"acclimated" poems
942
Snow beneath whose chilly softness
Some that never lay
Make their first Repose this Winter
I admonish Thee
Blanket Wealthier the Neighbor
We so new bestow
Than thine acclimated Creature
Wilt Thou, Austere Snow?
4.1k
a hole
void of light
dwelling in hellish mental wells
with no fight, flight or rational
weeeeelllllll,
.....
oh well....
man,
acclimated to dirt ceilings/sealings,
and
unless stars are aligned
will be born dead before found alive
roots from life
hang over head,
..
**** em..
..
just empty promises
from another dead
so,
sit in solitude
a solemn wreck
show helping hands,
real neglect
to uncover this hovel.?
no shovel will do
even
a sympathy symphony
wont let light shine through
Empower.
manifest mountain-tops
from bottom rocks-once-kicked
blossom bottle-rock-ets
from sticks, stones,
and,
thoughts of home
illuminate
cold dismal walls
elucidate
ambitious calls
burst forth reborn
alter the skyline
with mind
refined
you can do anything
you put your mind to
look in the mirror
say im just tryna find you
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
539
The Province of the Saved
Should be the Art—To save—
Through Skill obtained in Themselves—
The Science of the Grave
No Man can understand
But He that hath endured
The Dissolution—in Himself—
That Man—be qualified
To qualify Despair
To Those who failing new—
Mistake Defeat for Death—Each time—
Till acclimated—to—
3.1k
1425
The inundation of the Spring
Enlarges every soul—
It sweeps the tenement away
But leaves the Water whole—
In which the soul at first estranged—
Seeks faintly for its shore
But acclimated—pines no more
For that Peninsula—
3.1k
Life’s an upward struggle, and it makes it so much rougher
when the ladder you find yourself climbing is beset by lonely weather.
When every other rung is off doing other things,
the solitude and altitude bring to mind desolation
and the emptiness that brings.
No matter the genius emanating from ivory minds,
the smartest man among us often finds
that brilliance unfiltered clogs up the system,
when others must consume the lonely perfume
of conceits kept alone,
while the common thoughts stay collected
like so many sheep in a pen that’s separated
from self-same lonely thoughts,
that genius oft encounters,
left only amongst the happiness
that fills up life’s happy coffers.
So it goes that lofty ideals become frostbitten
by snowcapped mountains of emptiness.
Others seek the heights together only during pleasant weather,
while those who trounce through snow-packed trails
must brave the climes alone tempted only by fate,
to descend to summits more frequent
than the peaks of accomplishment.
Gangrenous lips cannot utter
the chilled revelations of those left above too long.
So it is left to those below,
not inferior from the altitude,
just more likely acclimated to the difficult, dull journey
of those who spare pristine slopes
for the sullied, muddied slush on the tourist trails below.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 2:49 AM UTC
This fog is all cranberries
pine is all frosted, he is so
far acclimated to flirtatious
language, my footprints are
stepping stones and all he
has to do is follow, so how
do I stop the cycle how do
shed
skin?
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 2:55 AM UTC
i am the right knee
that steps first
and hits gravel
embracing the brute pain
our world has acclimated us to
because they said injury is
inevitable
while you are the left
that although remains flawless
from lack of exposure
heals
slower
and is categorized with
the weak
we belong to the same body
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
How easy it is to paint people
With one color,
With one broad brush.
Over time the various
Colors on your palette
Swirl together to form globs
Of gray.
And now your monochrome
Judgement renders your world
A bleak, barren desert of ashes.
No longer do you see the world and its
People in its colorful splendor.
Some become acclimated to this dulled
Perception that has taken hold.
A perception that dominates the
Senses and gradually turns the brain
Into gray mush.
Undead they become, starving creatures
With the urge to devour.
To hurt.
No empathy. No compassion. No feeling.
Others, thankfully, know better.
Palettes must be cleansed regularly,
Layers of dried, crusted paint scraped off
With patience.
Then fresh paint is restored.
Fresh perspectives, encounters, and knowledge
Passed down by models to the artist.
Yes, we are artists.
We paint the world as we deem fit,
Plastering on others one’s own
Values, morals, and ideals.
But the true masters of this craft go beyond,
Discerning the vast spectrum of colors
That compose a human soul.
But that takes time.
Years of experience and keen observation.
But possible.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
Referees mismanage oversight
incorrect calls lower credibility
faith in justice dissolves into the ice
agency is taken into padded hands
vigilantes slash and spear.
Hip check leads to cross check leads to fist check
malignant hostility boils over
leather armor is removed
interphalangeal joints meet mandible
type O negative paints a jersey
haymakers take bizarre trajectories
to avoid helmets and visors
the face is homebase to ingrain pain.
Violence subverts gamesmanship
players must be taken off ice
to be put on ice
otherwise brawls become overabundant
and destroy the integrity of the sport
yet each transfer of agony is euphorically satisfying
—considering the context—
so fist fairs continue for the foreseeable future
we organize an impenetrable perimeter
once we've acclimated to penalty kills.
Jan 11, 2021
Jan 11, 2021 at 4:01 PM UTC
i must hustle cause i’m made of spoil
moist rice skin
thinly incases soft fluttering organs
mucus coated elastic chicken bones
run throughout my parcel
they prop me doe-ing before the lumy screen
(the screen that volunteers us all)
emaciating into my work
through this communal portal i'll detonate my legend
my spirit shall decant and dispel gladly
in the world remaining
my cadaver will become acclimated
and re-meat the soil in an easy spill
no longer alienated my work will be utter
Nov 14, 2022
Nov 14, 2022 at 6:03 AM UTC
On the shores of Vietnam,
She was Ly and
He was Tom.
He saved her from a falling bomb,
How much sweeter does it get?
He brought her home to see the states,
Took her on a couple dates.
He even set and cleaned the plates.
How much sweeter does it get?
They bought a home in east Rhode Island;
Decor to match her home in Thailand.
She acclimated to the dry land.
How much sweeter does it get?
Some years went by and Ly would cry
When Tom would get deployed.
"My country needs me."
"So do I."
They both would get annoyed.
So one day Ly brought up to Tom
That life is like a ticking bomb.
So with his quill
He penned his will
And ended back in Vietnam.
Bullets showered from the sky
And mines exploded from below-
But ****** really stole the show...
The warm night skies all orange aglow.
Ly heard soon of Tom's demise...
Tear drops glistened in her eyes.
But she was quick to realize
The will, the future; oh the prize.
How much sweeter does it get?
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 3:51 AM UTC
I was finally and absolutely safe. I, a gem in my father's eye, and he, born before my sight. In the house, the streets, indefinite ringing, and the almost-departure of the grand-papy pat on the back, a gesture entirely too simple for me. I just wanted to hug him and hear him speak. Even all I disagreed with spawned the most paternal anger in me, only days after the vasectomy. He had we, my sister and three other children but anyways two got off free, so it's just my sister with me, and some heavy things where all on us. And someone lifted a few off at the arriving terminal, at the carousel. Acclimated to the pekin breeze we the most moral-est sponge we'd ever seen take some space in his daddy brain. Wosh...wooosh...whehw, whewh and my dad's anew. Some startling thing he knows whens he looks down the road, deep down into the road, because here you are so sweet when you speak.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
even change, is now changing
and we grasp
for anchors
i feel, as if
surfing a wave
tunnel vision ahead
assurances,
absent
riding,
faith
There are others I’ve connected with, surfing the same front. Some have confidence, some feel protected, whilst others seem adventurously excited or propelled by absence of another accepted option. Each day, the media reflects what I have already felt, experience and life are reorganizing, a soup of energetic reconstitution.
in these least stable times,
we dance
on shifting sands
I note that some have already acclimated to the next age, busy integrating and finding new creative powers. I seek to surround myself in their energies, to assimilate peace, and comforting encouragement.
the world i knew, has ended
as each day
fades
into
night
in next dream
we commence, crafting
dreamscapes
just for today
i’ll paint
what i feel
feeling
what i paint
creative projection
projecting creation
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 12:24 PM UTC
Amidst the sea of people
suffocating in the calumnation of their realm
ringed within the despair of others around them
and solemnly existing alongside the control of civilisation
Lay individuals heeding to their own opinions
shunned, ignored and stamped on by their peers
labeled as a nobody, as worthless and useless
and understood as not one of them
only as an error in the production of mankind
Free and unconstricted of the anguishing order
released as someone whom does not belong
condemned as not right in their head
and mentioned as unusual, absurd, crazy
Criticised as a dreadfully contrary being
memorised as a faulty move in the game of chess
expeditiously withdrawn from the establishment of humanity
and obliterated from the existence of their kind
Eyes judging from afar
fearing for their presence to be near
disgusted by their demeaning manner
and forced to abide within their deficient companionship
Once bound to free the shrieking tears
sobs and wails heard from others
begging for acceptance and help
and chasing the deemed worthy for assistance
Metamorphosed into a satisfactory compliance of themselves
buoyantly striding into the halls of the accounted worthy
neglecting the insults and protests of others
and middlingly acclimated to the continuance of being the hated
Disrespected, despised and dishonored they may be
but blithe, wild and free-spirited incorporated
effectively enhancing their blessed individualised life
and liberated from the provocation of those unwilling of exemption
forcefully claiming their unrighteous place in civilisation.
As they are, and always will be the outcast.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
It was visceral
My gut clenched like I was falling in a dream
Deep in the core of me
Where the parasympathetic neuron bundles coalesce
And tell you to be calm
They were yelling
The wave of their signalling swept across the whole of me
I tingled and itched from my scalp to my toes
All the tiny blood vessels expanded
Fueling the sensory nerves of my skin,
My pupils dilated
My mouth salivated
I wanted to reach out with every bit of me
I wanted to expand to consume and experience every part of the world
To touch everything
To feel everything
Taste and Smell and See everything
I wanted to invent new organs of sensation
To better understand it, to experience more, to feel all of it
I jumped up
Like a dog
And reveled in the pure ecstatic joy of the sensory intensity
Every smell, the ambient humidity, the warm breeze
The color, the warmth of the sun,
The sounds of all the biologic engines of the world
Each of which was individually responsible for an infinite joy
And together were even more
It was a feeling that lasted only moments
And faded in soft turns
Till I became acclimated and in time oblivious
And the grass was once again, just grass
And the flowers were just weeds
And the dogs, and the children and the people in the town
Were just local residents going about their secret lives
And not the heaving mass of cells and life,
Climaxing in the moment of their existence to become more
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 3:16 AM UTC
I'm running out of rocket fuel
Otherworldly atmosphere within me is diminishing rapidly
I lose my interstellar breath
How have I not acclimated yet?
My gills are slow at developing
I swallow mad gulps of this dense ether
I call home on the shawty makeshift devices I scramble to construct
It's a weak faint signal at best
Transmission is a broken morse code
Occasional flashes come through
A glimpse of a faint remembrance of my origin
I know you're out there somewhere
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 8:55 AM UTC
Every legend begins with a truth
I've often heard it said
And it makes me start to wonder
About all the things I've read.
Did Merlin really exist?
Does magic live out there
And if it does
I wonder where.
Atlantians may have acclimated
In the ocean depths where they abide.
They've learned to live and breathe
In the waters where they reside.
Maybe there's a whole new civilization
Down on the ocean floor
Where Neptune ad all the mermaids live,
Those fantasies we adore.
Every eye-drawing man I see
I'm beginning to speculate
Could it his werewolf blood
That doubles my heart rate?
That **** specimen of magnificent man
Does he change when day becomes night?
Does he thrive on the feels of adrenalin
Or how easy he can cause fright.
Does he run in a pack when the moon is full
Does he lure women to his bed
What determines our strength of will?
That tiny human thread.
In the dark of night across the crowd
His eyes lock onto me;
And though I long to pull away
He's all that I can see.
I see the tiny point of fangs
As he leads us to solitude
And I feel the rush of adrenalin
As sure as I feel the doom.
****** awake by the vivid dreams
The memories begin to flood,
But reality quickly opens my eyes
When I see the drops of blood.
There are predators out there in the streets
Not all the human kind,
And fear of what we don't understand
Encourages us to be blind.
Those things that terrify us
The predator in the night;
We are so foolish to assume
They're not there in the light.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Between your branches
I’ve grown too comfortably
My roots have recognized
Every gap every blemish
Becoming acclimated
To only your atmosphere
I can no longer flourish
Without you
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 2:55 AM UTC
Alone and empty
I moved without the moon
Attempting to keep my own rhythm
Stubbornly holding onto control.
You crept up like the tide
Always moving in and out
Too slowly to notice
Until it swept me away.
Your water nourished me
When I was accustomed to drought
Acclimated to the constant thirst
that I forgot I even had.
I dove right into the waves
Toes numb, eyes focused at the horizon
Not knowing what to expect,
Accepting your water in my soul.
Submerging myself,
My body compelled me to come up for air
Take a breath
But my gilled heart was secure down there
For the first time.
Autumn implies decay
Vibrant colors turned to brown
No green in sight
Remembering the lively spring.
But look closely as
the leaves drop from their source of life
And find the dirt from which they were born.
There is no death here.
Just as the water moves by some greater force,
As the leaves fall
to birth new life,
So do I yield to the cycle.
In allowing myself to be moved,
in forfeiting control,
In falling,
I find my peace in you
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 10:26 PM UTC
I started to love her in open view.
In the mornings we would walk together
and she would reach out
and try to pull me in with her gentle beckoning.
At first, I think, we sank into the background,
but each day that they saw us together solidified the emotions
that the inquisitive observers realized through our shared whispers
and the smiles caused by the revelation of what those whispers meant.
They began to wave each day
as I floated by with her lips gently pressing against me.
I could not help but wave back to respond
that all they had assumed was true.
I appeared to love her too suddenly for open view.
They saw her gentle beckoning pull me into her in the afternoon
of the same morning they realized our whispers.
Objections were called out and followed with reasoned fear.
She is still too cold to hold you.
You cannot tell me that you are fine when your lips are trembling.
It would be wise to wait for a better season.
What do you think you are proving by doing this?
I had started to love her in open view,
but what the observers failed to realize
was that I was trembling before my body ever touched the water.
While they slept at night I longed for her,
and rose out of the comfortable warmth of safety.
In nights of frigid cold I ran to her
and poured myself into the only container
large enough to hold the emotion that it caused.
I appeared to love her too suddenly for open view.
I could not wade in slowly enough
to let the water get acclimated to me.
I longed to be surrounded by the one
that pulled me in with her gentle beckoning.
I gasped, wide-eyed, as I broke the surface,
with the lively smile of a man
determined to swim in the waters he loves
regardless of the season.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
Never Acclimate!
~
For Mr. Keith Wilson, an Answer...
from the British Isles to the Shelter Island,
a former colony, a scion of a special relation
a question arrives, wind wafted, upon wings of bytes
it is not an inquiry of heated
weather
rather,
an inquisition question of heated
whether
will we grow acclimated to the heat
of impossibly unjustifiable man murdering himself?
by acclamation!
we announce
not ever
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 9:40 AM UTC
Tune your eyes
to the vibrations of
Starlight and space mist.
Allow your ears
to become acclimated
to the dark.
Give your voice the
permission to address emptiness and echoes.
Void.
Void.
The Horsehead nebula
wishes to gallop
through your mind's eye.
The light you see
in the Darkness
is the light perceived
by the Angels
at the beginning of time.
Black holes are
Stars gone Nova in photographic reverse.
Come, you children
of dust.
See with your
auditory senses.
Hear with your tongue.
Sing with your hands
as they flutter as
white doves
in the dance of mortality.
Then you will
come to know
the soul of space.
Aug 21, 2022
Aug 21, 2022 at 6:48 AM UTC
Standing under a lavender sky
looking up at a waning crescent
moon.
It looks like God’s thumbnail
bitten anxiously off,
set adrift inside the evening’s
celestial ceiling.
I try to wish her back
into existence.
Alas,
I am unsuccessful.
As the sky deepens
into more desperate purples,
I become attuned,
acclimated to the fact
that my wishes will fall short.
Solace comes in knowing that
my love did not,
neither has hers fallen short
of the stars,
of the heavens,
of the desperately purple sky.
As I was then,
I am now.
Surrounded.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
Just in case
its been miss communicated.
Are government
Has been heavily underestimated.
And unless you chose
to become acclimated.
And let you mind become
Contaminated.
While each generation
is more uneducated.
Just a dying breed
being **********
Cops stories being fabricated.
That's why they are becoming abominated.
Its all a story that's been fabricated.
What is that me
I've been duplicated
I'm not talking cartoons
My cells have been fabricated
From money that's been allocated.
To companies that have become conglomerated.
While there CEO'S
are greatly compensated.
They keep us all checkmated.
By making our jobs automated.
With machines making jobs eliminated.
And our wages are all but dissipated.
They try to keep us alienated.
Why our lives are infiltrated.
They know whether or not what we drink is decaffeinated.
All are privacy has been decimated.
Thanks to technology that has been created.
But just as all things can be hated.
We the people our power can be demonstrated.
Before we become annihilated.
By those who keep us alienated.
Why their plan is becoming accelerated.
Taking our freedom
its confiscated.
Adding chemicals to our foods keeping minds contaminated.
Our minds our manipulated and captivated.
As bombs detonated cause innocent to be devastated.
Can't you see us so frustrated.
Its time for them to be investigated.
All mighty companies to be separated.
So all companies can be family orientated.
It was we the people when we became declarated.
But we gave our freedom away
To become isolated.
Its time to stand up
Its time to be liberated.
Before they make us all medicated.
Take my words as ye will
I may be opinionated.
But heed my warning
Its all being orchestrated.
Our end is prefabricated.
Our civilization will be eradicated.
Unless we become reeducated.
And those behind it all are eliminated.
Written By RICHARD B SHICK
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 1:10 AM UTC