"admixed" poems
(and I cannot live
from with-out)
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a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo
<>
I, too:
- am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight
I too,
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor, quite similar
- my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
noting, it lives my artifice,
with in & with out
Then, we are a We:
- my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,
- Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”
This duality:
- where the haunting of words providential,
emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out
She, Poetry:
- leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements of
externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which
when Poetry’s birthing:
- chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth*
*you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you*
*“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*
just another unfinished work in progress
periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed
and you say to no one and to everyone:
this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
''When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary,
When troubles come and my heart burdened be,
Then, I am still and wait here in the silence
Until You come and sit awhile with me.”
<>
not hidden, for I reside in my accustomed spot,
but my face reveals a dispirited demeanor,
so most leave me alone, but not in peace,
late June, and the world less-than-august
These burdens which are weighty mighty.
are like weights in a trainer's vest,
while they can be removed,
only additions arrive, as screws
tightened to increase the threshold of
consternation and persistent pain insistent
the silenced aura within which I sit most patiently,
becomes both jailer and friend,
while I await your salvation arrival,
amidst tales of others who preceded me in this
waiting game predicament, most unsuccessfully,
admixed with stories of one or two
rewarded...
a tease, a stringy tale of hope, an endurance test,
to make my heart even more burdened be,
though wearied, yet unsuccmbed,
for I have seen you, existence verified,
and my patience knows no limits,
awaiting the cool of fall,
when the breezes bear and bare your scent,
and hints your returning presence,
changes the very meaning of
awhile
Jul 8, 2025
Jul 8, 2025 at 11:45 PM UTC
poetry composed in perfect silence
for which
there are no noise canceling headphones,
a coachable prevent defense,
protecting my inner ears from hearing
words forced to the surface,
loudly spoken, up floating
to the mind's enraging waters admixed
in the high definition
disquiet of imperfect silence
frag grenades, IED's detonate,
nicknames for the brain's multi-voices,
all argue raucous, unafraid of exposure,
over~shouting to be heard,
freely secure in the silent privacy
of mine owned
internecine slaughterhouse
but what I write down,
is mine to keep...
*my home is an isle,
an atom of Earth
split by a broad freshwater river
land spits on Google earth
can be witnessed, seen plotting,
injecting themselves into
my two~sided, belly~soft
unprotected riversides,
forming bays and coves,
hiding places for
crafty
human devices*
my poor mind is my river,
mind the sailing craft called poetry,
a ketch to keep afloat,
while avoiding the backwash wakes
of larger enemy ships of state,
those who gladly drown me
for pleasure
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
Born of coupled love
Brought up in mother’s love
Studded and embedded
Into the budding tot lot
Blossomed in teens
Grown intense in Intermediate
Graduated with admixed lust
With juvenile jubilance
Bonded in ties in twenties
Love n’ lust operate life
Singly or jointly
To free from dormant life
No caste, color or creed
Life is the school of love
Love is the scholar of life
A sacred tool to believe
And to live and let live
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
Born of coupled love
Brought up in mother’s love
Studded and embedded
Into the budding tot lot
Blossomed in teens
Grown intense in Intermediate
Graduated with admixed lust
With juvenile jubilance
Bonded in ties in twenties
Love n’ lust operate life
Singly or jointly
To free from dormant life
No caste, color or creed
Life is the school of love
Love is the scholar of life
A sacred tool to believe
And to live and let live
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 5:13 PM UTC
When you uproot a poet, you ****** away her 'self'
Because her self is enjoined to the soil beneath her feet,
With tendrils she seeks sustenance from her land
And blooms into songs of love and promises to keep
When you rob a painter of her colour palette
That shone messily but beautifully of the hues,
Of saffrons and greens merging together and seeping
Into the brown of her skin- the only colour she knew,
You turn her hands into barely-there phantoms,
Unable to create a canvas of her heart's song,
Jarred by chants of 'who are you?' 'where are you from?'
'do you belong?' 'prove you belong!'
How does she prove her belonging to the cradle
That birthed her, that housed her,
Whose elements are admixed with all her blood inside
How does she profess her allegiance to that earth?
It is as if being exhorted to prove she is alive,
inhale, see!, exhale, see!, I breathe, see!
It is as if being wrenched by her limbs to gauge their depth
the pulse in my arteries, see!, these crimson rhythmic spurts, see
O my land, I bleed with abandon;
O my land, I bleed in poetry for thee.
Oct 18, 2021
Oct 18, 2021 at 2:01 PM UTC
There is turmoil
deep in my soul.
Water and soil
turned to sludge.
Tossing and turning
admixed the elements.
Firing then burning
turned clay to artifacts.
What was known
I know no more.
What has shown.
I didn't see before.
To break the shell of clay
I'll let the crack spread.
That's where the light ray
Enters and mends.
The sadness a sign
That the gates are open.
Drawing a straight line,
outside to the deepest core.
To primal love
perhaps, a return.
Feeling heaven above
and below, the ground.
Through future and past
Cutting across time.
To the Everlast,
returning to the First.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 7:42 AM UTC