"abeyance" poems
Sometimes you have no reason to stay,
and realize that's a perfect argument to go.
And that taking an entirely new way,
is the sore but single method to grow.
If you're washed-on abeyance's bight,
and you feel decision's heavy heft:
To choose the left where nothing's right,
or go to the right where nothing's left.
Remember it matters not where you proceed,
or which mountain you want to ascend.
It does not matter whether you succeed,
it is the journey that matters in the end.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
Saturate and brimming of my hometown Boston,
of its sunshine Marathon peoples and bomb images,
my heart fracture rend.
On the third day—resurrection of all my sadness
came to me, feeling fresh and born to fruition,
so this grew.
It grew and through my tears coming,
I stood to witness two loving sparrows
on a window branch.
My sadness at some abeyance, studying and curious
I was of her--all akimbo shivers and rock-in-roll, of him--
flying feathered stone, rolling from branch to branch
and coming home, repeatedly.
Circles flying within moving circles!
Did something happen
with the last jiggle of her branch?
Did you see that? Science says
what they were doing—they had finished.
(But what to believe of science?
It calls their loving--mating rather).
Now to tell you—the sequencing was this:
when I was full knocked down
on account of my grief,
and I hardly had strength to go on,
a Beatles song flew in and gently pierced my heart,
singing to my ear: *Why don't we do it in the road...
no one will be watching us...why, why don't we do it*
O, Spring Life of Sparrow surprises!
Open road, that budding tree,
any new notion is something grand!
How do I say now? That you two
were most helpful, your innocence
forever abiding?
Fly off Sparrows, forever prayer!
I speak this with all my love.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.
All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.
At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.
His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.
Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.
All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.
The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.
HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--
We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?
The endless night.
All hail the Lizard King.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
weeding ‘n planting,
(ten rows of garlic, waiting to bite caressing hands)
<•>
unsurprisingly to me
garlic native to northeastern Iran,
so says the arbiter-know-it-all, Senor Wikipedia
did you know that,
amongst us,
a young woman whose back
is bent,
bent over,
weeding and weeping, while picking,
retrieving the fruit of the plain earths plane
spending days
retrieving spring-planted bulbs in the sun,
a mysterious poet residing among us
conjuring up poems and, **** even
plants questions
with granted permission
asks a strangers gasping queries
so simple she renders his
body from soul, makes him
disclose his crazy ill-at-ease
showing
his own
general roots,
slumbering deep in reddish brown soul’s earth
one whose only great escape
through the written poem
when his back is straight,
straight against the wall
backed up,
and ripe for the picking
in reparation
the favor will be returned
three inquiries will be fedex’d
if I ever learn her address
for now, in the throes of soil resting within,
my need knowings just nurturing
until the calendar declares time!
harvesting is now
when we ready shake hands
when you say
“here is the garlic tended,
and here are our hands,
bitten and caressed”
till such time I get
the answers from
the farmer herself,
I can patient wait
further research needs
original sources,
till such time,
make up tales
that will hold in abeyance
my half contented garlic dreams
for was it not written centuries ago:
Even After All this time The Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the whole sky.
Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
As if bound
and chained
to a rock
in the middle
of a vast, hot
desert,
I wait;
Praying for
a salvation
which might
come eventually...
...Maybe.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
*Sitting in abeyance.
My life on perpetual hold;
the cold air forcing me to hunch up for warmth.
Another cigarette...
I ****** the packet lovingly,
opening and closing the lid,
spinning and revolving the box like a precious stone.
I think about my father.
Memories,
scrambling for admission,
into my hall of fame.
The bad ones,
constantly slashing,
constantly stabbing.
The jagged blade of guilt.
He could be difficult,
but my desperation for acceptance,
made me difficult too.
Tears fighting for freedom,
I shield my face by running my fingers through my hair;
cigarette still in hand.
I return to the ward.
I reflect on my father’s now non cognizant state,
and although disturbing,
I also find it calming and absolute,
for he is safe in the labyrinth of his mind,
and nothing can hurt him.
I hold his hand,
and with a final last gasp of inevitability,
he is gone.
Gone.
As I sit back,
in my plastic chair,
my lugubrious acceptance is numbing.
But there is another feeling;
one that is so refreshing;
so alien;
so…
shiny and clean.
it smashes through my self-induced sedation like a sledge hammer:
Liberation.*
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 1:35 AM UTC
Often the news gives me the blues
I really ought to choose
to simply refuse
I mean really, what will I lose
Schadenfreude?
no that isn't it
truth is stranger than fiction
more like a fascination with the surreal
or a blinded self-affliction with the scroungy real deal
Talking heads that speak for work
punctuate sentences with erratic head jerks
nobody normal talks that way, they ask rhetorical questions
when the answer's are known, they’re killing time
“rephrase the question, run the clock out
a commercial will spare us the embarrassment of doubt.”
Take’s a special person to face each new day
with zillions of prying eyes hanging on every word you say
the mendicant voyeurs of utter destruction’s charming new day
the slashing machete melt down of the abject speakers foray
"Oh say, can you see by the dawns early light"
What's become of your people and their obsession with fright
desensitization is paramount to achieve an abeyance of light
Frankenfoods, and "side affects" hideous monsters in the making
high resolution mayhem require victims for the taking
awaking half-dead like Dracula’s each dusk
they'll find a cure, there's another vaccine, there’s always dumb luck
maybe you won't be the sucker that makes that dreadful scene
bludgeon your mind with a another faker, a different fresh news team
fobbing your leery eyes you ponder “they can’t possibly all be the same!”
different day, different month, different year, same game
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
The cosmic river of placidity our spiritual
Graveyard, laden illuminating the resevoirs
Of the sun serpents mineral kingdoms created
As the desecrated flowers of the
Universe decay,
The barren Earths machinery immortally
Combative rebirthing deaths plague.
Akashas victorious joy reflecting the
Sillohettes of times ardititious travellings
Fleeting, the strength of withered spirits
Collective daydreams upon solacses fallen
Fields of despair, redeeming justices
Patience provocating abeyance.
The irredescent golden amber of an iron
Roses kindling flame; katabolisms landscape
Transcending sunsets incarnate pharisaical
Clouds defying agonising temptations rising
On the wind of sanctimonious whispers
Working the stagnate temper of
Choas' repining heart.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 10:59 AM UTC
~For Eleanor~
<•>
don't
believe in fate or luck,
never won no lottery,
even the next word of
every poem word, product of hard earned
stolen lust affairs
me desiring,
of acquiring
the infamy
of saying it & making you believe it,
all new (ha!)
while reusing worn-out words,
stolen from unknown predecessors,
lovers and prophets
but then, read you,
a-believing now that only princesses
may have the magic powers to do,
to sense, the incongruence,
of the most ordinary lives,
the ways we-hide-in-our-underbellies,
the faces of our elven selves,
that we are desperate to see anew,
without the blemishing scars of experience
writing it morning fresh from dream filled sleep
so my sinner summer sun dying requests
you to be reminded:
even a prince, only has just so many
golden opportunities,
so quit stalling,
shoot out your next from your
handgun mind
yup, no luck, good fate, for me
held in abeyance for
the next first date, maybe
as I write
Katy Perry
is ear-worming in my head,
ignite the light!
do you see us
awaiting in the shadows
for the definition of your words?
<•>
^divergent communication:
pattern in which the sender gives conflicting messages on verbal and nonverbal levels and the listener does not know which message to accept.
read https://hellopoetry.com/eleanor-prince/
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 11:53 AM UTC
The coals smoldered
With obsidian flakes,
To reflect sky or ocean there.
The heat was tropical;
An abeyance denied
To all who'd arrived there.
Earthquakes simmered
Along the meridians,
While smoke floated free:
Released from it's *******
It drifted to where
You wanted to be.
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 5:30 AM UTC
Let this be spark to collective action!
The exercise of natural freedoms and equality.
Sever attachments, break from your safety,
from the shores of who you think you are.
Set sail with faith,
placing ideologies in abeyance.
Set sail with soul songs,
join with saints and strangers
harmoniously singing.
Be ALL as One
in open repartee.
Brothers and sisters, all of a wild nature–
none left uninvited.
Friends at heart all, all welcome!
Who shall be chief navigator?
Trace sensitive fingers on contour maps the Universe makes.
As we navigate, we invent.
With tiniest of maps (the same is the largest
with infinite pathways) we are destined exactly
to found and inhabit New Earth.
Who brings gifts of intuitive sensing?
Everyone?
Shall we draw straws?
Any can buddy up with the experts
at the rational sextant.
Every single she and he of us
is a guiding star.
Accordingly, let’s begin
convergent conversations of stars.
Of the humans who choose to stay behind, let us love them.
Let us love them and let’s be on our way!
It is enough now that many have had good intentions,
have spoken authentically, enthusiastically.
Yet they do not wish to enter in.
Each in his or her own time.
Others have voiced opposition,
demonstrated resistance.
Some others — stuck in apathy,
in numbness, powerlessness.
Is fear of ****** death
the ultimate stopping?
What is living if living itself
is death?
Are you one who has ears
to hear?
Are you that very passenger
ready to disavow, to disembark?
Have you awakened
to your own alluring whisper?
Let us begin.
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
When the magistry has ended, /
The echoes of repose begin to resound; /
Although there is, there has been a great wanderer in me, /
The beckoning has not ceased, /
Nor has my heart been claimed in abeyance. /
A story, one with risings & fallings, /
One with an unfalteringly great divide, /
Has bestowed a parcel from on high; /
The Winds, The Earth, The Ocean, The Sun, The Moon, /
They are the pulse of this Grand Tapestry. /
When we are enraptured, /
By ensorcelled irides /
We become; /
Sometimes being enamored /
Means our journey is re-willed; /
Moreover, we see the world with Brand New Eyes. /
Allowing every experience, to re-modulate my thoughts & feelings /
I realized uncertainty was not a barrier, /
Rather, it was my nexus to transcendence. /
Having a time & space in which to reflect, retrospect, & introspect was an aegis, /
Now real & authentic happiness is no longer distant /
And faith is near. /
Jul 12, 2023
Jul 12, 2023 at 8:09 AM UTC
Smoke scintillated by ***** lights
Scent of cheap beer and cigarettes
Arms and legs and heads and butts
mashed
mangled
mingling
In a space ejecting bravado
responding to the auricular bludgeons
plucking veins and boiling blood
arms and legs flailing like spiders
hammered by raindrops
Calloused voices scream through feedback
eking out of anguished amplifiers
while jungle drums synchronize hearts
to their frantic pulse
New friends old friends celebration
in sweaty embraces chanting screaming
stumbling outside the gates of eternity
sidewalk where we gathered round the sordid soapbox
and cast beleaguering gargantuan buildings
and endless cataclysmal streets
into abeyance
to prance along these old sidewalk cracks
stumbling along cigarette butts and beer cans
efflorescing under amative neon lights whose bombinate glow
tingles our skin and dazzles our eyeballs
rolling back into our skulls in the wake of ecstasy
billowing over our ambulant bodies
Friday nights
Saturday nights
Sunday nights
skipping school on a week day
braving city night life to find us in the nooks
they forgot to sweep out
where trash collects and pretends
to be unwavering and implacable
for a moment
Til it's back on the streets we spill out upon like puke
like the beer sticking to checkerboard floors
and we float home on the feedback high singing in our ears to sleep
dreaming of these ecstasies as something perennial
in punk lover's dreams
Pure when we're filthy.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
Out in the backyard where I discarded the old bard..
..I take a moment to think.
This is not the first time I've been on the brink of a change and maybe it won't be the last.
But I have put what is past into a polythene sack..
..let the archaeologist of the future rummage through that.
If this change is a bust..then so be it..I must..
..change the change that I'm making..
And change is there for the taking..it's free.
This is the way that I want it to be.
If it's not done today..the change will not go away..
..It will wait in abeyance.
A conveyance for me when I am finally ready.
I'm still out in the backyard with the remains of the old bard.
Finding it so hard to leave things behind.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
a curious family of raptor children, a lake of caterpillar carcasses (boulder soup), a grocer for the taliban, gas powered anything, the exposed midsection of a tree, bank robberies or bear maulings in progress, triangles, an irascible bus driver thinking in isosceles, the itinerant story of a mama mammoth, starquakes and extinctions, massive roaches, a neck bath in hot breath, sudden abeyance from behind, the way gravity kills caterpillars and spares us because all angles of gravity make 180 degrees and this is stillness. fear running a straight line from behind us, through us, and in front of us. what i consistently get caught up in, the third point might be my final resting. this is why i ******* hate triangles.
Jul 19, 2020
Jul 19, 2020 at 6:33 PM UTC
Light unloosens itself. Space slackens.
A figure of a shadow I have conjured before
anonymous eyes. Lapping up the waiflike bleakness
of their elliptical faces.
I must teach the trees to let go
of autumn, and relegate spryness to the hearth
of cold without merit, this slow, claiming mutiny
with its face-oval peering through windows multiplying
lovelessly, a crunch of a leaf, suchlike, flourishing
in peerless company. Before me, the sound of footfall
preparing to make sense, a rotunda of bell – that movement
of somebody done for, so ****** the scald welt of ******
the belch of the world like a pore clearing its squalor.
Or the toppled verdigris of gull.
Autumn’s greater extension, the abeyance, smilingly
a facsimile of crowds – its roads adorned with laburnum
singeing through the morning’s cauldron, a waft of bald terrain
inflamed, drawing with absence
a crippled drip of rain back into the world’s dim address.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:28 PM UTC
Did I tell you how I prayed
on knees before the morning came
and listened to by bells that rang in mighty decibels
and fell to crush and stay my uttered syllables.
Where in the singing of the psalms did blood appear to flow from palms
and calm this torture
played out as a platform game on X box three or was it me
who could not grasp the significance
of an abeyance I would deign make
what if fakery was the order of the day and would then the bells ring out to say in sixteen chimes or as many times as I could bear
Would the lines that led to crucifixion day be written any other way?
Did those legionnaires despair
or on the darkened unlit stairs did they rejoice at choices made?
And we fade as thus we shine and in another time we'll do it,did it been there and bit by bit we bid this happening to reoccur
so we the unfit,unloved,unwashed,unholy,outcast ones can join in and share
the melancholy felt by those the ones who knelt before the cross
in the loss of things
or in the losing and the grief it brings another lonely bell rings out
with heartfelt pleas and once again I'm on my knees
and giving thanks for these the moments when the light has flashed
and bells have crashed to smother me with talk of other times
the chimes
the chimes
and would there ever be the time to hear them all before the call was sent
Did I not rend the air with blasphemy and would he see the truth behind the curses that I spat into the gutters
when in utter abject poverty
blinded by those who could only see
the misery and not the man?
I wonder if that was in his plan to make the beggars saints and vice versa
or could it have ever been the plan to make a man who felt so bad
that man who knelt would go quite mad
and wrap into a bundle tight
to trundle off with head down in the night.
I kneel before the altar
altered irrevocably
I don't need to see what others see
I now see me in my many faults
for I have walked and talked deep within the vaults of introspection
and selected only those the pieces suitable for my inspections of my soul
and now the hole there was is filled
and stilled the raging mind
and stilled the storm and tempest
instilling what is best and disregarding all the rest
I go to take my rest
and am at peace.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
Never had it been of the application of force between
interludes of terrible waiting that getting on with hostilities
was more calming than the imagination of the horrors
that lay ahead
The initial wave knew the sacrifice would be written about
until the heavens decided that history was full enough of
our failures, shaking loose its detachment from the fate of
its hapless creation
They were led by men who could be counted on to exhort
them with words as to their duty; to be told of the good
hunting to come, but to men who had no fantasies of their
own, words only fabricate a hero
There was no marksmanship or survival skill that could
shield a man fated to crush the spirit inside the prayers
uttered by his mother; there was no training that could
prepare him for life or judgment day
And yet those whom absolution abandoned to their own
devices had fallen in love with their conquerors only to
weep bitterly as the beachcombers liberated them from
their supposed occupation
It made them wonder of the desperation that was
stronger than hope; about how a woman could fall in
love with the eyes of the enemy; and how the enemy
could have a heart for love
But his witness of human nature amidst the horrors
of despots would remain in abeyance until the fears of a
common man had met courage in the moment he realized
how mankind could never love him as does a God
He wondered if he would be different; would he be death
unable to laugh or understand a broken nail; would he be
able to believe in men; would he be able to love someone
when he knew his heart was left behind?
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
Looking at, her in abeyance my mind lie
With eyes taking over
Dulcet are her pulses;
Endearing is her mode,
A splendor so divine
Looting people out of their mind
Like trees, her hair danced in high wind and rain
And I, dancing around like a peacock;
Trying to melt her marble heart
Pondering of praises to say,
Hoping with one of them she might stay.
Hard to fathom the enrichment caused by her find,
She is a timeless beauty not the banal kind.
In bruit she is, possessor of her own surreptitious style
Tricking people with her friendly smile.
but her lure “the chains I wear” are rust away in time
I am unbounding with time.
I Wondering could i just let it be,
could this phase ever pass me.
But then one by one they all go by
First the voice, then the smell & then forgotten by the eyes
And at last comes a sigh...oh I tried …oh I tried .oh I tried
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
The valley holds on, to ******
of moon, behind the trees.
It is dark and clouds are meditating.
You think of a perfect horror
and a poisoned arrow flies straight
into heart of a blissful sun.
It is red, splattered on the wounded sky,
scrorched by shrill cries of crows.
It is dawn.
You feel intense *********** of separateness,
from the beauty of a drop,
reflecting the wholeness of an ocean.
The stress starts breaking you.
Can you take me to my home, into abeyance?
My wakefulness, reaching by silence?
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 9:08 PM UTC
The Night Table
The night table, the night stand,
Too small for all it must yeoman hold,
Something keeps falling down
Lamp, bottle of water, a single tissue, partially used, a clean corner held in abeyance for future tears when poetry writing, writing tablet for when the impulsion strikes, lamp that goes on n' off when it so chooses, a straw-woven coffee cup thing to keep off the stains of liquid time, a watch that tells you the time only when it is falling over on the way down to hit the ground, a picture frame of mother and child from thirty years ago...
if there was more room,
this list would be longer
but I already told ya,
this night table is just too **** small
which was told to you twenty years
when you bot two of them!
Re-decorate, she replies
A single word
that strikes
terror
In the heart of a
grown man.
Good thing I am still a kid
And don't any need any of those grown-up things
Listed above.
Keep those night tables babe,
Perfectly serviceable and a metaphor
For two kids like us,
Cuddling in the bed those night table stand astride,
Guardians of the place where we tell each other tales
of twenty years ago...
(I told ya they were too small)
June 1
6:54 AM
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC