"accumulates" poems
“An ill of greed has befallen the land,”
“A quickening sickness which seeks to prey…”
“Where wealth accumulates and men decay.”
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
The great dialectic remains between fate and free will.
I'm prepared to defend the notion that fate has a bigger hand
Without seeing into the future we are unable to change it
The forms textures chiaroscuros and chromes are painted into each of us as we descend into the world soul
and discover we are not merely posing cameos
directed by each other's projections
All souls are evocations,
layer upon layer of archetypes
each of them
prayers and yogas
all irreducible fluctious desires
voluptuous nymph or curmudgeon
hero or *****
As depth accumulates
we give each thing a name
we live and unfurl destiny
both good and evil
This fate already forged into our souls.
Only in destinies weaving finality,
even beyond the grave
are we melted down like snow in divine rays
of effulgent light, and pure spirit
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
Mind is a super computer they say.
It can think of millions of stuff in a matter of day.
From the bombings in Iraq,
to the hurt in my best friends heart.
From the moment its up,
It never stops,
To stop. Blink or breathe.
It keeps running at night.
The subconscious consumes power.
Often leaving the mind tired at the break of dawn.
When it meets people,
it reads the signs at many levels.
Subject of talk,
Body language.
Positivity of the vibes,
The way the person jives.
A handshake.
A wink.
A hug.
A swiftly made jug*
It notices everything.
In all this processing.
It accumulates a lot of clutter!
And the mind with all the confusing thoughts,
becomes like hot butter!
Sparks fly like an electronic of fire!
And it needs something to distract it.
What works best is a bit of exercise.
A bit of chattering,
Or writing it all out.
Some find solace in Games or Movies.
Why do they work?
Because they engage all senses,
And make the mind groovy.
Smoking and doping do great too.
But reducing the processors of our mind to grade two!
Hallucinating and dreaming 80% of it.
The mind thinks its being more productive that most of it.
But illusions destroy us further.
Making the mind believe it’s just another wonder.
Wonder though it is.
Using only 10% of it we create,
Science, History, Mystery,
But this wonder has a lot on bate.
If it goes in the wrong direction.
Even thinking too much is an addiction!
Original thoughts are like endorphins to the mind.
Making it jump and do cartwheels inside.
Stimulating discussions are named that way,
Because engaging in one makes us jumpy all day.
It satisfies the mind that,
I have done something constrictive besides,
Whiling my days in sorrow,
and waiting for the morrow.
Mind is like a baby that need attention,
if not given that it runs in all directions.
Mind is a super computer that needs,
the dedication of a programmer.
Be that programmer and feed your mind the right numbers,
And see it become the eighth wonder!
*Jug- short for juggle.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
There's something beautiful about freckles and blemishes and imperfections before I'm made up in the morning. There's something right about naked in the mirror; flaws and scars and age that accumulates with the years. I am a story to be read. I've got skin like a song.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
Being lazy digs a huge grave
For our peace and won't save
A lazy fellow is never brave
He is to fate a submissive slave
Taking action he will shun
Success shows him no affection
God gives him no protection
He belongs to the losing section
A lazy man gets no sweats
Tears become his constant assets
He uses buts and loses guts
He is depressed for lack of outlets
He lies lethargically in his bed
To be passive, thinks his head
Mentally he is almost dead
His is a very negative blood
Great chances he regularly misses
He is deprived of victory's kisses
A working mind, he does not possess
He never gets success as a bonus
His brain is so lazy *** idle
Everything is to him a riddle
He is afraid of every hurdle
His life, fate will finely meddle
Work makes him fear and faint
Gloom only his thoughts paint
Against him accumulates complaint
His mind, laziness will strongly taint
Progress tells him good-bye
He is an unattractive guy
His life-river is ever dry
Only laziness, he can supply
Idleness may be initially jolly
But it is not at all holy
Angels like it not wholly
Unless he starts a venture newly
If laziness is away kicked
Losses can be wisely licked
If laziness is wrongly picked
By fate, lazy man is tricked.
M V VENKATARAMAN
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 6:25 AM UTC
cosmic dust.. blowing in the wind
that's what we are.
remains and debris of impacted rock
that clutters and piles meaningless and purposeless.
just until the moment of gravity or some god-like force
accumulates the lifeless rock and dust into larger objects of mass.
what is formed is just a glimmer, a speck in the whole universe.
a tiny cog in a gigantic network of gadgets and machines.
that is us...
and then Jobs told us to go make a dent in it all…
go and make your mark… and follow your heart
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
Perspiration accumulates into salty beads,
Falling into her eyes, eyes that have lost their gleam.
We’ve been trapped like savaged animals for three agonizing nights.
Diminutive apertures in this death box supply minimal light.
The screech of the rails are a bittersweet melody to our ears.
For we only know what these horrific monsters have taught. Fear.
As the door slams open, I’m pried from my wife.
I wonder if this will be the last moment I see her smile.
My people are marked with terror and pain.
I realized were barricaded in with barbed wire chains.
My subverted clothes reek of secretion.
This camp is untrustworthy, raising apprehension.
They claim we are not human.
But I ask, do we not bleed, when we are injured?
Do we not dream blissful thoughts?
Do we not pray to the same God?
The same God that punishes the innocent;
Bringing blithe to those sinners that shed blood.
When we lose our cherished, our loved ones,
Do we not shed tears? Do we not mourn?
No! We must not, for we are not human,
According to what the Nazis see.
We are the innocent, robbed of life.
They are the monsters who roam free.
At least, that’s what I see.
I see men, women, and children stripped of clothing,
Stripped of dignity, stripped of all things humane.
While these barbaric monstrosities make allegations.
Claiming they are purifying society, when they are to blame.
Men lose wives; children lose mothers.
Families are torn apart; sisters lose brothers.
Those of us who survive, work until brittle.
Still we carry on, if our minds are able.
Backs of men are scarred from arduous lashes.
While the sick are trapped in rooms imbued with gases.
My hands are enveloped with calicoes and cuts.
My mind grows weary, I dream an ending abrupt.
I’m crippled with anger, and tears that still drip sore.
My heart crescendos with pain, about to implode.
It’s difficult to refuse the tears when I hear the desolate screams.
I’m trapped in a perpetual nightmare, a ceaseless dream.
Still I carry on in life, for that is the greatest revenge.
The day we feel the kiss of freedom, will be the day we have avenged.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
*
*Hanging...
KASHA above...
Valley of FIRE below...
Holding the deadly Python...
Poisonous stinging honey bees...
And
Tongue unable to lick sweet honey...
What does the Mister MAN do...?*
(Flashback)
Mister 'MAN
Born... walking... learning...
Running... chasing... jumping...
Blinded by joy and power
Accumulates knowledge,
wealth and deeds
Chases life & success
Like a dead-man-walking
At that moment
He realizes a "KASHA"#
is following him
And the Mister Man
Is scared, fearful...
Keeps on running
Faster. and faster...
He does not want to
be caught by the KASHA
He is in front chasing
Dreams and ambitions
KASHA is chasing behind him
Until...
He reaches an edge of life...
- The valley of FIRE
To save himself from KASHA
Mister MAN jumps off the cliff
He rolls, tumbles, slides and falls
Until he is stuck in a tree-bush
And holds a dried branch
And hangs on...
*Hanging...
He sees the KASHA above
And valley of fire below*
A small sparrow flies,
Comes and sits on that branch
The weight of the sparrow
breaks the dried branch and
Mister MAN falls down again
Yet again...
He catches hold of another branch
*Hanging...
He sees the KASHA above
And valley of fire below*
That time he realizes that
The branch he is holding
Is nothing but
A thick BIG brown python
Woken up to its prey
Prey- of course
Our Mister MAN
*Hanging...
He sees the KASHA above
And valley of fire below
Holding the deadly python
That is ready to devour him*
He can't leave the python
He can't climb up
He does not want to fall down
In the valley of fire
He is scared, fearing the worst
The awakened python slides
And brushes its tail
On a honeycomb above him
Thousands of honey bees
Start flying all around
Our Mister MAN
*Hanging...
KASHA above
Valley of FIRE below
Holding the Python
That is about to devour him
And the honey bees
Buzzing, stinging poison in him*
At that very moment
A BIG fresh sweet drop
of LOVE honey
Falls and sticks near
Mister MAN's mustache
Above his upper lips
What MISTER MAN should do with
That BIG DROP OF
Sweet, irresistible
nectar, fragrant,
Fresh Honey?
**Amidst four ways to die
The Mister MAN tells himself:
"To hell with the KASHA
**** the valley of fire!
Forget the deadly python and
Who cares for poisonous stings?
Let me at least
'Live the moment'
And lick the drop of honey
Before dying..."**
Mister MAN opens his mouth
And wags his tongue out
Tries to reach that
BIG DROP of honey
To lick its sweetness
Sadly, the tongue
does not reach the
BIG drop of honey
How to cherish LOVE?
*Hanging...
KASHA above
Valley of FIRE below
Holding the deadly Python
Poisonous stinging honey bees
Tongue unable to lick sweet honey*
That's the fate of Our MISTER MAN...
*
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 11:49 PM UTC
Listen closely and hear our collective vernacular in a state of constant mitosis.
Live and see our language begin to rival our own complexity.
A myriad of inter-connecting word highways with more twists,
turns and travelers than that of any physical road.
A body of thought massing in our collective conscious,
an infinite man-made addition to our finite physical reality.
Every addition is another color, another taste,
relative to the user in enunciation,
becoming ever less limited by geography.
Emotion attaches and tints the tone of individual words as we grow with age.
Without it enabling us to define ourselves, we are left ignorant and insular.
Memory accumulates casting a shadow and adds depth,
communication cultivating perception to leverage change in corporeality.
Pulsating slang spreading locally with fresh life to be globally colloquial.
A wordsmith may use this power to celebrate
or condemn their perception of reality,
more still- will wield words like plowshares
and escapism flourishes with such an expansive field
where all of humanity is brought out to play.
And sometimes-
for me,
it is just barely enough to grip a word with impunity.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 9:11 AM UTC
Something is burning in his heart
his wicked soul
An endless desire
hungry for power and fame..
to be the sole owner of the mother nature
There is fire in his evil eyes
Its his desire... his greed...
A land conqueror he will be
Try to disobey and
play your own rules
With the angriest fire
he will set this world on flame
with his fierce desire.
and you will succumb to his wants and needs..
surrender all your possessions...
to this lord of the forest, the jungle and the land...
He sets this land to blaze at last
hate, rage , jealousy, vengeance
The forest is set on fire
soon this forest and the entire land
will be his...
The devil on fire.
There is a fire in his eyes
Fire in his spirit… fire in his soul
It keeps burning … his hatred accumulates
burns with his deadliest desire
spreading like a forest fire
This fire is ever burning so hot..
The devil sets the world on fire...
The unbearable hell fire on earth...
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
Winter nights are the cruelest,
sound of incessantly falling ice,
disturbs.It accumulates,
on the foliages above,
slide,
and fall
on the earth
with a
thud.
I am sweating tears,
my heart bleeds; a pain-
I can't share with anyone,
as you aren't near.
*My heart develops a hole,
I peer inside,
and see you
sit there perplexed!*
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 12:52 PM UTC
you say i’m long gone
but i wasn’t gone long
you just lost interest swiftly
when I stopped dispensing attention
not to mention the distance:
Ohhh it accumulates endlessly
when you’re not here with me.
every second you’re not tangled in me
i can feel your resentment building
& it’s not a very fulfilling feeling
dealing with your fading needs,
wrestling with empty memories
& their durable permanence.
if only i had the courage to cremate those corpses
but you’ve currently buried them deep in my cortex,
& now they have rooted like religious convictions
& even if i don’t live them, i’ll never forget them.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 5:34 PM UTC
The feeling is lead.
Stubborn,
It sits in my chest.
I remind myself
Not to dare name it.
I remind myself:
If you name it,
It becomes real.
Suddenly, people will see it.
Label you for it.
It will define you.
I ignore it
When I can.
Suppressing him
As best as possible.
Still, he manages to
Shrink me.
******* me.
He strains my knees.
Curves my back.
Hangs below my eyes.
I plead with him.
Beg him.
Try to compromise.
But this thing is
Deaf,
Dumb,
Simple—
He is oblivious.
He lacks understanding.
Incessantly, he fails
To recognize
My pain;
Perpetual discomfort.
Unaware, he forces me;
Knees ******
Crawling to my vices.
Frequently
I drown him.
Hold his head low.
Well at the bottom of the
***** reservoir
That accumulates
Each night in my gut—
I drink one
After the next.
My hand never
Leaves the glass;
If I can help it,
The glass never
Leave my lips.
Until finally my world—
Our world
Falls below the, thick, black,
***** soaked veil.
Often
I choke him;
With thick, grey,
Clouds of smoke.
The clouds burn
Deep in my lungs
Lifting the burden
From my chest,
Back, knees.
For a minute
My mind isn’t
So crowded.
For the moment
I feel relief.
Some nights
I numb myself
With casual company.
Women,
Who like I,
Are acquainted with he.
For a moment
We might distract
One another—
In that moment
There’s sometimes bliss
Temporary,
Fleeting,
Transient—
But undoubtedly,
Bliss…
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
365Nectar #61 Snatched Out of Sanity
Sat. November 23, 2013 4:26 P.M.
Having an intimate conversation
with your swagga,
I was trapped in an unraveling of unquenchable lust
The tightening scent of smoldering sweat stirs
Your shivering slow stalk
tossed me into a whimpering limp...
A savory sweltering
and sweetness accumulates...
You tap and spill me like sap from a maple tree
defying laws of gravity...space...and time
you delve deeper and inject droplets of rumbling ecstasy
Unmistakably enticing
alluring arousal fluttered capturing me...
and snatched me clean out of sanity.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
As coffee moonwalks on my tongue
and consciousness breeds my mind,
energy accumulates my soul
to a spiritual dimension of peace.
I see the future
when my eyes are awakened
to the mystic power of moonlight energy
stargazing to the change of weather
an epitome of an indigo child.
Blue emotions and harmonic motions
reflect the sounds and images
of a creative asylum, the universe.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
This feeling. You can’t describe it. But you can feel it.
Imagine being half a foot, looking up from the surface of the ocean.
You can see the light, the sun, the sky. You can almost breathe the air the world has to offer.
But in reality, you aren't breathing.
You’re sinking.
You’re tied down by these invisible, almost nonexistent chains.
You can’t see these restrictions but you know, you can feel that they’re there.
Slowly, six inches turns into a foot, then two, three, four… ten
until the light starts to fade.
It’s not complete darkness, but you know the end will come, probably not soon,
but you know the result will be death.
The lack of oxygen, this sharp pain in your lungs, your head, doesn't go away.
It accumulates, then multiplies, it never stops increasing.
Time passes, and now you know there is no hope of being saved, being rescued by others.
Maybe there are people at sea, searching for you, hoping to revive you,
but you will never know because you have pushed yourself too deep.
You will never accept their help because you no longer can.
You have already given up on yourself, nobody or thing will be able to save you,
if you do not want to be saved.
The only thought that crosses your mind is when you are going to die.
You are longing for the end result because you can’t take this anymore.
Death seems like a better option than suffering.
That’s when you realize, things won’t get better.
It will only get worse
The moment you feel like you are about to sink to the bottom of the ocean,
you realize it is just a current,
because there are still ways to go until you hit the depth of the endless matter of darkness.
Along the way, you meet others experiencing the same situation as you,
but both of you can only watch each other suffer and sink.
When you try to help each other, the weight of two drags you both lower,
knowing to end the pain faster.
The pain becomes worse as your body physically and mentally starts to deteriorate.
You know you are about to crack,
you know the end is almost here.
As you land in a stage of limbo,
a phase of nothingness
You finally realize that you have hit the deepest of the rock bottoms.
That is when the pain and suffocation finally rush away from your body.
It’s finally over.
This is my life.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
are not attractive to the man she adores
but that is the only reason she adores him
in the first place
she would not consider him a catch or a man or the love of her life
if he got up early to take a train to the field she lays in
or often called upon her, not only with the
sweetness and charm he retains
but with eagerness and pleasantry, both sincere as a fox craves
a good bird in his jaw, but with spright instead of haste
and with the devotion of rapture without rancour
his eyes are like a tray of a kitten’s sharp teeth
latching onto the pretty bird of his fancy,
and all of her hope infused in her blood only accumulates
as he sinks in for more sorrow
‘til the last grind that never does seem to come
he tries to peel parts of her he doesn’t like
she lets him
a fruit without any husks is not safely kept and often rotten
to grow, you must protect yourself from damage, yet allow yourself
to be bruised enough for simple sweetness
that lays sincerely inside
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
My brain is a bowl of spaghetti
I can be turned with a greedy hand
And a rusty fork
Eating my thoughts
From an unwashed container
Please stop eating.
I don’t think I can afford
To lose another fork-full
another strand of memory
Let alone
Be mixed up
With the other ingredients
Poured into my skull
It seems I’m getting sloppy.
Refills are impossible
Because the more I try to stuff inside
The more the contents overflow
And the threads of words
Come spilling out
When I beg them not to
Well.
I hate contradicting myself
But without anyone eating
And without room for refills
The nutrients inside
Will begin to rot
And disintegrate
Into nothing but molded mulch
So everything I try to retain
Will be useless
and inedible
The filth accumulates.
Insanity will be the smell of my mind
It will control my every action
A single whiff
Strong enough
To lower the IQ of a genius
I’m losing myself.
I’d try to explain it
In understandable terms
But it seems the correct words
Were lost
when I was bitten into
And scattered
when I overflowed
This is what I tried to describe before:
My head is a box of noodles
I can be dented with a pinky finger
And a dull knife
Tasting my dreams
From a…
Hm.
Sorry.
What were we talking about?
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC
Here I sit.
Clutching this ***** little transfer slip
As the darkness sips the light
and the sky's absorbed by dimness
I ponder in the nightlight
As my self-knowledge reels,
A database of feelings
but which holds the most appeal?
A choice of voice
with little indignations
of different vocabulary
stopped by writer's block syndrome
Cork a drain
Unplugged and let the hounds run
After the ********
After pilfering caskets
Who know their own fear like a monkey knows these branches
snap
Trip wires over wiretaps
Who's the fool now?
and whose shoes must you fill?
When the working dogs debunk the formerly favored gods
and ham sandwiches for the ill
Except those who prefer vegetation to the pleasure loaf
Expressing superficial favorites came down a bit
from last year
After hipsterism destroyed all previous conception
of what "cool" is and does
So soak another moniker
'til the loathing and the faithless
destroy those of us with names
and replace a kid with numbers
Can you reconcile that?
Or count lies 'til they pass as facts?
In politics
Deprived of all that whatchacallit
Respond a lofty little miss
who won't take bribes or bacon bits
who's tripping all the time
and uses fresh air for narcotics
I see her
The same albeit as she spies me
I ask her as a comrade
What in confidence she accumulates
As little life and dictators
would sell me but in reverse
A pause
She responds,
but does so gently
And in a softer tone than she uses with the game-players
Four words one chooses not to forget,
"baby, beware of naysayers"
In fever dreams
The city sleeps
and wakes with a dose of DMT
Daytripping inconclusively
Is yellow to you as it is to me?
For a people of productivity
surely feel no joy.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:26 AM UTC
this space this place
a shelter from the weather
wind the rain unclothed
the deer would huddle
in habitual restlessness alert
except when in the forests’ deepest
dark their great pale eyes would close
today this sheltering of souls
does not escape the weather
but life’s maltreated pattern
its daily flux and disarray
to sit in this observatory
of evening sky’s condition
seeking only quiet and rapture
on high-backed benches
settled as giants enthroned
pale orange light above our heads
glows within an architrave
to reach across the funnelled
ceilinged surface to the aperture -
a heightened vision of the sky
we close our eyes prayer-like
to meet our solitary self
where teeming thoughts begin
mind images stream
discarding all intent and reason
until we raise our lidded sight
to this single square of sky
travelling the past and triggered
by undetermined thoughts
speech ringing in the ears
words flood and spawn
so intense this skied perfection
we are drugged towards
a kind of sleep: time waits
then a wakefulness resumes
and all is sound spun turbulence
from trees above that calm and fill
replacing or confusing thought
inside the noise of rising wind: a single
oaken leaf is tossed within the chamber
where it skids and quivers at our feet
unlike the deer who lack imagination’s marvel
we take our thoughts outside this present space
this containment empty of distraction save ourselves
our so-slightly shifting hands buttocks heads limbs eyes
towards a nether world we have no words to share
the salient features of this dreamscape we might glimpse
that is ourselves: distinct alone apart beyond
slowly shifting colour from grey of day to blue of night
the small square accumulates ephemeral
memos sent from our seated selves perhaps
to fly with the wind-tossed crows to roost
somewhere in nearby trees we cannot see -
with the handshake of Friends the meeting ends
and out of silence shyly we reconnect with speech
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
The adventure of our lives begins after
the first moment of life outside the womb.
Fear that viscous coating can not protect yourself
makes you anticipate what will happen.
Moments pass and you don't feel sheltered anymore,
and an unknown amount of energy accumulates
in your little body and the environment is filled
with your first sound
measured in decibels.
now the world knows about you.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC