"abstractions" poems
The darker side of my mind is where
Abstractions of fragmented poetry breeds;
A baby lies dead in a Hong Kong gutter,
And my lines fall into place.
Broken hearts sing lullabies to me,
Two savage beatings spare me a verse,
New Orleans lends me four at low interest,
And throws in a haiku for free.
The old veteran quotes me three lines
And gets buried with the last.
The rhyme festers with his body;
Both soldier
and verse
are
free
again.
I can't explain the beauty I see
In the dying faces of the abandoned ones,
Nor tell you why, if the bomb were dropped tomorrow
I should weep in both anguish and delight.
I can only tell you, should it all end,
Should all modern horrors dissapear,
The future will weep for the joys of the present
And smiles will dissapear forever
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
I kept my answers small and kept them near;
Big questions bruised my mind but still I let
Small answers be a bullwark to my fear.
The huge abstractions I kept from the light;
Small things I handled and caressed and loved.
I let the stars assume the whole of night.
But the big answers clamoured to be moved Into my life. Their great audacity
Shouted to be acknowledged and believed.
Even when all small answers build up to
Protection of my spirit, still I hear
Big answers striving for their overthrow.
And all the great conclusions coming near.
5.1k
I keep my answers small and keep them near;
Big questions bruised my mind but still I let
Small answers be a bulwark to my fear.
The huge abstractions I keep from the light;
Small things I handled and caressed and loved.
I let the stars assume the whole of night.
But the big answers clamoured to be moved
Into my life. Their great audacity
Shouted to be acknowledged and believed.
Even when all small answers build up to
Protection of my spirit, I still hear
Big answers striving for their overthrow
And all the great conclusions coming near.
4.9k
Hypotonic collusions
Rising in osmotic lesions
An eruptive soul reversion
Emissions of embered logs
Each lightening with a glow
A youthful straw of clemency
Pollinated sandals, handled
Gripping the flesh in vessels
Houses of lost and unreal dreams
Vicarage gardens of suppression
Masticated in delegated abstractions
A surmise of death and redistributions
Each a beat rise, slide on frosty ice
Un-enveloped in seasons of erosion
Delusional commotions sprawled
In the dance of the ecstatic programming
The body waved and led in hypnosis
********** with the intangible essence
To make sense a revised tense,I fence
Straying in lenient lunacy to fields afar
A merry to ferry the phoenix dance
Rattles shaking in transit translations
Drums pause settling in finesse pond
A coitus of dimensional valour and vice
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
as i sit here,
eating yet another
bowl of trifle,
that is rabbit-like,
in it's ability,
to seem neverending.
my thoughts lollop,
with leperorine grace to,
fibonacci
and his box of bunnies
multipying and multiplying....
....ad infinitum...
another spoon,
to my mouth.
stop....
the sun's gentle rays,
sparkle through,
jellies translucency.
as tastebuds swoon
at sweet sugar's mango rush.
synapses hop and pop within
my head....
and in my mind's eye,
i see flopsy, mopsy,
cottontail..boy and paul.
(not peter..copyright laws)
cavorting with fibonacci's
numbers,
1,1,3,5,8,13,21....and so on.
playing leap frog, in a hedge
maze.
they play and add and hop and
grow,
in an unending trail,
spiraling off.... into the west,
in a sweet smelling lavender haze.
at this point, i'm now thinking...
just, how much sherry did
aunty beryl put in this magic
trifle....
if i am honest with myself
and with you as well.
i will open my heart to confess.
to three new,
believed abstractions:
one;
after all these years(47)
i am still enamoured of beatrix's
cute little rabbits
(but i must still claim
miss jemima puddleduck
as my all time favourite)
two;
fibonacci's numbers still rule
(what an extraordinary mind
this man owned and used
to the betterment of man kind)
and three;
....much more prosaically..
you see...
i fear i am having a moment of
metenoia ....
with regard to the trifle...
and the amount of it's delctable
connsumption.
i can now clearly
and a tiny bit queasily,
see....
what it is to be a glutton!!!
and i find repentant thoughts
of never again will i eat so much...
(in one sitting)....
are stomping on the rabbits.
(fortunately the rabbits are
getting out of the way....
...quick little fellas aren't they..
...no rabbits were hurt in the filming
of this imaginary sequence...)
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
Bleached walls, and incandescent lights
The mind illustrates it’s own world
With dreams, desires and abstractions
What it wants, but can never have
Droned out vocalization, and exaggerated sighs
The mind fills in the gaps
With chatter, remarks and laughs
What it wants, but can never have
Concrete floors, and tiled ceilings
The mind creates it’s own scenery
With grasses, mosses and trees
What it wants, but can never have
Constant progression, and flooded walkways
The mind orchestrates it’s own utopia
With sunshine, breeze and cloudless skies
What it wants, but can never have
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
The trees expand with my eyes, here in
this solace, this international scene.
Pigeons, rowboats, the water and a
solitary swan – each a gift or a
gift’s ribbon. Snaking off into the air,
a balloon is cradled by the bustle
of the restless London-summer’s landscape.
The ordinary habitation is
so releasing: a miniature smile
scooters by; slow sweeps of saxophone
notes clear the sky; two bodies blended
in shin-height grass release a single sigh.
Abstractions felt but failed by my speech
take root here. Like semi-singed threads or strings,
they slide upward from the dirt to grow leaves.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:47 AM UTC
[Sidra of the Stars]
a goddess has awakened
eyes slowly open
penetrating...
light reflects off the irises
(recessive blue alleles on chromosome 15)
my name is Sidra
and I will not be diverted.
-
I stand under sol
I stand under the earth's satellite
I stand in the vale.
-
look upon my feet
the fine lines of support
and strength of design
golden light showers
my long legs
strong and graceful
gaze upon my curves...
silky
ample
hypnotic
look at my golden arms
that comfort babes
dig into the earth
and create abstractions
hands and fingers of elegance
given to me by my grandmother
nails to claw and hands to hold
look at my long neck
draped in silver metal and black glass
falling between my *******
hips compliment the
curve of my spine and
the upward tilt of my chin
my hair is a golden light
shining over hoops of silver
and diamond studs
crystal pierces my nose
lips soft and full
eyes lined in black, never faltering
-
this goddess is aware
conscious
enlightened
eager.
-
I will not abide
silence
undeserved
because you lack the courage
to face me.
I will not abide
deception
manipulation
or syrupy black selfishness.
I will not abide
injustice
mockery
or ultimatums.
I will not abide
misrepresentation
vagueness
or weakness.
-
I am Sidra
of
the stars
of
the sky
of
the night
-
I move swiftly in the night
eyes bright
a creator
a lover
a muse
thoughts align
images swirl
pen to paper
my body moves
sensuous and confident
music booms
lips curve upwards
-
the day descends with
distractions pulling awareness
into waves of concentration
tiny fragments of
thoughts and ideas
begin to build
for later contemplation
-
I know the minds of men.
I will not be diverted.
My power has been revealed.
I will protect the unprotected
**And I will stand
Made of stars
And unleash Hell.**
-
I will reign terror on your ego
and bring the sword down
on your garishness.
Naked and ******** on my warhorse
I will strike you down with silver spear
and you will pay for your misdeeds.
In all my thundering beauty
with nothing but logic and art
I will slam you to the wall
and declare you a fool.
-
I am Sidra of the Stars
I stand in the vale
I will not be diverted.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
*A bittersweet mixture of agony and ecstasy
Found in the lone voice of a piano
Painting colours in harmony
That leave my senses reeling
Flying through the air like an arrow
Shot from cupids bow
An electric arc in the atmosphere
Piercing my soul with forgotten longing
Balancing in timeless beauty
Pirouetting chiffon billows elegantly through the notes
Defying gravity
Suspended in animation
Music that compels my body into
Configurations that delight and thrill my perceptions
An exquisite pain of my own making
I lose myself in abstractions
Octaves fluidly creating shapes
Resembling cursive script
The author of symmetry
I hover on the edge of a lost dream .....
I once stood on my toes
Until the day
Fate took it from me*
(C) Pixievic 2016
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC
We are hands,
and eyes,
and feet, and ears,
lumps of skin,
and bone.
We are puddles of blood
filling the cracks
on the side of the road.
We are mush,
and porcelain teeth
knocked out and embedded
where the steering wheel used to be.
We are hearts, and veins,
arteries clogged up
with a midnight treat.
We are alcohol in the blood stream.
We are 60 miles per hour,
on a residential street.
We are a corpse,
Limbs thrown out like a compass,
Guts spilled out like a teenage poet.
But what we are not,
Is a soul.
We are objects,
We are play things.
For higher species,
Godly beings.
To smile like kids crashing toy cars.
We are empty,
We are just vessels in a blood stream,
Giving life .
We are white noise, screaming for our mothers.
We are a name in a notepad.
A statistic in a book,
Passed out at clever Christian fundraisers,
For old ladies who like sugar cookies.
We are a pop punk song
With memorable lyrics
And a catchy hook .
-Kevin T. 6/16/10
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
i was watching batman (1989) and batman returns (1992)
today, and i couldn't stop layering over birdman (2015)
over both films, it was such a comedy, you knew
that it wasn't a serious engagement
in the role, i just kept picturing
the internal monologue -
the action scenes were already
a gimmick when in the birdman
the explosions start with the critique
of what people actually like to see -
and that critique that the joker
is no more a weird'o than batman
dressed in black leather / spandex -
i just wish heath ledger took a break
from acting, and they did the same
sort of film about the actor behind
the joker, but how would they internalise
the essence of the role: the laughter...
internalising a husky voice can be easily
done when the actor in a different role
can talk easily and speedily without that
haunting husky role of the original part...
but the laughter? it would never work,
which is why jack warned heath
about playing the role... 'son, beware
the laughter.' still, what an enjoyable re-watch,
putting over the birdman nostalgia
over the seriousness of the acting in the
originals, you can actually imagine him
going for a coffee break and taking a ****
when the original screening took place,
the whole: back to reality - it really amplified
the films in a quirky way;
and i still think the joker is the only
doppelgänger that can't be tamed: i'm guessing
because of coulrophobia -
and i could still see remnants of this mythical
doppelgänger on heath in the imaginarium
of dr. parnassus... the clowns are onto you,
you can't steal one of them from
the jammed mini or volkswagen beetle with 20 of them in it,
plus the crying clown, everyone's heard of that
one, they mime laughter, this vocalised doppelgänger
of a clown is cursed -
because unlike actual mimes they don't surd
bewilderment being stuck in a box, or touching
a brick wall obstacle... they surd laughter,
and they share it among themselves in a circus,
vocalising that surd is a curse,
since vocalising an actual mime leaves you
without the actual abstractions,
and from what i heard, brick walls are silent
like graves, unless of course you punch one
or smash a car into one.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
raised by wolves
thirty three pints of blood before the final verdict
backwoods altar
the road to the gallows is still dirt
technology doesn't reach places like here
full moon symbolism
muscles tend to prove as abstractions in proper limb dislocation
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
Outstretched
And
Exposed
To find
Yourself
In
The
Chasm.
Displaced
Consciousness
As if
A Phantom.
Holding your soul,
Close to your body.
Rolling
Into
A Cocoon
Of
Newly
Spun
String.
Rolling, rolling, rolling...
To where?
Towards
Undetectable
Cosmos.
Unending,
Then crystalizing
Over sudden sunsets,
Infinitely,
Across the horizon.
Moving towards
Abstractions
Faster,
As concrete
Fails to set
Within them.
Swept up
On the stairwell
Of a helix,
Waiting to
See where
It ends.
Caught up
In the never-ending
Space of Obscurity
That sometimes seems
Forbidden.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 11:43 PM UTC
Everything is pure imagination,
colors pulled from the mind’s
massive palette,
as new dimensions reveal themselves
in swirling abstractions
of curling rainbow action.
The colors she sees internally
are multi layered and 3d,
rapidly releasing childlike energy
and remaking her inner existence
into a safe fantasy,
as she takes that imagery
and makes it her waking reality.
She takes the power to paint and reshape
a poorly formed life of pain
into a playground of
crimson, purple, yellow,
pink, and blue
for everyone to view.
Everything fades to background noise,
and there is only art unfurling,
as the unconscious writes its own story,
as time moves at its own pace,
letting awe and intense focus
color her sweet cherubic face.
Nov 21, 2023
Nov 21, 2023 at 12:40 PM UTC
The obsession
takes possession
of my thoughts.
Every waking hour
intent on feeding
Said addiction,
Wasting a wonderful
day’s worth of potential
on pleasures and rewards
that are digital abstractions,
Becoming subtractions
from the quality of my mind,
and my life.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
I get tired of it
The guys who write "poems" just to try to pick up on women
Cliche ridden hunks of text depending upon abstractions to seem deep
Yes I know this work is subjective, yes I know I'm not one to judge
But I can smell the real thing brother, and it doesn't smell like you
You don't HAVE to do this **** sitting up late juggling concepts too broad to pin down
You don't HAVE to sit down and pour it out before it erupts into a case of bad attitude.
You're far more interested in seeming deep, while the deep are far more interested in surviving
You want to front like you're a cool guy, like you've gotten in touch with all of the rally calls, and you're up on all the obscurities that anyone in the know should have a handle on
I don't give a **** what music you think is superior, or what author you feel your style most closely resembles, because you don't have a voice of your own
When you've got some **** to say, say it, own it, and put a real voice behind it, otherwise don't waste my time.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
What if I told you
I had all the answers.
Would you accommodate my allegations
Or assume my observations are obsolete?
Let's see.
What if I told you
There are approximately five abandoned houses
For every so called vagabond in America.
Let's pretend some simple addition could remedy this situation
And a few sets of steady hands plus a plethora of dry wall
Could dramatically increase the living conditions in these residences
And decrease the number of five year olds
Who consider dreaming on concrete comfortable.
Would you lend a hand?
What if I told you
That minorities make up the vast majority of inmates in America
While corporate crooks who believe distributing the wealth
Means purchasing penthouses in every time zone
From Ponzi Scheme paychecks
Receive bailouts rather than handcuffs.
As if felons in white collars are invisible to proper punishment.
Would you take the stand?
What if I told you
Believing in Buddha and his blessings
Or the New Testament teachings
Is not reason enough to persecute anyone
Based on their personal beliefs.
Because believe it or not
We were all blessed with the ability
To show compassion for others regardless of religious indifference.
Would you make amends?
What if I told you
I had none of the answers.
That my words were merely that- words.
That my call requires actions
And answers mean actually acting on abstractions
That most people keep inside mental concepts.
Would you hear me?
Would you help me?
What if I told you nothing?
Would you listen then?
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
poetry comes and goes
opens and flows
spills into streams of prose
amidst the musical rows of my thoughts.
forms and rhythms
which melt and morph and sing into being
the abstractions of synaptic connections,
write into existence
the chemical signals of neurotransmitter gossip,
and transfer to the Symbolic
the electrical impulses of the Real
scratch and peel the caulk
from the edges of The Faucet,
turn and wind the wheeled handles open,
open, open.
Past lefty loosey and into
the outpouring of pent up pressure;
raw, and juicy.
Poetry is *** death and magic.
The art of training the mind's faucets
elastic.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
SINS BENEATH VINCENT’S STARRY NIGHT
Ayad Izzet Gharbawi
A Drunken King wept over self-created sins
In his unglamorous life
The corrupt Wedding saddened
The thousand year-old Trees
Burdened by the Cynical Winds
Where Shy Priests
Doubted
Their edict’s worth
That they copied all their lives
The Mature ****** dreamed of lush meadows
Painted and imagined by the Quiet Madman
Where the Illiterates
Cursed aloud
At their colourful tears
That no one could decipher nor understand
As Panting Stars
Spoke
Of their daring homecoming
Scattered Women were venturing out at last
Unashamed to defy fear and threats from within
And Lovers awoke to their hypocrisy
Amidst Family Smiles
And the routinization of boredom
As Beggars of Humanity pleaded
Quietly
For Mercy
And no more abstractions
Distant Stars were swayed by Heavens
Troubled, once more, by us.
The Shining Hope shivers its warning for all hearts
To feel for themselves
In punishments they mentioned too often
Only for the Poor, the Lame and the Meek
In Unruly Nights soured in veiled darknesses
By the Anger of the Dying
Such crimes of the past were recalled
By the minds of the Cold Ones still ruling over you;
You Inheritors of a unique and particular grief
Where Colourless Eyes stare
At your simple
And Unanswered Passions
Yet, the pained and Insecure Citizen begs the
Starry Night to inspire
Fearing your Frightened ‘Self’
You search all the other Selves
As a Conversation is repeated again
In your evenings of darkening anxiety
The gates of weariness burn
As I fear to tell and speak and relate any longer.
Jan 16, 2010
Jan 16, 2010 at 7:53 AM UTC
every day i see your grinning face,
scowling back at you,
i push the inevitable away,
the extremist christian preacher,
trying to "save" the impressionably intellectual college crowd,
only doing it for the rise of drawing a riot,
on the concrete canvas,
illustrating muddy red abstractions of chaos,
bowing to overlording masters of extremity,
in hopes of burying **** faces,
in prismatic drippings of paint-slathered sand,
eating bland beatings of faint clippings,
yet you stand there,
emasculated in your chronic musings,
without one permeated prism,
embedded in your studded jacket,
is your acceptance of how you could be.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
It's not everything; to sit and watch the world
shift between abstractions is like sleep.
Life's not love.
Life's not wisdom.
Life's not nature.
Life's not anything
but a blue-brown paper bag to carry your thoughts
because there is no where else to put them.
I wouldn't say ironic. We aren't really trying to discover
secrets. It's not about that.
You can sit in swamp musk and find it
after realizing the world is not so disgusting,
but that we are.
It's about coping with yourself
and all of your ****
biting ankles;
sewing shoes together;
selling the ridiculously semi-sentimental trinkets
your parents gave you and making some cash;
buying hookers;
taking them to the park with your dog;
watching your dog find happiness
and knowing you'll always just be
almost there.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
Inspiration from a fellow writer
And a chance at contemplation on a peaceful Saturday afternoon
Have led to a quest for forgotten moments
And thoughts of pleasant abstractions.
A hint at appreciative visuals
Carries the thought to a fig tree
Growing majestically in its place in its earthen patch.
Words fail to describe the abundance of life that exists
As sparrows flit through branches heavily laden with fruit
While the wind gently rustles leaves shaped like green hands outstretched,
Casting gentle shadows on a silently bustling anthill.
A hummingbird zooms in to smell a fruit,
Squeaks twice, and exits with the soft thrum of its wings.
A lizard skitters through the jungle of grass and snaps up a mouthful of ants
Bringing chaos to the ant kingdom.
Yet tranquility is soon restored to the fig tree soaking in the solar rays,
And the tomato quietly ripening under a cloudless sky.
Under that same sky, countless battles rage
And boiling chaos tears at its leash.
All of creation groans with pain of labor
As the fallen dig deeper in their graves
And are consumed by beastly desires.
In a forest, countless leaves gently whisper their sorrows
As warm light dances through the shadows.
The surface of a pond, as smooth as glass
Is only momentarily broken by ripples of activity
While the beholder stares deeply into the reflection.
Below the surface, ghoulish beings lurk in the mire
While deeper still, the mud of hypocrisy churns wildly
As the unworthy tongues set in and will clash in unfathomable violence.
There is something desperately wrong
Yet churlish scoffers ignore the signs
Blinded in selfishness and greed.
Again and again they play games of chess
Where all the pieces are pawns
Replaced with fake queens
While the kings of value are forgotten
Set aside until they are shot to pieces.
Yet all this is hidden, beneath the surface of impeccable glass
As devilish turmoil roars beneath the skins of men.
There is but one hope for a life of meaning
In which true peace can be restored.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
My thoughts persist with the onset of sleep,
a swirling mist,
an ashen awareness of the futility of my hopes,
the dull ache of faltering inertia,
hidden between silver folds of liquid ego,
and in my dreams,
circumstance is as I wish it to be,
I am therefore I think,
painting my heart on my sleeve,
using abstractions familiar only to me,
fractal entities subsisting on synecdoche,
the mundane shattered in streets of my own memory,
the monotony brushed aside if only for awhile,
it is in this avenue that I thrive,
silver lined and gilded ideals,
a place where guile and truth intermix,
and it is reason and aesthetic rhythms that guide,
set in motion by the desires of my heart and mind,
in the calm embrace of the nether I am proud,
devoid of fear or avarice,
and all at once I am awake,
I am alone,
fretful,
lonely,
alive.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
He’s a ***** of in-
tellectual acumen. A real conveyor of post-modern acuity.
What he has to say doesn’t make sense to me.
No one understands his esoteric complexity.
He speaks of Aristotelian “virtues”, Platonic Forms, and other
“practical” participation by the particularities.
Part of all that not even he fully understands.
Juxtaposing Quniean “webs of Knowledge” with Davidson Coherantism
He is challenged by McDowells 2nd nature Bildung.
His conventional English is thus un-sung, while meta-physical abstractions are then hung
Out to dry, in the abstract realm sky. What color is that sky?
“Unfair Question” he cries.
“Tell me about God” I ask, “very well” he replies.
My brain is numb after one question, and a few words.
He continues, “Do the God(s) agree upon what is good?”
Yes is my reply. “If so, do they love what is good?” Again yes.
“Then, is the Good whatever the God(s) love, or do the God(s) love what is Good?”
He must be on drugs.
A little philosophy makes a man an atheist.
A lot makes him a believer,
just not in God. He praises Reason, his room is a shrine.
Within four walls one will not find, no not any sign
Of conviction.
What? All this time thinking, reflecting, meditating, abstracting, observing, weaving grand tapestries of thought and still he does not find a foot hold in reality?
What the hell were you thinking about?
He responds.
A stream of consciousness is all that is,
past is a referent future is a predicate.
I am not the “me” I refer to when I say “my book.”
No sir, I have never spoken to you any knowledge of me.
For that I have none of, but knowledge I am not without.
If it is one thing I know, it is that I know nothing.
I tell him certainly my English teacher would know something to defeat him,
I am soon disenchanted, for he has ammunition for her.
“Ask her”, he says “to ascertain the truth value to this grammatically perfect declarative Sentence.”
Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 11:29 PM UTC