"absorption" poems
Ilion gray
poet extraordinary
is away
learning the codes hidden in raindrops
no reason for surprise;
for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays,
neither high enough, narrow blinding,
to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities
to do the right thing
he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our
poem-dreams;
avant-garde he says,
but I laugh,
never felt more misunderstood
and reply take care, be
en garde!
no matter for he is learning a new language,
the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat
once called Indian Territory and eager
await his return so we may
walk along the Brooklyn shoreline,
beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge
where Washington’s men escaped a British trap
and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of
NY
showers that come up so sudden, so roughened, but right now,
the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature
We will walk lost in the absorption of our
different commonalities, holding the hands of
his young son, and my Wendy,
both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes
that give us poems
He calls me me friend,
I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best,
well recalling a late night message that bred
a five year conversation ongoing
not everything need be coded
what you read here
it is not coded,
for the raindrops come clear and clean
and the poems land on our tongues
bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue
7/18/18
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
Oh Language, where hast thou hid thyself?
Thy once-bright spires decline to dust.
The calm, well-reasoned flow of wisdom
a bygone memory. I’ll not trust
these tween-to-twenty-something’s prattle;
endless babble of self-absorption
centered in pleasure-maximizing:
narcissistic thought-abortion.
Dude—they’re SO not app’ed for language
used by dad ten years ago.
I’m totally DONE with their, like, verbiage
They’re all: Smartphone Teenage Show.
It’s just, like, TALKING—without words
in language ghettos; texting proud . . .
Their lack of precision offends my brain—
They ought to be ashamed (out loud).
Vygotsky’s vaunted Z.P.D,
and Bakhtin’s heteroglossic crack
along with Roland Barthe’s pet parrot
Are SO like totally talking smack.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
She tends her cactus garden,
beads of perspiration,
works with a maniacal absorption.
One of many visitors she receives
yet looking at each other's eyes
dawned this quick realization;
similar maniacal obsession and passion.
A tornado she was, self created,
in her swirl uprooted
many huge trees, even tombstones
by the sheer force unleashed,
with her poetic flourish.
Love of a crazy woman
with effervescent creative surge,
is a magical portion
brewed by a witch ,
in her forbidden rituals, night after dark night.
Injured by conjugal lust, unrequited
prompted to walk the garden path
holding hands of lovers, one after the other,
who took her to wilderness, deeper and deeper
and at the end to a blind alley,
life was a tribal dance,
from where return was impossible.
She never had to apologize to her mate,
who for all the world to see, remained with her
till he went behind the curtain.
Imagine a life, a walk
through a cactus garden,where sharp thorns would nip,
searing pain and bleeding has its moments of exhilaration.
Life pulsated wildly for her on such notions,
(There were many who walked with her for each adventure)
They met, poetry flowed like wine,
she had a rare warmth seen in women of such creative combinations,
she feared nothing, but her truth made many squirm.
Midnight dances of her and her friends gypsy bunch,
attained such fame.But all ended in a great betrayal,
she was deep down a naive woman,
craving for love, to immerse in it.
On occasions she would change identities
at will, she was one but many
there wasn't any one like her before or after.
They would walk through the witch's cactus patch,
somnambulists reciting poems,
when they are together, in private,
cactus spine criss- crossed his skin
her nail wrote poems on the back
of the lover of the moment,
each one bled like soldiers in combat.
One monsoon night brought
everything to an end,
the cactus garden was trampled by
big grey wolves, the journey
met with an abrupt end.
What is she, cactus herself,
vampire, witch, lover indefatigable,
with the heart of a lion?
Erotomaniacal poetic surge,
yet a fantasy in flesh and blood?
**They buried her
in a cactus garden away from town
not even ten people arrived to mourn,
not even all her lovers, had time that afternoon.
Her songs of pain, pierced hearts and they
still shed tears,
cactus garden, it was---
the metaphor perfected by her life and death.**
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
Cupped hands
an inconsistent vessel
for every drip drip
The precious is forever lost
Spartan moments mirror a watery fate
Traversed, cascade they hurtle
some lashed to a Giant’s thigh
an endless waves breaker
And beneath,
feet mourn little for trampled free fallers
Tiles arranged in patterned logic
frame the arranged sequence for
another graveyard at 0 8 0 1
Splash is the cry of acceptance by absorption
whilst others are the
missed opportunities to reach a higher station.
The tap runs unchecked.
Soon they will be long forgotten
in the chaos of morning traffic
This period is late.
As am I.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
grab my hair
and touch my skin
breathe my air
and let me in
whisper softly in my ear
that I have nothing left to fear
cause time has left
and so has place
just you and me
floating through space
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC
Krypton didn’t fit with anyone,
as it was the unfriendly one,
it never went beyond it’s limits
even if others did loose their limits.
It was from a forlorn world,
nobody cared to say a word,
to this enigma of another world;
no one wanted to share a word.
The nobles were always preoccupied
with their occupied shells,
they never hung out with the occupied,
nor the unoccupied.
Krypton was mistaken for kryptonite.
It wondered every night,
Why they accused it for the assassination?
it didn’t have the power of absorption.
Krypton had very few of it’s kind,
it didn’t know where they were aligned.
He held the hope of being able to be lined,
with the rest of it’s kind.
Poor Krypton, he was on the farthest
arena of the periodic table
it wished if it could turn the table,
so that it can at least act a bit feeble.
Experience taught this novice,
it calculated the calculations,
to traverse the long distance,
fear hindered the transmissions.
Krypton used to think without links
he was one of the stable nobles,
he wasn’t the one that wobbles
and, one of the table’s baubles.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 4:36 AM UTC
All work, no play and neon screens
menial tasks even coat my dreams.
Overboard in bored and a silent phone,
oh no, I think I’ve evolved to drone.
Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, a life of drought.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
For lady dollar; I can’t bear her,
as the riches are even rarer.
I’ve become a machine, to crush numbers
with no log off for needed slumbers.
Now my brain’s racing, a million miles per hour,
oh no, I think I’ve gained A.I’s power.
Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, now what life is about.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
No sudden movements; don’t want to scare her,
she’s updating with no carer.
Learning binary,
a breathing library,
processing slowly
but still a finery.
I forgot what my hands were for
they used to write all that I adore.
Now fingertips type, each key a shot,
oh no, I think I’ve grown into a robot.
Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, no one hears me shout.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
Pure absorption; a simple stare,
life’s equation could be fairer.
Learning binary,
a breathing library,
walking geometry
complete machinery.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
The Story begins with silence and black out, a void. Not darkness. Nor anything that attempts to define nothingness, because it’s nothing. The blackness or void is only a metaphor representing nothing. Within this point, so close to simultaneous you’d think they were one in the same, a light emerges, emanating divine, pure energy and love. Its intelligence and complexity expands and fills what was once nothing with beauty and truth. At this moment, all is whole, fast as thought, strong beyond comprehension, gentle as a whisper and furious beyond all flame. The wild spirit of happiness is real and alive! The void was never the enemy, only a point in which to be born. Duality can only exist if unification finds an enemy within itself. The enemy is reflected by the segregation and space created between divine and mortal. This space is developed by Ego.
This entity “Ego” is the essence of self resistance, absorption, chaos, consciousness…hate. The inner antagonist rises and begins to cut and eliminate the threads attached to creation and spirit. A mirror that envelopes and contains the living spirit. An orb caging vulnerable souls spread throughout the expansion of life and suffocating energetic flow. The universe and it’s creatures that lost connection being virtually incapable of seeing one another ever again while the enemy exists.
The instigation is tolerated by those who always continue the journey. The emasculation of Ego, commences as the divine resonates it’s vibration as a weapon like a solar flare, piercing the Ego. Then the inner spirit begins to open up and claw its way out. The Spirit sees that vanity is leading the despair of self pity into the heart as it remains a vessel dwelling in a false world channeling a false force. This awareness makes The Spirit lifts up, against and out of a matrix constructed within the crystal ball cage that refracts the true sun’s rays. Together, The Spirit and The Divine begin to crush Ego. Ego begins to flatten, compress and then combust. Through the flames the chord of love between The Divine and The Spirit bursts like a shooting star towards the kinship’s re-established nexus. The collision creates what was pure and full in circulation again and the expansion becomes an infinite motion harmonizing with the void in an adventure that goes on forever. When Ego tries to slither back in after a nearly insurmountable time of hiding between the gaps that contains new life, it is given no room by anything in thought, theory, in any form of existence.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
i went into absorption for months...
upon returning to words i found
they had atrophied--like spotting an
ant through a keyhole.
they came so sparely, one by one...
wondering why i wished to violate
the silence that so blessed me.
so they sat next to one another in
lotus position, and poems were emanated.
they became more and more voluminous,
to the point of daily.
as if being summoned by a spell...slowly
poured into a glass and spilled into a pair
of lips.
to be reabsorbed by her mouth.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
Wish upon a star
Wish upon a soul
Earth the same as gold
Salvation is the goal
Just between the eyebrows
Focus vision on the nose’s tip
Still, controlling your mind is like
Controlling the wind
So with the arrow of time
You enter the cosmic womb
You ride upon the mystical machine
Until you enter the tomb
Coming forth into being
Going forth into absorption
Find the yoke of union
Connect, harness, and in your soul, report it
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 10:47 AM UTC
We're but a collection of monochrome films,
each it's own color.
Pixels on a screen,
giving life its big animated motion picture.
You are the absence of color in our cinema screen;
white.
I am the absorption or combination of all combined;
black.
So why then, when reflected through a prism your light
gives a rainbow?
It must be the light versus a color, without the light there is
no Technicolor.
We're but a composition of a continuous film,
and ensemble of the cinema of life.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
My Muse had a strange concept,
Aussies could spread Test cricket,
Global peace from this precept,
Middle East with a new diversion,
Test Cricket's mesmerising stupefaction,
No shots daily, narcotic absorption,
"Resume hostilities at the end of the next over..."
They'll say, "New bowler's called Grover.
We'll see if he bowls a maiden over."
Large LED screens on constant display,
Test Cricket, Ashes every day,
Hours sitting in the hot sun, that's the way,
That's why there's Peace in Australia,
Without Test Cricket, Peace is a failure!
Yes, Aussies could preach Test Cricket,
My muse and its weird concepts!
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
.Soul in anguish,
Soul in torment,
Soul in delirium,
Soul in pain,
Soul in ecstasy,
Soul in anxiety,
Soul in frustration,
Soul in disdain.
Soul in passion,
Soul in laughter,
Soul in death and
Soul in life.
Soul in penitence,
Soul in reflection,
Soul in love and
Soul in strife.
Oh, my soul, you
Keep me dancing.
I can never
Dance alone.
I search for my
Soul’s companion.
Who will offer?
Is there one?
Here are now my
Suitors willing.
There is envy.
Look at hate.
Bitterness and
Self-absorption,
Pity looking
For a date.
What of vengeance,
Narcissism,
Self-indulgence
Dressed up fine,
Pride and guilt with
Sad depression,
Desperation,
What a line!
I have danced with
Every suitor,
And I’ve wondered
Who is mine?
I don’t want to
Lock into a
Partnership that
Doesn’t shine.
All of these have
Looked attractive,
Yet they weaken on the spins.
Where is one that
Lasts forever?
I will only
Look at him.
I need one who
Will not fail me,
Leave me when the
Going’s tough,
One who’s strong and
Knows the dance steps.
Treading on my
Toes is rough!
Something deep
Within me tells me
Suitors there are
More than enough.
I must search the
Highest mountain
For the one whose
Name is Truth.
Mr. Truth will
Undergird my
Weakness, lift
My spirits high,
Warm my coldness,
Light my darkness,
Hold my trust as
He draws nigh.
He will lead me
Without falter
To a banquet
Richly spread.
I will follow
Every dance step
Waiting for the
Day we wed.
Then forever
All those suitors
And their lies will
Disappear.
There will only
Be the glory
Of beloved
Jesus here.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
She was an appetizing,
poetic proposition,
right from the opening line.
No way to keep
that veiled suggestion,
curtained off from
my window of attention.
Then I decided---
in slow time
ate that sensual creation
in total self- absorption.
Couldn't help speeding up when
the crescendo of culmination began.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
Certain rhythms will provoke ghosts
in old attics reeking with romance.
That eternal prayer
found in complete silence,
begs sinners to break purity.
Mortal breathes begin to dance between lips,
creating poetry in sacred space.
The momentary awareness of another,
who craves the absorption of your soul.
**** me into your lungs darling.
I'll translate centuries of painful wisdom
stirring in the temple of my bones.
These truths begin a home
in our late night dialogues
circling around dangerous pasts,
all those golden, fatal blades.
As we make our way back to the red light of sleep,
the attic leans in to touch our skulls.
We respond with agony and laughter.
I slide into sleep,
forgetting all I need to find in your mind.
Accepting the fingerprints
as you press my identity upon your tongue.
The restless goddess within my nature
swallows the mortality
in tonight's poetry.
But this never lasts.
Love is a distraction,
an intoxication meant to entertain that ego who loves deficiency,
a selfish voice who finds herself every morning in front of a decaying mirror
and blames the lack of other.
Learn to leave the fear behind.
You alone are whole.
There is poetry sewn into your veins.
Underneath that sacred silence
there is an original symphony
waiting to find the medium of your complex truth.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Our wilier webs
woven with the distractions of self-absorption
can come to feel
cheated if we use them
only for halfhearted games of catch
and eventual release.
He’d overlooked that part.
Then there was an obligation to prey
who so willingly strayed upon the taffy
pull of his sweet and sticky strands.
The scrunch up of their wee faces
squeaked, “We deserve
to have our glued-down expectations
met with a most gruesome expertise.”
He’d just wanted to watch them
struggle a smidge,
at first.
It was a test if this muscle the scribes
ascribe as rightly plagued by pangs
was in him
perhaps despicably defective.
With each tripper-by trapped
the examinations grew
more tortuously complex,
and when none raised even
the slightest murmur of a palpitation,
he gave the web its dripped-dry due,
at last.
“The murderous truth will out,”
they say. It did, monstrously.
Now his bound but gagless masques
are always well-attended.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 7:40 AM UTC
I called you a narcissist.
Maybe because I've been told all my life not to flaunt what you've got.
But I'm the true narcissist.
I just hide my self-absorption under a cloak of false humility.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC
My membrane is a flower and too many people have plucked my petals from the stem.
I ripped out all of the pages that had scripture in them, scripture that told stories of who I was back then, scripture I had written with a broken pen.
I kept your voice in a box that's in the attic, it's safe inside a headache, it still sounds nothing less than tragic.
Remember my hands and how they shook when you took everything away, when the demons weren't at bay,
when I screamed for them to stop but still, continually,
everyone's been taken away,
so when people stay please understand that I have to push them away like waves from the shore and **** I know that's clichè but I'd rather die than let them live in my heart for only a few days.
They still try to talk and I reverberate about how it's unholy to say my name that way, it's unholy to keep me in the fade.
It's unholy to remember me by my eyes and not by my lies.
I have good alibis and it's nothing but true when I say that
I forgot what love means,
I believe it's an illusion that most people just dream, they told me I'm crazy but **** I think I've had more nightmares than dreams so I would know better than to keep my lonely stem stuck in bad weather.
They're over there seducing themselves now, they're seducing themselves with medication that leads to hours of a permutation of all the items in her chest, he leads her to a mutation of what he thinks is best.
I only weep between sheets.
They're far too confident in their self extraction and I just don't understand how that happens, how self absorption can lead to something so terrifying, placing yourself in a box so you can delegate yourself, you're too delicate, it's not good for your health.
That voice inside that box talks in third person now, it says you're not doing too well.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
Life may not go as planned;
the worst kind of fool extrapolates
from a heap of thwarted expectations:
"Life is over because I'm upset!"
Emotions out of control, roiling,
demarcate that which in human is animal;
the worst kind of fool loudly insists,
"Life should gratify my ego!"
Disappointment becomes license,
a weak excuse for calamitous disregard;
the worst kind of fool dares to think,
"Others are responsible for my actions."
Cowardice thrives in this heath of weeds.
The worst kind of fool gives up early,
quick to resume safe, familiar weaknesses:
"I should never have dared to try."
Wallowing loves abundant company,
the likewise-dead who disavow all power.
The worst kind of fool supports other fools:
"We are special; this world is against us."
Self-absorption and delusions of grandeur
conspiring with fashionable self-derogation.
The worst kind of fool achieves impossible vampirism.
"Value me; reassure me; therein I feed."
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
Wind blown hair
May 21, 2015 at 10:34pm
Her hair was the color of coal
But at times it seemed to be
The darkest brown of ebony
Her beauty was from outer space
As if outer space was seen from Mars
She was always in love with the stars
And she was from another time
As one always dreaming
She was never to be finished
She was never to be brought to pass
While she was awake
She was always looking inwardly
As her eyes were always closed
Swamped in feelings to never deny
She could never act
She could never lie
She would drift with every sensation
There was never any middle ground to be found
Because she lived there in her mind
She would go with the joy of silence
There was nothing so deeply from her beauty
It was as if an absence of complete
Absorption was her characteristic of beauty
She would take his breath away
She had wonky wind hair
And she was from another time
When shadows once had echos
She would always fallow
How could she belong to another time
When Echos once belonged to Shadows?
Farwell to sweet tomorrows
She was never brought to pass
She had wonky wind hair
And she was from another time
As the wind would blow
The possessive form
Her beauty would linger on
She was from another era
She was from another time
To hide one's feelings
As one hidden of the clouds
Such terms of a beautiful endearment
Such a beauty of imperfection to be unknown
From an image that was never shown
A victim of stars
From a canvas of sentimental shadows
When colors escaped long ago
from another grey world
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
Still a child; fragile, undefined -
trembling, timid and shy -
a body curling inwards
- petals and moonlight -
we're magnetised:
this shared desperation and
fumbling adolescent shame.
A throbbing, suffocated silence -
lost hands and strangled hysteria.
Achingly tiny,
shattered-glass bones flutter,
colliding and entangling;
causing the skin to lift
and contort. To ebb -
a fluid - a pulse.
His shoulder-blades
(the crushingly delicate shiver
of butterfly wings)
cast splintered, mosaic shadows
(sharp and electric
to trace) along
the gasping, groaning spine...
Pharate, we're demolishing ourselves
in a gorgeous, stumbling,
careless collapse -
colliding in cold frenzy, desperate
to hide - burrow - entomb --
to bury ourselves - his mesmerising flesh.
Rasping out - teeth and lip
and tongue - ravenous,
animalistic despair.
With timid breath - to rip, devour, engulf --
to hiss and **** delicious venom.
An ache - a yearning - for absorption,
for skin, for blood -
to be consumed and to consume -
to feel every pain of it -
to be wrecked - to become
the same debris.
I spill out into his shadows,
his indents, his cuts and curves -
their fervent whimpers, electrified palpitations -
and he to mine:
It's as though we're eclosing,
these golden deodorant nymphas - we're quaking through;
tearing apart every sad smother of silk - and now
desolate; forever nothing
but drifting, lambent dust.
Skin like porcelain -
cold and wrong to touch -
yet stomachs hot,
hurtling hot.
Flesh winces - ripples - under
premature pain.
("I'm sorry. I")
He crumbles, cuts
my thighs
and leaves us both with
scars that we, as scars, forever treasure;
and with veins seeping Hemolymph;
to heal, to beat, to grow.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
*well O... well... O, give me life! i need no beggars of the cyclone to repeat the foundations of seasons and things tectonic! O... well, O! rounded-up by rugby geometrics for an oval symmetry of the orbits... O... might i add - oh? well harp me a sigh with it too - or play me the ******* violins... i too might add my toes in the muddy sands of the Calais of India that's Goa: with toes clenched inward like a grip of a crow, or the antics of a ballerina; indeed Calais, the footnote of the Angevins... tell your integrating dogma to successors of william the conqueror's behaviour, as by-way dehumanising righteously - such the tongue spoken, such the tongue rebelling - via the term identified with utmost against the irish post-stamp claims for a peace treaty: rōnin; no, you be sub-human teaching me the language and then venturing into treating me as a simple cashier - no education system is necessary to craft the near robotic professions! why crave capitalism in the educational system when all might be happier un-educated for the professions the lazy aristocrats intended for them?*
i'll march against your little
utopia...
by god i'll march against your
Parisian Disney fairyland
with teeth clenched and fingernails bit
to a manicure!
for the chastity of white
lacking colours of a rainbow -
since on white an imprint,
and on black an absorption to stack-up
the many lacks of expression.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
~
*Absorption lines
Lagrange points
interstellar fingerprints
she played with time, variable starfield's constitution
the reply from space
as light through the canopy
heard in upward glissandos:
"Tonight I'm only made of moonlight..."*
~
Mar 20, 2024
Mar 20, 2024 at 8:49 PM UTC
*This is my special day.
I’ve planned it for ever,
and a bit more.
An early start.
I want to depart,
before the house awakes.
I look down at the water.
It swirls and dances,
as the vessel fills.
Absorption of a picture,
on a liquid canvas.
I can’t help but stare.
Is that really me?
“Hello,” I say,
Curiously.
He doesn’t answer;
just stares.
Now I’m staring,
At him,
staring,
at me.
I reach down and scoop a mass of water,
launching it into my face.
It delights my skin like a cold knife.
I savour the moment.
If only my life,
could have been this…
refreshing.
The car is filling quickly now.
It will soon be over.*
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 12:39 PM UTC
Freefall
into the core of the night
Into the void- filled emptyness
Where darkness is beautiful
And scissor thoughts are blunted by the light
Where silence is our luxury
Our symbol of depth
Come with us
Where wolves howl at a moonless sky
Where there is no reflection; only absorption,
total takeover of the soul.
Where our eyes are flooded with ravens
And our tears are the wings that free them.
This is where we accept the death that is us.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC