019
our grasslands,frantic Jiving,Jiving Jiving  carries     the full moon  
things you know ,under stilts- day/&night; /\are off ,,,, raspberry,
discontent,  its in  my winter,  / in  my seasons/  mother  fuggazii a neatt blueberry /trimed, neat
  

  ,                        
,bespoken// man off the hour Onegin \Gerianne- ,,twitches  .Onegin \Onegin \Gerianne-
astute,!!! many many-floors up, piping- cleaning,every quarter the clouds/masquerade ,this is cat______
to,,, through ,,through,,n,moved, a-blue,, temple a bloom,a ,temple a rook a trek a stoop now
Buddha, a simpleton/buddah geriane
evn more, man , means  pristine,adhoc ,reminisce wt i was wt wht wht ever i was
end-knot, end knot yet waas itt it was probable most likely
immeasurable , -penetrable the - wild/man go take a look beckons/you hey  the  ribbons the  knots
knots  the wrought what for/wt for noww  door to door
tropic tropic endemic you hear wt you see you lurch you b you b you believe sort  off  
on my sideAusual-revival A rendition again  again and lifee-like -ride
and whatever moreover all oveer the leftovers rose swells . fine
inn smoke  -reels/ ncapabl,,indecicve ne more dayy nd through
th moors,,a week goes
mayb a month a long intention  itt- sooths./all the more doggs
onegin \Gerianne- ,,twitces  .astute, many floors up,pigging cleaning,every quarter
the clouds/massquadre ,this is cat to,,, through ,,,,,moved , a-blue,, temple
a bloom,a ,temple a rook a trek a stoop now Buddha, a simpleton/buddah
geriane droggs onegin \Gerianne- ,,twitces  .astute, many floors up,
pigging cleaning,every quarter
the clouds/massquadre ,this is cat

to,,, through ,,,,,moved, a-blue,, temple a bloom,a ,temple a rook a trek a stoop now
Buddha, a simpleton/buddah geriane
,, miniature lamps,,blizzards all that can in a man/rigour
all that hula hoop possibly a merry christmass,,dayys spent ,,,  full you  are all that is
sire a \all the pleasures off a small room full off all the kool tools an art decoo sire by now you know it all thecrystal fairies in blue crystall *****    
,pretty slick,,,runs ,piping hott ,, undone &the; buddha, the-rider,, the- boxes,,,layaway
the glistering the beaming, all  the book keeping a philistine, if i mayy

impeccable, and  free glitters all  the hourrs,a\ repliccaa just a beguiling  taste ,\
,sire,,little empty purposely,, masterfully done,,,sire beefy ,,sire,and, plenty-full
surelyy the nectar bequeaths
( projected .mediocre , mister faires in ferries  shimmering  dearest of stories
  / wings/reminising      buddah     buddah.    
  an artt decoo sire,,,a purple tea *** in which we drink our tea,

,,mirrors,,, the very best in the pristine the mannequins,,all the more
the -buddha,the-rider,, the- boxes,,,,sire iff only i may evn more
from wt i was endless immeasurable the - wild/beckons/ ribbons and knots
knots what for/ door to door  tropic
day/&night; /i was i would on my side
Ausual-revival  Arendition again  again  and  lifee-like -ride
and whatever moreover all oveer the leftovers  rose swells . fine
our grasslands,you know , stilts  frantic Jiving,Jiving Jiving
in smoke  -reels/incapabl,,indecicve  one more dayy and through  th moors
are off ,,,, raspberry,discontent  / neatt/  mother  fuggazii ,,
a week goes  mayb a month a long intention, itt- sooths./all the more

coldest,yet An ongoing black screen, then you came   colored coldd eminence  at al times
around me,   the birds,forrow Here burning,  Orange yello/blue brigand
In a lot, and  the cloud,  the grasslands to let me in,  dollor man
a board, a bloom Buddha, a simpleton ,  slanted/ forever possibily
  glistering/the ice cones,gingivitis floating away    /balloons
Above//   before beyond   half  half ,exciting  Elicit, , derelict,  
,  /never closing  a fantasia what i mean when i need  
   rerun .the chapters <retort>     there's a god  today in this moment and i can feel  it  .
   "jessica"\    ( the drudge   ducks   dips digs more and more
     won't stopp)       diners too many  tea  
  <>>>>\        stays afloat,        dispels /beaten /scowls   scary ,all-of jiggling/kepp bouncying
     ><weeds out / >minuscules         ripes/renders
         <jessica>>>>jamboree          come face me.
     the grandest / all  the oddities     one magic invention i was missing all this time
    transgression/ kindda may be timid /    my jive /our rruby/mouthing
a last supper if you will .something akin
   reasons /acuity/  th more the merrierer
   my bliss/slits    till-kingdom comes .   / & the black space everywhere in
   them the/many minds    all the more    \><citadel.come and go touch of gold
   see to believe              &&&&  <    deep blue lakes that  never end
their rune and it  returns  a ship on her chest
that i will reach places un dreamt of   will   returnn  > there. everyplace
                        
                  
   still passionate  though    /frothing/foams  "jeddah" "a simpleton, gives wayy too ".
the landscapes.an excerptluxomberg- along the /tumultus ,dry  the same dayy footing it foams  2 itt noww,,a cold..trance ,, embezeled !! forr ,regressed. ,thoseof us VISIBL- Keene
it is finally-plenteous breathing!a more juniper  . . cold. \ invisible,grooming////      
  turns outt
_..... ) .same dayys, for ever,evoles the delicate, the muffin menin muffin coats
/,/renders the arc  dayy 5 on the road is lunch  now ............
along the heavy points 4pm same dayy a brown tea *** so nicely preserved but off no grater utility just a brown tea pottt  37 -38 ..........just likk thatt
.... kindda winds up ,,wry now ....the fckig landscape.an excerpt  luxomberg
alice springs.carrie. chapter 1,the landscapes 2.pm preemtive.the-blue-acron in chrome  i-would know _ -as forr a while  ,(radio rahim....) for you ,tic-trackks,tic-trackks viggelntees) a vigill,


step1 : sudo apt-get install xserver-xorg-input-all step2 : sudo apt-get --purge autoremove xserver-xorg-input-all && sudo apt-get install xserver-xorg-input-all
harlon rivers Jan 2018
There was a fog that seemed to hover thickly
over the perceived salience of his musings
  
It was as if there were a veiled mystique
that left hopeful understanding ,
                   ambiguously obscured ...

His soul's cadences fell beyond the pale ,
like a reverberant iron bell’s clamor ,
                   drowning acumen ;

albeit , unmistakabe crystal clear allusions ,
scanning inwardly, rhapsody in his mind's eye

                    Illusive accord ,
                    beclouded by seeming stigmas
                    borne of the flesh ;
                    delicately sensitive nuances ,
                    misunderstood imperfections ,
                    bespoken utterance weighed heavy upon heart ...

In the hush of pensive repose ,
flow of soul streamed forth from its retreat within ;
bequeathed as if darkness
was magnetically drawn towards light ,
purging muted understanding ...

                    Assuredly seeking all questions with verve ,
                    accepting , that all answers sought
                    are not meant to be understood

A realization of those who wish to speak yet abide unspoken ;
the unseen mark of those that wished they had been loved ,
befallen the music of a thundering heartbeat ,
understanding a circle is vulnerable ,
only makes it stronger ―

                    hence ,..
                    it had been written
                    in countless misunderstood ways ...

Knowing he resists an inner-voice to endure silently
for a fear of that which remains indelibly writ ,
tattooed on introspective walls
far removed from the afterglow of light ,
where depth of soul yearns to be freed ;

                    heart speak hushed , deft words avowed
                    in enigmatic tongues ― Vayu doth whisper

                    soul's prevailing tides ebb and flow
                    from unseen depths , permeating
                    deeply within inner realms

The spirit of soul once steeped his heart’s intone :

               "Spell words that bind together passing strangers  
                 Coalesce  thoughts to inspirit those whom often walk alone
                 Append the goodwill of poetry, aspiring to bond individual
                 hearts and minds with words of love and light.  
                 Conjure written  spells to bespeak sincerely ,
                 a faith in unabated love
"

and yet ,   he will write it again and again ,.. searching beyond words

…words grasped from emerging thoughts
                   drawn in to the light
                   searching for other adept words
                   to recite yet another way ,
                   sketch another word-scape ,
                   written with the relentless inexhaustibleness
                   of an unstoppable awakening ...  

Another winter dawn imbues a new day come to light

                   he will write it again and again ,

                                          ... finding another way to be set free ...



                                                          ­       Harlon Rivers
Thank you for reading

Stanza in italics is from :
*Spell Words that Bind Together Passing Strangers*
Carlo C Gomez Oct 2022
A daily disturbance
In the cloud cover
Outside bespoken walls
It comes with knives
Walks with noise
To claim its hostage

Listen...
The snow is falling
One syllable at a time
Upon fields of defenseless flowers
The day after it started
No one waved goodbye

The caroling of bells
Is a music we fear
Standing paralyzed
We wait for a sign
In a time of risk

Because soon is slipping away
I came to the place
you were last known to be

On the anniversary of the date
you were last seen

I bring offerings
of long stemmed
dried flowers
accented with
baby breath and
a clay fired cross
tinkling and jouncing
in a clear concave
glass vase

Gathered from the
floral arrangements
of memorial services
for dearly beloved
kindred and friends

My oblation,
aged, simmered,
distilled with the
resonance of tears
and cured by
ruminative airs, now
fully curated with
the balm of time

On this solitary
Monmouth beach
the March Lion
roars snow squalls
intermittently blowing
away the cold sunshine
from the Saturday sand

Sounding a
somber reminder
of the rise and fall
of life's tempests

We hope for beach days of
Sun kissed faces and
warm limbered bones
reposed in blessed rest
upon blankets and chairs

Yet today the sun can’t
temper the numbed
fingered wind chill,
placidity escapes
into the sonic rush
of skirling gusts
lifting, splashing,
cracking crescendos
of building waves

Inert gulls flock
near a black jetty
their feathers
a taught plumage
trimmed to deflect
natures howling whirl
their silent shrieks
swallowed by
the days bluster

Crossing the beach
I cradled the vase
in the crux of my arms

My shoes taking
on sand, the cross
clanking a toll
against the thin glass
as the dry blooms
whisper winded secrets

As I approached
the ebb of the sea
a furious gust of wind
splintered some of the flowers
into a flurry of  swirling petals
while lifting two long stemmed
yellow roses that land
intact near the ocean's edge

Like frenetic sparrows
the liberated petals
flew into the ocean
settling into a
contented pool
anointing the water
by softly grazing on
supple undulations

Lifting a yellow rose
from the vase...
I touched the thorn
but it had lost its sting

Setting the rose aloft on
the wings of an
insistent onshore wind
it took flight toward the sea

Landing on a placid pool
gently rising and falling
on the relaxed roll of the water

It mounted each gentle curl
moving with an easy buoyancy
over each rippling crest

Navigating the friendly sea
with the skill of a
seasoned mariner
plying forward
eager to meet
the next tender roll

It is thought by some
that my daughter
walked into the sea
on a lonely
March night
at this very spot

Yet the two
long stem roses
that leapt from the vase
still gently lay
at the water line
as if placed on a table
by lovers during
an intimate dinner

Despite a stiff
onshore wind
the waves do not
swallow the flowers
but ease them back
toward the vase
planted on the shore

I gathered stones
and shells to fill the
emptying vase,
as I grabbed a handful
at the wash line
my foot was subsumed
by a wave

I was startled
by the bite of the
frigid water,
shaking my
reverie
arousing an
affirmation of
disbelief that
Meggie surrendered
her soul to the sea

On this cold
windswept shore
a Nor’easter
creeps its way
up our fragile coast
begging an uncertain
malevolence

I stand in your
footsteps

Uncertain
of what I should do

Unable to pray
the words bespoken
In my heart

I am here, frozen,
frail, frigid, flummoxed

My aching fingers
beg me to go
I release a final
white carnation

It springs to the sea
I pick up my vase half
full of shells and stones

I commend the two
long stemmed
yellow roses
marking the
advancing
waterline

I resolve to return
some sun kissed day
with blanket and chair
in the company of
friends, brothers,
sons and daughter

Music: Fleet Foxes, Grown Ocean

Meaghan Elizabeth McCallum
was last seen on video at
Pier Village Long Branch NJ
on March 11, 2015
#FINDMEG

Long Branch
3/11/17
jbm
Meaghan Elizabeth McCallum
was last seen on video at
Pier Village Long Branch NJ
on March 11, 2015
#FINDMEG
Abigail Maddem Jan 2014
8AM strikes like a *****,
And romping the losing street -
The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are.

The soldiered army, oozing molten pride,
Spike me in the side with their knees
Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin

The cold, dead breath bullies like a child
Never been taught, never have they ought;
I give them pity like spit, the drool reared.

The glands of my sodden state are nucleic
They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix
And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say

They say them in spite
Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid
Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes

I do despise, I do despise,
The heartless range of those hunter-deers,
The wet pathos that criminals invoke

And then, I woke, the rage, the rage!
A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin
You wished I were dead so you could be thin.

And when I am not hot,
Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning,
I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes

The slight disgust, the frozen musk
Awns over me, little fist tight of pink
Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale

And then, you are there--
Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me
A spoken longing and then all we know wilts

A running red cloak of tartan regrets
Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist
The torture device you call your words is broken out

I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it
To the solars like I am owed.
Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed--

Give me strength, for the thoughts
The thoughts, that blow through me
Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh

Do not upturn the limped greyed grass
And blow through, a harmless storm,
With nothing to say about how I carry my day.

Move on to your homeward-bound, your
Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners
Like your words, your cold ******* words.

You slimy *******, you ****,
I have spoken, one million syllables,
For your satisfaction.

You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand
Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas --
I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.
Meenakshi Iyer Nov 2012
The veil is now unravelled,
the storm dust now blown,
when left with the calm after the storm
even deciduous time seems forlorn.
There is the perfunctory trial
of breathing air to sustain,
yet in the end, I revive what,
the beliefs I let go,
the conviction from which I abstain?
I then saw reason, in this miniscule delight
of finding a realm that is positively alight
with candour and supremacy,
they regale without caution,
and entertain as they must,
in words left unspoken,
they reveal more than just.
The truth though is bespoken,
within the confines of deceit,
while the soul hunts for absolution
the mind quakes in defeat.
Annihilation is the quest,
that brought me to this place,
the answer that will be found,
is am I in passing,
or here to stay?
Jacqe Booth Feb 2010
Some say he is wise
Some say simply hardened
A wizened, numb,
Impermeable ball
Of love mislaid
Trust betrayed.
A web
Of gritty layers
Interweaved,
Deceived ,
His heart is
Sewn and patched
Small puncture holes
(gasping, weeping, bleeding)
This heart
Pre-stitched and worn.
He gives tokens
Of self
Bespoken
By the body,
Giving and taking
Loving and hating.

Some say he is hard
Some say **** being easy.
as the late afternoon twilight years
of this primate become sans my exist
hence, more visible on the horizon
an increasing awareness prevails asper
how this middle aged baby boomer

(whose incessant, inconsolable, and
incurable wailing still reverberates til
this day - LIX exiting the birth canal
since January thirteenth ninety fifty
and nine) promulgates nascent longing

jumpstarting helping formulate doing
beneficial actions. only of late didst
an upswell to demonstrate appreciation
(towards acquaintances, countrymen/
women, family of origin, friends,

neigh boars, relatives, Romans, et cetera)
becomes a manifest destiny. awareness
crystallized within the recent past of
my life and hard (days night) times
this yearningto "pay forward" ***** deeds
done dirt cheap along the highway to hell

(mainly within a voluntary capacity)
to avail energy of waning body, mind,
spirit triage. until such a plan (as
per say traveling abroad - either a
lone or with an adventurous minded Ma
demoiselle) coalesces into fruition,

a daily strategy to impact my imme
diate environment in a positive manner
took figurative shape. his doable, feasible,
justifiable, et cetera longing (to contribute
sweat equity such as organic gardening/

farming, teaching English as a first, second
third...language, or writing opinion
editorials blurbs for a news letter,
which loving labors of body, mind
and spirit would be accepted would serve

in lieu as payment for buzzfeed ding,
livingsocial, lodging, et cetera accommodations.
the best buy google research to locate a
handy dandy blues clues milieu, true
value venue iterated above reference

to intentional communities, yet no idea
this bumbling, fumbling, rambling,
et cetera twisted missive would find me
making mention of a logically obvious
proscribed resource. upon setting

my figurative sights regarding the end
ever explicitly, fixedly, and pointedly
to communicate how to adopt modalities
helping other people (in ways within
my capacity), the undercurrent, sans

writing this epistle, an off the beaten
track prospect found unplanned impregnated
insinuation cradling embryonic vision
visited by the secondary modus operandi.

the bespoken ambition (asper reciprocating
the consideration to pursue voluntary
employment. ideally this agreeable deal
(includes a small stipend plus room
and board). the inclusion of the latter

(tacked on as a strong consideration -
figured as welcome visualized reprieve.
hence this prosaic/ poetic add on -
at no extra charge - slightly expanded
the original intended tone of this blurb.

rather than dismiss tangential thread
mainly to air considerations divergent
incorporating alternative arrangements
to call home already moderately
lengthy soundcloud, i freely shared
a tangential welcoming pseudo string
of consciousness thread.
Ain Jul 2018
There’s a little corner in my heart
Which is bespoken from the start

I used this corner on my own
For a little moment all alone

This corner was a precious bit
I let no one but myself sit

It was reserved for the cherished one
No one but me was that person

My love with me this corner saw
I could safely let me here thaw

Then one day my heart saw a rush
All around there was a gush

It’s beats reached up peaks really high
And Every inch let out a sigh

It was the day you entered here
Awed my heart you musketeer

You searched around for a living space
In that corner you found your place

An invasion I couldn’t stop
Your charm was making my heart throb

I tried to get you out of there
After all this was all my sphere

I heard a voice in the background run
Isn’t this space for the special one..??

I guess I loved you more than me
Coz in that corner I let you be
You by whose sweet nature does rule this text,
As surely as I spell your name, your thoughts it reflects.
My longings my darling are nothing less than your desires,
Our combined cloudy pillar floating on high by our inner fires.
My second dream is but a forethought of your mind’s first wand
Parting my words and showing me your promised hand.
Who’s to say, in some very far off distant age,
They will say that I have exercised some sacred prophet's rage?
An unpeopling prayer within our combined diviner's themes,
Like we were young filled with vision and the old people's dreams!
To thee, my Love’s Savior, to thee my vows’ confess,
I am never satisfied with the time the world gives us in bliss.
Swift do those times pass, bespoken each timely romp, thy hips do proclaim,
These words, a stammering thought teaching me how to whisper thy name.
If you share the meanings hidden in this piece you possibly can understand why I wrote it.  If not, it's just another crock of time.
Chris Saitta Jul 2020
The ancient way across this world lies like sunset over black pearls,
The treetops are marble-made that the riffler of wind deforms,
To know all mother tongues from the quarry of rough stones,
To speak everything at once, Bride of Unbecoming,
The moldering walls of lips, the kiss of vacant streets
And the quiet, wet solitude bespoken by back roads,
The whispered origami of the Forum, paper gods in folds,
Smothered in the false pillows of their own repose,
The wolf’s beard dipped in the fresh pant of dewfall,
While lovers have placed on the stones of the Appian Way
Their perfect hearts like votive candles, cupping the flames,
Looking down the swift arrow of loneliness, Sagittarius its same
Heaven-glow and besprinkled guidepost of a starlit Sacred Way.
Mother of Rome, your powdered face has been made ashen by those
Unreturned home, your far-off travels lead only to the graves of sons.
The ancient way across this world lies like sunset over black pearls.
Dante Rocío Jun 2020
[To Mary C.]
I've met again a violin and a piano in a cooperative anguish of a story.
To reminisce
(Or is it "recall"? "Reminisce" is only laced with joy)
Your love for that black and white ministry of music that I believe there is
And taste it together with notes of those honey strings before which I shiver delightfully instead
Make and made a prompt haste and nostalgic astrae longed to be left by a human's bed.
Just to let you know and sense,
I'm having and feeling you too on my thoughts and oh so unspoken words of laced understatements,
Right on that Rainy Song dúo.
I'm sure you're sleeping tight.
But no harm done.
It's better this way. Not binding you to your face, calling you without name or reason.
Really, hope my act doesn't creep or leave out, it's form and prolonging chaotic and loud
It is that "God-like" state who makes me a mute lovesick fool,  a wannabe paramour to any of your kin, who wants to pepper kisses on each tear and stare in each other's eyes for hours with no matter bespoken.
I'll leave simply my note at the table,
Like one leaving the other in the bed before dawn.
No "I'll stay" nor "I'm leaving",
Tinted with tenerezza cazza.
No explaining, the void necessary for the sense of reason and authenticity bigger than the material the literal.
Don't get up, don't bother, sleep tight, don't rise.
Just be aware you were on my mind, may that make you rise.
Experience ya later, not see ya later,
In salty waters our stars I now fight to see in the dark at that signs of the clock without glasses on.
I wish to finally dispose of needs of my vessel for at least those few holy moments clad in ombré.
Have the dearest night,
Goodbye.
~
PS Don't look for sense, don't name it or trap it, just let it experience you, kiss you and have it. Dismantle, dismantle the logic together before it becomes a sicario forever.
Eyelids closing and ending
Written on an inky night of coming undone at a tender, astral session of mine whilst listening to Tomoya Naka’s “Rainy Song”.
For my aforementioned friend of mind, a closed-off lover of piano and music, we came both at once in that song, without her knowing.
And I bore this, transcribed in words from wondrous void
Je te remercie, Marie.
De novo boa noite
Elvis okumu Apr 2015
I have my hand on a chain
I am pulled along and the drain is insane
I can't obstain or restrain the pain I feel as I am dragged alond the feild
But I won't let it go, I won't let you steal the way I feel
make a meal of me, and then say it wasn't a big deal  
My body is battered and broken, and I am always beholden  
I have more to do as my time is always  bespoken  
The chain is harder and harder to hold on
and way is harder and harder to forge on.  
I am tiered and honestly, sometimes I  don't feel as if I can go on  

But I won't let go

Because i refuse to let the world know  
That it has beaten me
I won't let that dept grow nor will I ever slow.  
I will meet you blow for blow  
from the tides of spring to winters snow  
As the acorn falls and the rains do flow
And you will watch that oak tree grow
from a sapling as you and I are grappling
You won't understand what is happening.  
You will think that I am a creature of  some crazy fantacy.  

Why do I go on, I couldn't tell you.
Death just seems more fun if only I knew how to
But this heart of mine just keeps beating  
And I just continue living and my hand keeps on gripping
and I will be ****** if I just up and leave it.

I am a molded wreking ball
unhappy unless I am wrecking
For when I am not, I am only a ball
even the wrecking part of my name just falls  
And  whats the point of being just a ball
For when I was created I was called the wrecking ball

My pourpose is in my duty
My duty is in my pourpose  
and whats worse, the course I am on
would be gone without this chain  
So how can I complain even when I am in pain
Without this chain I would be plain  
I would be a ball detached from the crain.

So go on, and I will hold on
sinister concatenation pairs us
   with surreal morgue aisle
broken lives rent asunder
   from fanatics hell bent with bile
of poison spewing forth *******
   up the moral compass dial

upending amity, comity,
excitability with ferocity,
hostility, indelibly, indubitably,
inexorably hissing illogic jabber
wocky justifiably linking extremist
deadly credos bred among western nations

indicting pursuit of life, liberty
and happiness wreaking deliberate havoc
   awash with crimson tide of blood –
   dead set to jam the life lock

viz Leviathan of personal freedoms
   bespoken via vernacular,
where secular westerners
   framed to mock,

where extremist storied devout
   die hard believers dislike rock
and roll of altruism, capitalism,
   liberalism, thus apply shell shock
tactics sans terroristic tactics
   with bombs silently tick tock

inevitably heightening security
   forcing ordinary citizens
   to be on high alert
watchful even at slightest com
   ment, perhaps even accidental curt

commentary invoking immediate
   military forces swoop down and exert
overpowering force donned
   with ammunition belt bristling girt
affecting innocence abroad and
   native population to freeze
   and become inert

casting dark silhouettes against
   autumnal reign of light
where Mithraism plays out
   with immensely brutal might
blotting out the radiance

   of heavenly bliss affording active night
life to become shuttered
   as cruel carnival masquerade
   pits pagan plight

against the jagged
   scrimmage line quite
arbitrarily drawn by maniacal foes
   for freedom trammel the right
to own democratic stance –

   for Jihadist Johnny come lately
   find a slight
lampooned their sacred
   Islamic catechism inducing tight
grip on Allah to fuel vengeance
   for intimated transgressions
   that doth in vite

which violent polemics purpose
   fully shear the very fiber of peace
pronounced with especial
   arduousness come holiday time
   foisting a crease

along the fabric of westernization –
   whereby founding fathers did grease
the figurative wheels of con
   com it ant moist meaty lifestyle
to experience strangulation
   from an invisible death knell lease.
Rowan Dec 2018
I’m a castaway enjoying the rough winter seas
on the carrack of a late age ship.
Flotsam, flotsam, weighing back to a place
full of roiling stomachs and stubborn jaws.

Of waiting to fight and curling up under
a tale of adventure to escape the hurling words,
walking out to hide under stark snowy logs
fallen over, trespassing in frustration of
collected angers.

Pockmarked roads and rushed breath,
screaming in my head, lips ******* shut
wishing for the Shire to land
on my doorstep.

Stalking away, leaving behind,
My, maybe one time I’ll get there,
to rolling hills and bespoken not
against my nature.

“im human too,”
and my mother looks confused.
KathleenAMaloney Jul 2016
Each Day These Chains
I put upon Myself

For Time Escaped
This Unlocked Prison Cell

Left Empty By All
But For
Loyal Command
meant
To Thee Sweet Dove
I would Be Gone

This Prison
Once a Home
I Hear For Clear Escape
What means Shall I My Path
Now Take

Each Door Long Dead
The Faces Thru Them
Nothing More Than
Thoughts of Stealing
Made in Form

Barricade the Door
Clear Intention.
Perfect Good Your Greatest Ally

Return Full Moon
The Selves,
Only those of Trust
Life Breaths
Their Numbers Virtue
In every Stead

Make One of them to Speak
True Vision
For My Angel
Thought Thats Lives

Wisdom Shall Be Right Choice

Council. Yourself with Love's Balance
Those who are Friends first,
and Advisors Second.
Loyalty their Virtue
Support Their Bespoken Gift.

Be Prepared
Within The Light
We Stand.
#-
Kurt Philip Behm Feb 2023
The world is becoming
impossible to govern
Each person that island
Donne warned us about

All sense of belonging
in mirrors bespoken
The strength of shared values
—our vanity flouts

(Dreamsleep: February, 2023)
Dante Leto Nov 2019
This vessel filled with sanguine nectar
Placed before my tortured face.
"Drink, drink", growls the Collector,
"So the ritual is not debased."
With a quiet sigh I raise my eyes
To find there's no one in sight.
But the shrill cries still to my spine bring chills
From the vague memories of the night.

"Who speaks to me in this empty place?
And what causes me these conniptions?
What are these echoes, these screams that resonate
And what source has borne this addiction?"
There's no soul here to hear my words,
Yet imposing shadows loom in the light
Of strategically placed candles set about the oubliette,
Ready to begin a dark rite.

"The one who speaks is the one who hears,
Indistinguishable except by delusion.
You writhe for the memory as the fogginess clears
And reveals the true cause of pollution:
We, Dante! We are the ones who
Fill this cup to the brim!
You are the lure and I am the hunter
And blood is what cleanses their sin."

As the snarling, disembodied voice speaks
I become filled with lecherous dread.
"You're a monster, a devil, a hideous fiend!"
I scream to the voice in my head.
I regain my composure but suddenly looking over
A room full of familiar corpses,
Torn open, bled, all eyeless sockets,
Materialized by unspeakable forces.

The flickering light from the tiny dancing flames
Eerily animate the dead,
But the bodiless shadows that tower remain
Motionless as the voice again said:
"The one who speaks is the one who hears.
By indulgence you gain from their tears,
Their terror, their anguish, they strengthen you, tame this
Devilish gnawing you fear."

Five leering shadows, eighteen festering carcasses
Surround me in grim trepidation.
Why, why do I choose to take part in this
Unholiness in this dark wretched station?
I try to refuse but my failure amuses
The entity goading me on.
I embrace the chalice of blood and of malice
And drink to fulfill the liaison.

As the ambrosia from the chalice is swallowed
A drunkenness begins to befall me.
As I stand, the five shadows, my servants, they follow
But as if they aren't walking, but crawling.
Altogether the flames grow brighter and stronger
Until the room like a kiln now burns.
The desiccated bodies prostrate and offer
Themselves so the fire upturns.

In my blood-drunken haze my eyes are opened
To the creation of my own obsession.
The Collector, the Harvester, the Reaper, the Chosen
And the Hunter, they are all but reflections.
"The others are voiceless", said the one voice I hear,
"Only I can speak as you can.
And you, Dante, are a bloodfiend, a ghoul.
In only man's realm you feign human.

"We are all you, all one in the same,
And as one we are death and disaster.
These victims before you bathing in flame
Were brought before the ritual master
That the remaining token be brought forth, bespoken
By the aspect of you that's most potent:
No, not the Chosen, though he holds the notion
Of calling that one the Unbroken."

At last all those nebulous memories
Are elucidated in this nightmarescape.
The Unbroken the voice just spoke of is me,
An amalgam of these shadows of hate,
Of murderous, methodical diabolism.
It all has finally become clear:
This black, ****** rite has brought me transcendence
As something all the more terrible draws near...
Rohan P Dec 2017
seldom do i recall the vastness of the open—
your cold invitingly holds me to the unspoken;
beckons at me through that sylvan oaken
world beyond worlds, rising within me, bespoken
of that grandeur through the sky—floating
just beyond the edges of our emotion.
Kurt Philip Behm Aug 2023
The child of
a desert wind
and a mystery …
he swept across the land

Knighting each moment
with martial intent …
death
at his command

All enemies chosen
with glorious care …
each battle
zero sum

His legend immortal
written in blood …
the future bespoken
—eternity's son

(The New Room: August, 2023)
I.
I know my time
Is well overdue,
But let me reach
The bespoken waves
Of the starless sea of dreams
Before time has gotten its way.

II.
I wish my world could be remade
Or saved
By the dreamers,
But I have given too much,
And flown the past the dust ,
Once too many.
So now I say,
Let the wisps of dreaming lights fall down,
And have the ashes fly up to the stars.

~Fin.
Ain May 2022
There’s a little corner in my heart
Which is bespoken from the start

I used this corner on my own
For a little moment all alone

This corner was a precious bit
I let no one but myself sit

It was reserved for the precious one
No one but me was that person

My love with me this corner saw
I could safely let me here thaw

Then one day my heart saw a rush
All around there was a gush

It’s beats reached up peaks really high
And Every inch let out a sigh

It was the day you entered here
Awed my heart you musketeer

You searched around for a living space
In that corner you found your place

An invasion I couldn’t stop
Your charm was making my heart throb

I tried to get you out of there
After all this was all my sphere

I heard a voice in the background run
Isn’t this space for the special one..??

I guess I loved you more than me
Coz in that corner I let you be
Daan Jul 2019
Verroest, verkeerd, verwerend
tegen ontberend leren
wat de wereld meer
kan deren
dan rechtvaardig varend
aanmeren bij de speren
van welleer.

Gegooid, geprikt, gestoken
met onuitgesproken
regels die ook en doken
in dat water
waar we allemaal zo diep in koken
dat onze meningen de volgende
bestoken en bespoken,
tot de dag gebroken
onze scherven bijeen veegt,
wondes likt en weegt
en wikt
en ons,
oud en verkeerd,
op de vingers tikt.
agree to disagree
en een ferme tik op mijn eigen vingers
my soul shrouded with mist
clouds of dust covers clips
coils of hope lost from the cliff
Solitude my aging soul dies with
bespoken words I stolidly observed
stymies of sky break the silence
as it boils in yolk of steams
Reed of psychoactive breaks the hallucinations
as I walk into the gangway of illusions
Imagination of insensitive days
I fade like a sunset sun
Falling gently as Satan from the sky
I am a soul being made from clay
Wrapped with casement that belongs to the earth
And the energy to a being I solely don't known
in this I gave my breath to gods that quest for me

Written by
Martin Ijir
Neither encumbered with
     material trappings, nor money,
(neither of which I miss)
mine existence approxi-
     moxy mates (to me),
     the state of psychic,
     intrinsic, and bucolic bliss
though far removed

     from civilization distant
     as thee (myopic) eye can see,
     a benevolent, redolent,
and verdant pristine premise
bespoken, expressed, and invoked
     to cosmic consciousness, especially
     threats (to life and limb
     courtesy **** sapiens),
    
     isolated wilderness
absent villagers tsuris,
this monk thank
     fully doth dismiss
homestead of unspoiled habitats
though contact with eldest,
     and youngest sis
plus deux darling daughters,

     the only people, whose absence
     accompanies me to wince
with gentle hug, and air kiss
communing with nature
     faintly conjures Swiss
Family Robinson
similarities, though this
subarctic Siberian wilderness

connotes more drastic
     (ideal to me) solitude perfect
     remote abode tubby remiss,
cuz this loner loathes
     to impress others,
     who don, and
     trumpet an (all self)
     important air of priss

see ness, no thank dear reader,
     I revel as a misanthrope
     glad to isolate myself
breathe deep sigh relief asper,
     not being party to hiss
see fit, nor participate in
     superficial rituals like...Christmas.

— The End —