"aligns" poems
Tonight I will fall down upon my knees
To pray before the goddess of enchanted ebony
Her divine rays of dark beauty I embrace
Bathing blissfully in her enigmatic grace
I enter the sanctum
Her sacred place of healing
Ecstasy consumes me
Enraptured by the feeling
When the Moon of the Black Goddess
Shines Her light upon me
Then the Love of the Black Goddess
Drowns the world around me
Tonight I worship at the Temple of Her Light
I sacrifice my flesh to the goddess shining bright
The fire in my soul erupts and sets aflame my mind
On holy nights like these when the cosmos re-aligns
I enter the sanctum
Her sacred place of healing
Ecstasy consumes me
Enraptured by the feeling
When the Moon of the Black Goddess
Shines Her light upon me
Then the Lust of the Black Goddess
Burns the world around me
I submit myself to Her, naked and unguarded
Prepared to be consumed and then possibly discarded
For in her presence, all the evil in our pale existence
Vanishes from memory in a single instant
I enter the sanctum
Her sacred place of healing
Ecstasy consumes me
Enraptured by the feeling
When the Moon of the Black Goddess
Shines Her light upon me
Then the Mists of the Black Goddess
Shroud the world around me
The Moon of the Black Goddess
Cast thy spell upon me
The Moon of the Black Goddess
Looming right above me
The Moon of the Black Goddess
I give my flesh to worship thee!
For the Moon of the Black Goddess
Is the only place
I can find peace!
When the Moon of the Black Goddess
Shines Her light into me
Then the Tune of the Black Goddess
Becomes the song to set me free!
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
The moon was a cold body that lived in the empty night
The sun was a warm ray that filled the world with light
They both lived in solitude, the sun sending her warmth and the moon existing in nothing
All they know is their own orbit and comfort
And on the rare days that they meet, they collide and fall in love
They fill the other with what they've been missing
And watching them burst and make love is spectacular
The passion is short lived and when they separate they fall apart
Forgetting what they're meant to live for
The sun keeps on burning and the moon keeps on glowing
Slowly the moon forgets about the sun and the gleam of her face
For every night there is only darkness and pale reflections to keep him company
And the sun forgets what it is to be calm and still
The void and longing for each other keeps them pulling until they meet again
They beat on, lonely and eager and searching for the one thing that brings them solace
The soft embrace of love, the thing that pulls the tides in and out on the shore
The thing that fills the streets and mountains and valleys with golden radiance
It is love that carries blood through fragile veins and it is love that guides two hearts together
It is love that drags the moon from its perch above earth and aligns it with the sun
It is love that tears them apart with a cruel and swift hand
The sweetest pain and the hardest goodbyes amount from love
When nothing good lasts and nothing bad ever fully goes away
The love that flows between two opposite entities is enough
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
The streets are clear, we're hydrophobic
Hoods propped by hats and socks pulled high;
The rain brings peace to the agoraphobic
Puddles form moats and clouds fill the sky.
Splash, droplets hit the window,
chauffeured by the gale outside.
Squint your eyes and flash back
boats tilt starboard, with the tide.
The captain shouts to the decks, paranoid
'Clear the decks and brace for impact'
Without turbulence we are disenfranchised
Boredom becomes us when we're boring.
Shake it off and stare at the dot to dot
the residual carving of water as it slides
Another droplet falls beside it, parallel
it aligns, growling thunder overhead.
Without stirring we are robotic workforces
Without awaking we are left inside
The constructs created for us, by corporate-
conglomerate elitist-psychopaths.
Two drops of water on the window
simmer red with burning anger.
Crash lightening sears the sky
Rage becomes you, girders melt.
The starry night undercurrent, flings
us backwards, never up, as democracies
which seek to serve sink into a sea of
stocks and shares, the wall street journal
sits atop the captains lobby, economies
were meant to tumble as the working classes
fumble for bread, men in suits gaggle
and toast to the millions they left for dead.
Resistance is futile, when eighty-five
of the richest suit owners sit on currency
that was meant for the three point five
billion who aren’t driven by gluttony.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
There’s something special
and ethereal
about neon nights like this
that makes the world seem new.
I’ve known you so long.
Definitely not the first time
I’ve heard this song.
And I think
I’m in love.
To be honest, I can’t tell
if I’ve fallen for the song or you.
What difference does it make anyway?
For now, the universe aligns perfectly;
Life almost makes sense.
So as long the music keeps playing,
I suggest we keep moving
together. As one.
And when the song ends,
after the last note,
if I still crumble at your touch,
we’ll just get ‘em to play it all over again.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
STOP CREEPING
(Road signs in Australia thus remind us to keep to the speed limit)
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
William Shakespeare: MacBeth, Act 5 Scene 5.
Creeping, seeping, peeping, sleeping,
What’s the common factor through these ‘eep’ words deeming?
Shakespeare calls them dusty and aligns them up with death.
Our world calls it shadow but it chokes you out of breath.
Churches cannot see them so they flout invisible.
Jesus calls them idols yet they sound so plausible.
Christians follow teachers in a roundabout way.
Teachers crave disciples which determines what they say.
But these are all poor players on a poorly structured stage.
Their stage gives way. They tumble. They rise up in a rage.
“Life has not been fair,” they say, and “Where is God in that?”
Did they ask Him in the first place? Did they call God up to chat?
The churches have no answers. Now where do I go from here?
Go right back to the Bible, Friend. The truth is written there.
Check it yourself. It’s relevant to eras far and near.
Like natural laws it cannot change with fashion year to year.
So do not mix the fashion in philosophies of life
With Truth that stands forever among raging seas of strife.
Counselling in modern terms can get you sympathy,
But will it give you backbone for the next antipathy?
Feminism needed to support the weaker staff,
But now of our humanity it rejects one whole half!
And money is too much an issue when it must be said
That what is not of love is valueless to Christ our Head.
Of all the thousands who are found in church each seventh day,
How many can indeed discern the right and faithful way?
How many put their lives on hold for truth and nothing less?
How many first set out their plan and build their faith round this?
Is there not one who will apply to God for his blueprint
So s/he can play the part of power for treasure in Heaven’s mint?
The Spirit of Truth cannot be found where ideas pull such weight.
He’s somewhere else you don’t suspect. Chase Him, and don’t be late!
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
Twist ye not the tendrils of time
frame dragging by any other name
black holes ergosphere sublimes
pulls spacetime to its slow down game
Those clocks and our clocks not the same
Time's vector smeared along its timeline
speeds along its X axis game
Remains longer on its own line rhyme
Then around and around she goes
For this clock so smitten runs so slow
And where the hands stop nobody knows
Spacetime's drill bit twisted so
This black silken dress of spacetime
Wrapped around this gravity vortex
Twisted infinity sublimes
on the singularities’ cortex
Redshifts starlight to infinity
Photons below values of C
Their orange trails of light I see
These curved, stretched, these twisted banshees
Frozen in space these tendrils of time
My heart beats on ever so slow
This time signature of space aligns
reality to its queer clocks of woe
In front of me coasting along
a singular photon it’s brilliance
flitting like a firefly’s lonely song
wave-like in its own resilience
This photonic duplicity
particle now and a wave the next
surrenders its reciprocity
to this block of spacetime so vexed
Such are the tendrils of time here
to the black holes seductive embrace
These time signatures skewed so queer
From the Dark Mother’s fingers trace
As she smiles at me saying:
“Oh my beautiful child of wonder”
“Blessed be your love and curiosity”
“Of all my spells that you fall under”
“To you all of my precocity”
“So I bless thee and thy lady “Star”
“Your undaunting love of Michele
“Shines on in O Class from thee so far”
“I release thee from this spacetime spell”
These tendrils of time wound round
These whirlpools in space
These wonders of space found
In Michele’s beautiful face.
Dave Proffitt
9/10/2016
3:01 PM
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 6:28 AM UTC
Her eyes—Northern Lights—pulse aligns,
Violet, slow sway unseen.
Moon kneels, eclipsed beneath her thighs,
Darkness undone, her touch—unseen.
Her gasp—a solar flare’s gold rise,
Sky opens, raw, unbound.
Dawn’s first touch—her lips arise—
Sunrise I’ll chase, love I’ve found.
Jun 2, 2025
Jun 2, 2025 at 8:20 PM UTC
My heartbeat ticks like a clock on most days
the pounding of my chest reminds me I don't have much time left
I start to wonder why being shaped like an hourglass is such a good thing.
We are always running out of time.
So much so that we don't even count when we reach a mile-
in high school they train you to keep time
but somehow you always end up running and running away from it.
Other kids shamed you for not completing the mile fast enough-
but your body thanked you for not pushing it so hard.
There are days when my alarm wakes me up before the sound comes
like my body somehow knows my time for sleep has ran out.
Things are constantly running away from me-
kind of like you.
I try to slow down the hands to this clock
but as yours wrap around my waist
it only speeds things up for me
because I no longer pay attention to the sound of my heartbeat.
Yours is the only ticking I can hear on those days.
I find myself using too many metaphors
and not enough alliteration or sibilance-
or any other methods of poetry for that matter.
I am too busy organizing these thoughts too quickly
so they do not run too fast away from me.
My mind is something I'm always trying to catch-
trying to keep these emotions in order and on cue
so I don't run out of time with you.
But somehow I end up losing it,
all of it and I am on the brink of insanity again
because how can you feel secure
when you don't know how much time you are wasting
I do not want to waste all this time with you.
If I am just another hour on this clock of your life
it will be the best **** hour you will ever encounter
because the rest of mine are spent trying to place
these emotions that have run out on me.
Spent trying to learn how to keep time,
how to keep them in mind
how to not let them change who I am again.
But see these emotions are not an alarm clock-
they are a pop quiz
an erupting volcano that has been dormant for years,
a hurricane you knew was coming but you weren't sure when,
an hour of detention that goes by so painfully slow
you contemplate your entire life.
These emotions don't come every other sunday-
they don't become planted in the soil inside of me
and sprout when I water them.
They are the dust that collects under your bed
from the particles of your skin-
and you don't know they are there
until you clean out the things you've been meaning to for a while.
My life is all metaphor and not enough logistics.
Not enough order and routine-
the only thing keeping me is time
and the dust has settled again.
It had rested in the lining of my lungs
and sits in the bridge of my nose-
it won't be long until it collects and overflows
and I am dealing with the consequences of not keeping
this life in order, in detail, I made no room for cleanliness.
There is no freedom inside of this mess,
inside of this wristwatch that will not leave
even when I try to cut it off.
The ticking of the clock is all I hear-
it aligns perfectly with the sound of my heartbeat.
I fear it will stop ticking
I fear I will stop feeling
I fear this heart will stop beating.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Tick.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
I sit holding my aching head in calloused hands
experiencing ‘forlorn’
a worn soul aged beyond the calendar
dreary eyes look upon the state of humanity
irradiated babies trading rabies with deviants
live on pay per view
seeing the shape of famous faces
manipulated flesh blankly posed
only desperate oculars show the truth
darting frantically form mirror to mirror
attempting to validate existence through reflection
but not like the monks in Tibet
regret fills bent cheekbones
spackled with Botox and raspberry jam
thinning peak aligns with the occasional grey strand
and I sit wishing only to see people love themselves
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
*"If you wake up this morning believing that saying
a few Latin words over your pancakes will turn them
into the body of Elvis Presley, you have lost your mind."*
He has often asserted that the thing is absurd:
that someone who does not (whether out of hatred, indifference,
lack of conviction, or frankly whatever)
accept traditional dogmas
is still, for some reason, capable of wishing that they could.
I think he is right; I’ve heard a staunch atheist say “If only
I could, but I cannot.” So, this is why he aligns himself
as an anti-theist: he simply
was never properly convinced.
This position seems (at least to me) well-supported,
for anyone can quite readily (and easily)
accept what their father or their clergyman has said
(especially as a child, not knowing any better).
Thus, to be an atheist
one must have first acknowledged supernatural power
and then later, after a bit of thought, dismissed it. In light
of this, I propose a toast to the Real Skeptic,
the one who was never really convinced;
of it. The one who, when celebrating the Eucharist,
wondered why God wanted to be eaten,
who , when receiving Christ,
thought of the extreme certainty by which other faiths'
devotees (Islam, Heaven's Gate,
Mormonism, Bon,
Cargo Cults, Shinto, Falun Gong)
live and preach – some even delighted to die.
Thoughts like these always made me feel uneasy as a child
because how could I hope to keep my little mind
from accidentally discovering fallacy after fallacy? So, here is a toast
to the Unconvinced, who can’t possibly help but not believe.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 3:47 PM UTC
***“Who will judge, as many trudge
through mud, mucking up the rug,
a coating of clay formed by God on a particular day.
Yet talent is ingrained, whether sane or insane,
and verse is treasure or a curse, unrehearsed, dispersed for all to see,
will they applaud or disparage, this marriage of mind and rhyme,
by design aligned, a sign of the times...”***
ms. patty m
~~~
once again a thunderbolt command hits between the eyes, on-right
the precise spot where the head aches with desire to fulfill the write!
but to what can I add to this encompassing question already
better answered by the questioner?
who will judge indeed!
all the time and far too often,
the flotsam rises to the surface, when better left ignored,
while the jetsam jets nowhere, buried deep though breathing yet,
on unseen sea bottom of ignorance,
luck of the draw by one who designs, who aligns,
a capricious starscape in the firmament
as well as
the infirmity & ignominy of caskets lying quiet in sea trenches
that the answer herein contained, a supposition,
a poor poets speculation, a soul’s lactation,
the very question is a cyclone bomb by competents
who are blinded+bound+blessed by
incomprehension
the only judge and jury is
your forefingers tip,
if it tremble a-slight
when caressing the key called send,
your cellular fiber
has adjudged worthy,
and no dare disagree
talent and distinction
randomly and irrationally distributed,
but the courageous caress of a send key pressed,
is all that is needed
to impress the only judge and jury
that
authorized you
in advance to
love yourself insanely well enough
to write
and
to send for
a request for sentencing
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 11:31 AM UTC
Life’s a trip aint it?
Cause I can see myself there.
In the courtside of movement with my daughter
Teaching her the fundamentals to this foreplay break form we call top rocking
See, cause we all started while still in the fetus of knowledge,
dance was our way out
far sighted to the violence was most important
My neighbors enriched themselves a devil’s deal with other advocates
Sold their souls to hate,
Gun play, drugs, **** and discriminate……tion.
Since that first get down on my auntie’s wooden floors,
Or since seeing the smooth criminal himself steal the encore,
I became the Xerox copy,
mirroring my master like a parrot,
I studied more and observed a new culture.
Not even knowing this family was my narrative teen story.
****
I devoured every second.
Danced till my body couldn’t stand it.
I danced in the light and were steps away from my own shadows.
Sometimes the shadows were heavy
a filament that needs to be observed and cleansed--- go figure huh
A self-judgment clinging to aura.
A child crying who felt unloved.
A beings dependent on promises from Ones outside self.
Suddenly, light shines and the dancer feels the power--
A breath that aligns inside grace.
A moment where ones heart expands with love.
A moment where a dancer meets melody
Hip hip is a masterpiece,
hip-hop is you, me, him and her, and because of this masterpiece is a dancer inside of me.
His movements created mists around his company,
I didn't need to tell hip-hop I loved her.
I gave her all my love with this dance.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
Little drops of his favorite coffee stained his body, residing as freckles.
They show their quiet walks, with massive dogs and shattered mugs.
They show the bright stars that dissapear when the fog creeps up.
They show the times smoke perched against his smooth, spotted fingers.
She aligns his spots like costilations in the twilight sky
As the sun stays longer, and those mornings are chirp, those freckles apear like April rain showers
They show their stolen kisses when she pouts her warm lips like a new born baby
They show each time she's fallen in love with him, lost within his eyes
Quiet morning couch, he grins at her and sips at his coffee
She starts to count
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
Watercolor teardrops, flow from eyes
in kaleidoscope of colors.
They spiral, as sun hides in clouds,
and sadness over powers day.
Watercolor teardrops, fall like waterfall
striking mountainous cheek,
as it moves in currents of a cry.
Watercolor teardrops vibrate,
calling for heart to heal,
so the lever can be turned off and well can dry.
Grounding takes place upon sacred soil
as wind of breath infused with wisdom settles
upon conscious mind.
A mind that aligns with truth,
that tears severed a purpose
to know my own powerful light.
The power
as sun of self comes out and makes
a watercolor rainbow.
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
I have nothing.
so I'll talk to you
while you're in Malaysia
about the innocence of war
and the grace of missile silos.
I could tell you the
grass is blue here
and you wouldn't know for sure.
Don't fret because I'll give you
my soul unscathed and my
heart under no pressure.
You say left is left and
right is right then the world aligns
for all to see that we're
all just the same even
beyond you and me.
He was sworn not to tell
the story of us all and now
we're all turning in circles about
our time here spent.
No one knows our words but
you, me, and that miraculous
invisible wire
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 3:18 AM UTC
Little pockets of sound that skyrocket around
Words: verbs, adjectives, nouns
Words can get me steaming or lucid dreaming
And it leaves me silently screaming to see people consider words a weapon
Like they mean to cause harm
Well let me remind you I have the right to bear arms
Just because what’s on that page is mine
Doesn’t means it aligns with the ideals in my mind
Writing is expression, not confession
So when I write about a character who is confused and depressed
Buys a used gun and a bulletproof vest
And shoots up his classmates in the middle of a test
Because everyone ignored the signs of his anger
Doesn’t mean there’s a trench coat on my hanger
But nevertheless, they labeled me me a threat
Better yet, they focused on me instead of the 15 year old addicted to cigarettes
and took my words out of context
Because they are con-text
Well I’m pro-text and I protest that they suggest that I’m hopeless
and I know this coldness only hones my focus on my magnum opus
But where would we be without controversy?
The indirect side effect to freedom of speech
A beacon for speakin’ your mind without your rights being breached
It’s all in the name
When you write, you’re right
But when you advocate censorship, then you’re ****
My two cents are worth a million bucks
So who cares if they contain a million *****
F-words might be wayward but in a way they aren’t F-words, they’re A-words
Because all words are equal on surface
Well, until one strikes a nerve with a conservative
Who, without even meeting me, determined me to be
The next **** Germany
I didn’t write a story about a school shooter
I wrote it about how one impressionable kid became a slave to the page
And lost himself in the rage as an unfortunate consequence
And it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense
That the school would let themselves fall victim to a nonexistent threat
Brought on by a few paragraphs on a pair of half ripped papers stapled and
Paper-clipped to the rest of my script
You can place the blame but you became that same shameful shell
Hell, you can expel me, but you can’t compel me
To stop yelling again with this paper and pen
Or a stage and a mic
Going without words is like an endless hunger strike
Being voiceless ain’t a choice for this
When I protest, I prefer to be heard
A whole lot can happen with a few simple words
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
Eyes they set on beauty,
as morning sun quenches moment.
As ears aligns divine birds
that sing with orchestrated music.
As breath rejuvenates
to see mirror image and smile.
My heart beats in beauty
mirroring in heartbeat own magnificence.
Mirroring the radiance of the soul
that reveals a lotus flower.
That vibrates to guide my way
in steps of dance.
Thoughts they understand
a spark of Divines perfect lives within.
I be co-creator of thy sea.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 8:17 AM UTC
Clearly now I see,
That my soul had a plan.
Laid out perfectly for me,
To endure and withstand.
No I wouldn't do it over,
But Id never give it up.
I just keep moving forward,
Through the lessons I pick up.
I hear it in my soul,
When it's time to make a move.
A pull I can't control,
Brings me to another truth.
A lesson meets me there,
But at first I'm blind to see it.
Repeat repeat - til I'm aware,
And then she will reveal it.
Soul decoding old ways,
Uploading what is new.
These stories of your earthly days,
Are the building blocks of you.
The source collecting energy,
From all your transformation.
With every ancestor redeemed,
She is raising her vibration.
So tune into your highest self,
And don't you ever doubt,
That you come from a higher realm,
Made of stardust all throughout.
You bring this all within you,
So watch carefully for signs.
Youll know just what to do,
When the universe aligns.
▪︎ mica light ▪︎
Jul 4, 2022
Jul 4, 2022 at 12:52 AM UTC
I have drempt:
Lucidly, she dyes the edges clay-colored
Eyeing eye she aligns her body with the North Star
She shivers without notice
Ocher eyes alive
she speaks in new forms of divination
And the weather is in her palm
Trick of light trick of eye
Her sigh awakens 9 Ravens
without thought
She is
Caught in the spider web
Spun
Autumnal ghost
Beneath Harvest moon
swoons at the bark of the dire wolf
Without care
making eye contact
Running fingers through the silver fur
Paying close attention to scars
Letting him drink
From lips of pink
The milk of first-kiss
And leads him home
To a palace of bone
Humming tunes that only dogs know
Her head is light on his chest
She listens to his heart beat
Beating Eagles wing
In time
In rhyme
A tune
Of runes
Smooth Aquarius
Flowing through the toes
Of purple mountains
Spilling waterfalls and
Filling frigid
Black pools rimmed
By moss caked stone
Leaves scarlet, and hay colored
Float aimlessly on the surface of her
Peaked
Ears Stung and bit of wind
She listens whole body tensed
bow string
face Sun stained
ethereal
Enamored
swimming in the aphotic
Lake of his soul
He plays the dulcimer of shadow
Next to fire
& the light of her blossom
exposing
Waterfall
flow
Through snow mountains
Piqued
His attention
When she dances languid
To
Forgetten tunes that only the owl knows
****
she dances star soaked
Scarlet tulips pressed
Fill every page of her mind
Preserved eternal
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
if I could fly to heaven
just to see you from above
I would watch you closely
darling
and fall deeply
with you in love
to watch you in your daily
to see your secret smile
to watch you as you work
and just sit with you awhile
I would study your sweet eyes
and the creases on your face
the way you move your arms
ah yes,
to imagine that embrace
I'd close my eyes- inhale
just to know your sacred smell
I would whisper gently baby
an put on you
a lovely spell
I'd remember every sadness
through collusion and confusion
I would know your every gladness
every thought and grand illusion,
I would find it all endearing
as you captivate my heart
I would shoot an arrow
straight
a hopeful loving dart
to let you know I am the one
that seeks out your true love
look to the stars tonight
to your heaven
up above
make a wish
just wish me there
I beg you see my star
I know you hear my voice
I do,
even if from way afar
every thing aligns as it should
until the day I see you again
the love I've waited for my whole life my lover and my friend
I will wait beneath my Summer Moon
I wait for you
I wait for thee
I will wait until I am no more
for your love
to set me finally free.
Ma Cherie © 2017
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
There's always a beginning
There'll always be an end
And no matter how you play your cards
You won't see round the bend.
For tomorrow is another day
The morning sun will shine
And the layer of potentialities
Is arrayed for yours and mine.
In looking back a long time
A little boy in jeans,
Check shirt on a pushbike
Amid the in betweens.
Nothing really mattered,
Each day came and went
and before the realization dawned
The infancy was spent.
Mother died of cancer
The agony in eyes
Just 43 years of age
In alcoholic lies.
The Old Man was likewise
Collapsing in my arms
He passed away at 43.
Evaporated charms.
Adolescence came and went
Forced to join the race
Of madness in the unknown
The world's a violent place.
Decision ****** upon in spades
Cut and ****** in life
It's Papua or Vietnam
Instead, I took a wife .
Disaster in the making
A sidestep in the way
I left the complication there
And coldly strode away.
Changed the whole complexion
Altered how it planned
Ended up with knapsack on
Afresh in New Zealand.
Strangely how it re-aligns
The order falls in place
Confusion dissipates to let
What clear defined, creates.
Somewhere I turned the corner
Took it all in hand
Built an actuality
Of promise in this land.
Pride and hard ambition,
defy the odds and graft.
Visualize a rainbow
From inspiration's craft.
Build it with your own two hands
With sweat upon your brow
And know, within your very depth
You're on the right path now.
Lady luck was with me
Somewhere along the way
I found myself a sweetheart
In chance creation's way
Then ragamuffin boychilds
Scrapping on the rug,
Engendered that which matters
In life's eternal shrug.
You touch upon the beauty
You taste the honeyed wine,
You walk on fields of flowers
In the nectar of your time.
Tenderness and kindness
Essential to the mix
Should you wish to be of value
In the blended world you fix.
Some you win, some you lose
Sometimes you just laugh
For as the years meander
There's humor in the task....
And a gentle satisfaction
In the way it all pans through
And in my eighty year reflection
I'll just throw a smile to you.
[email protected]
Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 5:00 PM UTC
A storm blew through early, left frost
etched, lit, glistening, on
a window's waking surface.
I sit framed by that translucence,
my daughter aligns, orders
mirroring matroyshka doll members.
I reflect on an essay*, how
poems are a symbol of will,
concluding a pact, perhaps
achieved in diction, image metaphor,
adherence to structure, rhyme, form.
Might these devolve to decoration? Or,
trace the transmission of "will to
commitments," expressing “intent”,
"weakly lost or strongly spent?”
Frost etchings fissure, shift, glint, slide
on their emergent effluence,
configure in gusts of cognition.
I sense a covenant in these lines.
my daughter adjusts her doll's placements,
the promise of one revealed in the other.
Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks
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Attribution:
Stanzas 3, 4, and 5 are greatly influenced by my reading the Robert Frost essay titled *THE CONSTANT SYMBOL.
The short phrases in italicized quotes are direct quotes from that essay.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
perhaps what brings you to me
is the moon's pull
of the ocean's waves:
you, my tides
i'll catch you
when you fall
and i'll hold on to you
when you rise
but this is only possible if
the earth, sun and moon--
our entire universe--
aligns for us
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
I’ve got acres of skin,
and a heart that aches to think of
yours - a quickening pulse when I feel your lips and mine.
I’ve got hands
that trace the lines on yours.
The palm: a life line, fate line, head line. Double entente.
The heart line that aligns
with my line as you press it against the wall.
Your fingers entwined with mine and the other around my throat.
Or is it my brain?
Your blood runs from your heart through
the places we touch and courses through my veins.
I have fingers that dance in the dark. You know they could play a
symphony, but tonight you let me play you and your
fingers tingle with applause.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 12:47 PM UTC