#subtlety
A tremor among flutters of the hand:
Excess vibration – it’s certain to involve a deeper rhythm –
Certain self images sent bent;
Light striking irregular glass.
Eyes contract, weight shifts, a
Break in conversation.
Caught in a moments maze
All obstacles avoided reconstruct,
All exits rearrange.
There are other signs:
Brood and singularity, thoughts
Perpendicular to sense,
Doubt challenging belief.
Perhaps another shuffling of the deck,
A steady murmur, a muttering,
A constant twang or certain slur of contradiction.
Mind insufficient, though desperate to respond:
“No more! No urge!”
No self-recrimination to excuse the selfish stupor….
But there is silence in good scotch –
As when reverberations peak,
Then separate the sound from voice
And thought from all compassion.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
"Hmm, lavender"
He murmured into my hair
He smiled against my scalp sensing my despair
I smiled up at him "my shampoo"
His hands on me feel taboo
And suddenly
I regret
Washing my hair
With
Lavender shampoo
Mar 19, 2025
Mar 19, 2025 at 8:25 AM UTC
your smile confounds:
how it opens at my touch
yet, closes softly,
like a snare that traps my defiance;
- keeps me modest.
i adore how your lower lip spasms with desire,
while your upper lip struggles to hide it.
i know there’s more to your smile,
for i have kissed you -
with an undying thirst
that respawns at the close of day.
i’ll forever be in awe -
of the benevolence you summon
with your subtleties;
- keeps me honest.
i long for your smile;
i long for your love;
i long for another day -
with you.
Dec 11, 2024
Dec 11, 2024 at 2:42 AM UTC
Subtlety, and nonchalant
Brace reality and confront
What needs to be
Arriving at decisions carefully
Meditative & decisively,
But knowing when to be abrupt
Head held high, chin up,
Shoulders squared,
Ready to face what's in front
Dissected corpses of the past
Left in the lab
Behind the frontal lobe
History is,
Things that have come to pass
And things still yet to unfold
Apr 20, 2023
Apr 20, 2023 at 3:01 PM UTC
If that was a blast of love
I’d hate to see your hate.
Your blunt, forceful love
comes from fear,
rains in blows,
and leaves me -
smaller, sadder,
reactive—
reeling for equilibrium.
Apr 5, 2022
Apr 5, 2022 at 7:38 AM UTC
Solemnly and silent
In subtleties she calls to me
Falling into my heart caverns
And running through my veins
Through my body
And where I am she’s close to me
Exuding watercolor dreams
Like a painter reacquainting me
With once greyish reality
And every morn, I hear her sing
In voice that constructs melody
As if to say to newest sun
To shine ever still
All subconsciously
And I would follow lyrically
Each instruction as they ring
Like notes in my mind harboring
This subtle, silent calls to me
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 12:53 AM UTC
Subtlety is poetry in practice.
Too bad the world is made up of bad journalists.
Dec 8, 2020
Dec 8, 2020 at 5:46 PM UTC
Subtle
~for Sally~
there is no escaping it.
to write of subtle,
one must be blunt,
forthright,
direct,
write with no subtlety.
there is no way, impossible, to capture the fine single threads required
to weave a tapestry of bold and delicate intertwined, of depth and
surface, of a droplet of water shining outstanding in a sea of harsh
blather.
there is bold, there is pale. they can coexist, perhaps even
heighten each other.
but subtle is a delicacy, a single thread, a standard rarely achieved.
which is why this poem makes no pretense at subtlety.
Aug 21~22
2020
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 7:48 AM UTC
clothed in darkness,
i am robbed of my senses—
though i am left
with the sensation of
your touches,
i have become senseless
undone, my defences—
useless,
with a single caress,
a blushing mess,
i try not to obsess
over your intense
pretense—
though all is in vain,
you are relentless,
and i am
reckless.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 3:18 AM UTC
She whispered in my ears all her broken dreams
And I stood there, afraid. I did not move.
She held me and she tore her fingers on my broken edges and as I tried to run away she
Pulled me closer and watched the blood in some sort of fascination.
Nothing scared her.
So I stood there watching the blood fall in red soundless drops and mix with her tears
By her feet. She was angry at her tears.
Because women don’t cry.
She wouldn’t let me free myself from her grip and I said I did not want her to bleed any more
But she would have none of it.
She wants a man that will wipe her tears, she said-
Tears are the blood of the unseen wounds
And such are the wounds we need most protection from.
So I stood there, holding her. I tried not to move.
I hoped that standing still would keep her hands from bleeding more but she ran her hands all over my jagged edges. She said that it was a metaphor. That it should mean something.
But she kept crying and I fought myself off of her. I fetched her water to clean her wounds but she laughed and pushed it aside.
Play some music instead, she said.
The wounds I must clean are unseen-
Only angels can fight demons
Only beauty can erase the ugly
And only light can ***** out the darkness.
So I played her some music.
And then I stood there watching her move her head along to that
Lala Salama song
Like certain worlds had been hidden in its words.
She danced until the song was over and still she danced to the silence
Her eyes closed and her head always shaking. Always.
When she was done she asked me what I had seen
and I told her that I had seen her dance and that I had seen
her close her eyes and that I had seen her sing along silently.
She jumped at me. She was angry.
These are not the things you were supposed to see, she said.
These are not the words you were supposed to say.
And she opened the door and walked out.
Now I listen to that song.
Maybe I shall hear what it is I was supposed to be listening for.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
Opulence is a whisper
In a forest full
Of clouds
Subtlety is a shout
In this city
Of waning light
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
To comfort me the rain hums a tune
as if she could sense I was feeling down
I get buoyant by the soothing tone,
pick up the strands that once were broken
Drenched woods after the rain has gone,
with the wind,repeat it, but sounds like a moan,
it takes much subtlety, to empathize, I learn
to evoke sublime feelings that touch and lift the soul.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
I will admit that I struggle with what I can't give to you. It bugs me. It eats me up inside.
I see the care and genuine respect that you show me and I want to react. But I can't. Not in the way I want to do so.
Believe me. I want to do so much. I want to make grand gestures, promise you the world, and say the things that my heart hides.
To do so, would please me, would stoke the embers of my soul.
But. ..it would station your life, and I won't do that.
Instead, I am focused on what I can do. It is not as if I can't show what I feel, to demonstrate it. I just have to be subtle.
I am, not by choice, but by need, committed to the slow burn. I will leave you with hints; with clues to piece together. I will beat around the bush and show you the meaning of restraint. Because THAT is what I can do.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC