"amniotic" poems
Lovesick and you've got the cure.
Got all these symptoms. You know what for.
Don't be afraid of this contagious disease,
Just take my requisition form.
I've made room for you in my atria and ventricle.
You're the capillary to my arteriole and venule.
You're the amniotic fluid to the child in my heart.
I find you even in the interstitial parts.
Treatment like uours is like a centrifugAl force.
So be the **** stasis my heart is longing for.
Some homeostasis is what we need.
We will make compromises to succeed.
Lay me supine and you in prone.
Sensory neurons fire
Exocrine glands make to pressure
Spark endocrine glands to hear you moan.
Without your heart I'd be anemic.
Withiutbyour arms I'd be half a paraplegic.
Your kisses give me air, without them I'm cyatonic.
You're the fibrin in my veins, to my pain an anesthetic.
I'm ready for some long-term care and affection.
Got a chronic condition that needs your attention.
I k now I'm concluded, parts of me sclerosed.
Don't wait post mortem to know that you're the most.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
(and I cannot live
from with-out)
<>
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
at the point of entry (explicit)
it does not strike me strange
at the point of entry
when the heightened senses and the dark subconscious merge
when the lust and the sweat intersect
with ego desire and self is everlasting everything
that the ***** words secretion is sticky on my tongue
when I pant poems born in rawness and tears
on this the last day of the year
and eyes closed see visions extraordinaire
and the Maker whispers in both ears see!
it is the see of what is me,
it is the point of entry and departure,
one and the same,
conception an immaculate mess,
the emptying and the fulfilling, when unkempt promises
are born free flowing and semi-truths transform into
actualities unforeseen and my child cells of new poems
are injected, stored, awaiting the birthright
and the death of publication,
my moment of privileged perfection passes
and frowns and smiles are
one and the same, silken thread wove open and shut
the precision precious circumcising of flesh and soul departing
the utter collapse from within, the drowning in the amniotic,
rebirthing rebutting my denying that I have no more to give
I believe I belong to you for it is what the desire firing cylinders
say repeatedly in the union of the up and the down cycle:
come, come inside me,
I am the pleasure
you are the treasure
in one cup measured
conjoined container
when the point of entry is the point of departure
and with eyes closed from satisfaction and prayer
I see everything all at the same time, uttering:
I am undone utterly and the difference between
the end and the beginning can be seen only
at the millisecond long seven decade coming
point of entry
12/31/17 5:38am dawn dying and new day mourning
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 5:59 AM UTC
Willow herb floating
on silent certainty
ashes of sighs
not fleeting,
unvapoured on the
blossom of the rain,
I am too light to
pull or push
the swing of delight
through this land.
The rain left me for a
while
sun unshielding
-a thousand widows
more unyielding than the depths . .
Once shadowed whisperers
of delight,gossamer
sparkling , descending
their chains
of necromantic hope.
Lilith is no night owl
she is mother, eve
and my becoming:
sweet earth spun
at once ,
exhaling her .
The see saw
bumped gently
on my chin
it is a most gentle
form of awakening.
The silence bore no whispers
till sinking through the quicksand
-or was it quicksilver?
-in any case I could smell little
in my amniotic amnesia.
I made ten thousand friends,till their soap
made this place clean.
Is this a seed or a dying
hopefulness
-is my sallow sowing
beyond all shores of
reproduction;
a reflection of the child
they dared not bear?
Is my last breath like this
a forgotton yielding
will they catch me
as I fall ?
-(sweet earth)-
This moth of my ending,
a shallow recantation,
my fears-
their memories, mere
testubes of
stylish hope .
I breathe the elegant stare
you have forgotten .
Once more free
from such
rememberance
I need not ,
remained not ,
your imploded ,
wakefulness .
A thousand pardons
exhaled like silk
entwining
an unfinished race
spider of a thousand eyes .
One may say
I was
stared
to death
but surrogate air
mocks childish pity.
Taut refelexions
bear salt echoes
in silk convulsions
fresh water
a veneered hope .
Easier in death than life
is a child's sorrowed
partings ,
the illusion of
bouyancy
rippled tides
unfelt.
The oceans have not enough salt
for such shrunken sorrow.
if we could but once
have shared
unbreathed aspersion .
The room has come and gone
the pillow quite undry
unforgotten
unremembered.
A web untouched
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 7:46 AM UTC
Which Is Greater?
I break a vow.
A serious vow.
In a place, in this site,
Where the fluid pain
Is the water of the world,
The element that is crux,
The amniotic liquor of creative flux,
The morning juice,
The afternoon caffe,
The first beer of the day,
The liquid that we rinse and spit out our every day,
I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, *****
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.
Asking myself,
Which is greater?
The pain of creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of wreck and ruin, destruction and death.
Homework Self-Assignment: Compare and Contrast
Suddenly, I am expert.
Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.
Once I wrote:
*The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.
The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.*
Suddenly, I am expert.
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown,
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
she ever possessed to the atmosphere,
One breath at a time.
Is that painful?
It is for me.
Now you complain. They're different, not to be compared, et cetera.
Pain is pain,
Whether it is in the service of creation, or
Creative destruction.
Once I wrote:
*With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poem's birth diminishes me.*
So, one and the same?
Nope. Yes. But. Cannot one be the greater?
Yes, one is greater.
When I lay on my deathbed,
I will exhale the answer
Into the atmosphere
For your retrieval.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
We find bottomless holes
In our mentalized theories
Local logical postulations
Cause-and-effect sequences
Perceived chain reactions
And medical research findings.
All those are quintessentially
Protein specs floating freely
Our words float like protein
Fondly called lewy bodies
Colorless and unsubstantial
Dreams in shreds floating
As in amniotic fluid like then.
A certain woman of less virtue
Was not fit for our society
She embraced men in dark
In dreams and art and thought.
Fuzzy scenes of yesteryears
Floated into the present
Including ego and power games.
Let me know who is this professor-
The man who brought it all up.
Our language loses meaning.
We do not agree you are you.
Actually you cease to be a son
A brother ,a person ,a human
You are a hand or a stone
Just a broken splinter for a whole .
My part becomes a whole
A thing is a word, an idea,an event
A daughter-in-law is a hand
A son a stone in the wilderness.
There is sorrow swirling in the belly
The anguish of a human existence
The pain in the bloated stomach
These forced feet take you nowhere
Men came with tails in their necks
Forcing down tiny white universes
When they go into the nether world
There is only a swirl in the belly.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 6:14 PM UTC
I remember from my first memories with all senses humming waking up on Sunday mornings to the squealing seagulls. The smell of briney sea air was sharper
On most sunny sunday
mornings I would awken and lay in bed wake..dreaming for what seemed like hours.
The smells of grandma's rose and flower garden mingled with the smell of sunny Sundays.
The BBC wafted in through kitchen and bedroom windows.Mozart and Sinatra tag teamed against The Ink Spots and, Stan Getz. The Swallows flew back to Capistrano on yearning wings.
Then up and out on walk and sprint to the Caribbean sea, a gem coated shimmering twinkling dancing blanket of rising sun meets amniotic blue churning as froth and mist drifted in a sunday sermon from the water's deep and shallow.
A bubbling embrace as sprint turns to
Swan dive into the Sunday morning sea.
Seven day ritual baptism in the Sunday morning sea...at one with and free.
Now.
A sprint to the bobbing fishing boats that never drew fish from their restfull retreats of the morning Sea.
Breakfast
The sounds of tinkling teacups another ritual as granny stirred brown sugar and condensed milk into a carmel swirling with Johnny Cakes and coconut oil fried eggs waiting and wafting out
To the Sunday morning sea.
My Puppy and me then down through the flower garden.
Of we scampered with cares falling away and secrets to share while throwing stones into
The Sunday morning sea
My puppy named Ranger,barefeet and knee pants the hot sting on my ankle from a chastising fire ant rudly stabs at my reverie
As far as the horizon will let.
My imagination flees and unfetters to shores unknown that kiss and caresses my Sunday morning sea.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
You have heard it said that
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
But truly I tell you that
I am that I am that I am that I am
Dripping with Jehovah and stardust we fell to earth
Pieces of atmosphere pieced together
And who can trace the mythology of our chemical compositions
Or rewrite the narrative of our anatomies?
I fell to earth soaked in Yahweh and covered in snakebites
Black holes where the fangs sunk into the astronomy of my freckled skin
All the galaxies of my body each with their own elliptical orbits
Connect the dots to form two wolves in my milky way
Romulus and Remus –
My ******* bear venom white as the purest lamb
Whisper astrology and
Remember the day we built Rome by stacking corpses
Remember the day when all the stars burned red for us
But that was millennia ago and
I’m not your Venus anymore –
I’m nobody’s ********* Venus anymore
It was the age of Pisces and we came out drenched in Messiah
You found me picking painted roses on asteroid planets
With a blonde-haired child and a fox
In the garden green snakes and white roses
Thorns and soft pink ribbon-tongues
Fangs and velvet petals
Two drops of blood in the white sand like Mary,
I bore a son and named him Ares
I named him Mars
I named him Set
Boys will be boys will be boys will be monsters, you know that
I am that I am that I am that I am.
Swim down deep enough into the black waters and you’ll reach the heavens
Keep drawing blood from thorn wounds and you’ll drag out the atmosphere
Stare out intently into the abyss and the abyss will stare back into you
These are the things we knew
When we reached the outer boundary of the cosmos
And realized how hydrogen is nothing but celestial amniotic fluid
We, motionless
Smothered by God and Carbon and perfume and poison
In this ****** we named universe
On this fetus we named Earth
I am that I am that I am that I am
Truly with you until the end of the age
Until the afterbirth of star matter gets tossed out with the baby and the bathwater.
You have heard it said
A rose called by any other name wouldn’t smell as sweet
But truly I tell you
A rose is only as beautiful and fragrant as its thorns are sharp
And if you want to know what fills the space between protons and electrons
The gaps between breaths
The light-years between planets
Then listen to the sound of your own heart beating
Counting down the gestation period of our own reality
I am that I am that I am that I am
I’m more than a Rose.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
I am one of three –
Shadow, skin, and light.
A triplet split from the same egg and *****
**
Make it 3 and you’ll have me
Explicit.
It’s so ****
Being cleaved into thirds.
A ********* with myself –
The shadow is morose.
A needy, demanding *****
Begging to be cut up.
I want to,
So I can see the blood wring around my –
Her
Wrists like shackles pinning her
To my bed.
I know it’ll shut her up
But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I’m not that *****
The skin is boring.
A virginal flower
Dreaming of understanding.
She’s too wholesome,
Always waiting for the right
Version of herself to come along.
Saving myself –
Herself
For the right time.
My tastes aren’t quite so
Vanilla.
The light is adventurous.
A psychotic, brilliant ****
******* herself into the ground.
Necrophilia just got a whole lot hotter,
Bodies piling up thanks to her STDs –
Stupid, thoughtless decisions.
Protection? Ha!
That’s for normal people.
There’s no need for me –
Her
To slow down;
We like it fast.
The skin doesn’t participate.
The ***** virtuous ******
Fidgets as the others 69 –
A disgusting yin yang
Of low and high.
The shadow drinking downers
Until she can’t remember
All the bruises covering her heart,
Too distracted by the bile
Smeared across her lips.
The light popping enough uppers
To strip herself of her
Consciousness,
Naked and raw
She often wakes bitter
Of her restored senses.
This ********* takes place
In a womb,
An amniotic ocean
Swaying toward the shores
Of existence.
Two will drown –
Vanishing triplet syndrome.
Only one may be pulled from
Mental waters and placed on the sands of reality.
The labor takes 33 hours -
Finally I emerge.
Who survived?
There is no way to tell.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
Open up my Ribs and drink my soup
With your mouth directly over my stomach
I don't think that I'd taste like anything though
but as long as Daddy is able to enjoy it
Drink up the yellow chunks of fat from my body
Stick a straw in my veins and drink me until I am dry
Even my innards: stuff them, cut them, and then bake them right up
Although my body is about to drop from my Daddy
I'm Sorry,
but I don't think this is a good idea!
A stranger, Onii-san, told me
He pitted my collapsing body
and took me by the hand away~
I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry!
I must be a bad kid
Forgive me please, Forgive me Please!
Poor Pitiful Me.
I'm sorry, Sayonara
I'm a bad kid running from Daddy
I'm sorry, Forgive me please!
I'm afraid I'm in love with someone other than my Daddy!
Onii-san greedily pours my Amniotic Fluids down his throat
He cuts open my body and touches all the insides
He doesn't eat me and he doesn't even fight me
He said that my collapsing body is too ugly for anything
I'm Sorry,
but I don't think this is a good idea!
Onii-san, he must hate me
My collapsing body is just too disgusting
Seal me away and that shall be my ending~
I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry!
I must be such a useless kid
Forgive me please, forgive me please!
I'm too scared to be alone!
I'm sorry, Sayonara
I'm a bad kid now running to Daddy
I'm sorry, Forgive me please!
I can't love anyone other than my cruel Daddy!
When I went home, Daddy was with lots of men
They said they believed I would come home
They wanted to eat what was left of my broken body
That was what they had said~
I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry!
I must be a bad kid
Forgive me please, Forgive me Please!
Poor Pitiful Me.
I'm sorry, is it yummy?
That is the flavor of a warm heart
I'm sorry, although it hurts
please eat my fulfilled Heart!
I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry!
I must be such a useless kid
Forgive me please, forgive me please!
I'm too scared to be alone!
I'm sorry, it hurts too much
but as long as you are able to enjoy eating
I'm so happy! Sayonara
Everyone Else,
Come help yourselves to anything but my heart!
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
I often cry when writing my love poems
*this secret, yet-not-so-secret, for the words become
blurry birthed by the amniotic fluid of encasing tears,
and when I write, wearing my emotions on my sleeves,
for wiping my cheeks, nose leaking, because I write of
sorrow supreme, that has no solution, pain repetition-dulled,
yet, provoking each time for the words bubble up, of-course,
it is love, in its thousands of reincarnations, coming to haunt,
the lost, the unfound, thinking of
my parents,
my children,
my lovers,
come, gone and
those who stay…*
I bemuse myself thinking, each tear a lost poem, removed
by sleeve or tissue, wiped away, lost, irretrievable forever…
but these yellowed memories forever and ever refreshed
by sea spray and wind, my face absorbs their unique nutrients,
and love and pain rebirthed as if it was the happenstance of
today, and the poem water tank just goes on and on being refilled…*
Jun 25, 2023
Jun 25, 2023 at 11:14 AM UTC
humans born a mess,
messengers carrying blank notepads, sheet music,
brought from within to the without
a baby-sized handful of historical residues retained,
garnered from all too brief a prelim existence,
arriving possessing hints of what may be
most emerging crying,
crying over loss of the womb security,
for seers all, all see unaccountable futures clouded
by an inevitable chance of rain
and death
all of us, no one excepted,
covered for months in **** stained fluids ,
a holy, ***** combination
of amniotic nourishment,
and our own waste
a hint of what is to come?
human then spends the rest of life
cleaning up after himself,
mostly with tasks of addition,
punctuating by the occasional cleansing of
elimination subtraction
making room for the next love,
labored birthing of a baby poem,
from your womb, midwifed,
haunting ghosts of three note tunes,
begging for a set of lyrics and a
great chorus everybody can sing,
a completion competition
going along, all along, to the goings on,
all our routes preternatural crooked,
lived a life of pretense, a straightened out life,
which is the nuanced, connected summary of our components
which are all curves, dots on a line
and the composition source,
the secret chords employed,
tech installed just prior to birth,
effacing glorious sadness, glorious joy,
the human building blocks,
with the certainty that
*everybody knows,
that's how it goes
everybody knows,*
only fools believe,
you'll live forever
but live at least long enough to sing and write of
a man cleaning up his own life's messes,
and perchance, after our absence,
leaving the world better for it
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
Abandoned admiration calloused with despair
A bottomless compass that leads nowhere
Impotent illusions that curse the starless storm
A revengeful wind swells undersea
Tracing underneath the sunlight
Beyond the aches of fingers
With handfuls of garden walls
Fragility that huddles impatiently
As the ivory magnolias flicker in the decay
Stains of the stagnant obscenities
As the nest of bones grieve
Crawling distances daring the dark
Outside the landmarks
We sneak into the tunnels
As a sheath of pungent amniotic poetry is found
Shattering as the sorrows erode
The appalling cracks stretching my skin
Theatrical anorexic anchors that pierce my flesh
With abandoned ******* and stinging hurt
The nakedness shrieks
With an intolerable shame
If I descend much deeper I will burst
I'll float through the cemetery because I'm already dead
The delirium has me caged
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
My room - womb:
Self-furnished surrogate;
Protective and exclusive;
Umbilically attached to the Other
Via electrons and electromagnetic waves,
Stimulating half-dead neurons;
Nourishing; pseudo-social life.
A womb - my room:
Self-imposed cocoon,
Refuge and retreat;
Amniotic psychic cushioning,
'Tissue-like; apathetic swaddling
Absorbing impacts of buck-shot cultures;
Allowing light mixed darkly - melancholy.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Delicate atmosphere
Intrinsically understood
Nature's intricate ecosystems
Our planetary amniotic fluid
Unborn children
Safe within the womb
Helplessly pondering our existence
Relentlessly hoping that soon
Something will save us
Will come to wake us up
As if this life is not enough..
I wonder if the star that exploded
and created the atoms of which I consist
is proud of the reincarnation
that has grown to presently exist
This life giving source
My Mother; this Earth
To whom we owe our lives
for the very possibility of birth.
Safe in our first moments
inside our Mother's womb
While our Mothers were safe within Hers
This Earth is a living entity
and we must protect the roots of truth
from which the gift of life occurs.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
*Freezing cold, a strange night of rain and thunder,
it got registred deep in his consciousness,
as a squiggling liquid presence;
an abstract painting, taken in, with layers of meaning,
a deluge, the result of injustices heaped against the female principle.
The rain lashed out, in the flashes of lightning
in between, through the window sills
when the curtains where swept aside
by a subversive wind, painful face
of a frightened girl was visible,
at the window of a highrise building,
shameful secrets kept concealed peeped out
yelling out "HELP"in the shocking words of silence.
That night was difficult for an exile from life like him to endure,
subconscious echoed terror filled cries;
sewer water flowed, towards oblivion,
carrying embryos, not fully formed from terminated pregnancies,
he heared tree toads speaking in strange tongues,
like jilted women seeking vengeance,
coyotes hunting in packs with blood thirst howled in delight.
In his nightmare, blood dripped from wet trees,
"who will rescue our bloodied orphaned planet?"
his heart with a collective guilt , beyond words wailed.
From denuded mountain slopes, muddy red water
copiously gushed downhill, nature's menstrual flow
out of cycle, devastated hillsides cleaving gashes,
like scorned woman's fury baring long sharp fangs-
landslides opened gaping wounds.
Liquid's rule took over the space of night,
lying awake on his bed,
he became conscious of the burden of women,
who moved around with invisible bridles
pretending free, nervously smiling.
Swimming in the amniotic fluid of the past
he is forced to recount the past sins,
nature and women have endured and ask
for forgiveness seeking salvation.*
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Forbidden fruits hidden in the roof
of my mind
Its time to set fire to the mimes
Larcenous pursuit of greater acclaim
than is taped and pasted to your brain.
Dripping copper pipes cold in the November light
bright shadows gently crush the fabric of unreality.
Love is a howitzer
it can **** alot of people
quickly and often.
Love is a pool of amniotic fluid,
it sustains and cushions, and soothes with warm comfort.
Cardboard cutouts of cutthroat gangsters with gout,
flout societies mores, with Cuban cigar smoke synthesis.
Brandy
snifterfull
Awaiting the dinnerbell.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 10:04 AM UTC
Lauren has returned from her doc
with a portrait of the future
engraved on her spirit.
A collation of sonic pings
etched on a computer screen
reveal her new legacy
lying supine in an amniotic cradle
limbs and digits outstretched -
reaching for tomorrow.
Hands and feet to
touch and navigate the earth.
Inquisitive eyes and ears
to map and explore
the wonders of the universe.
Emergent life suspended today
within a mother's womb
but destined for future liberty.
October 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
strangely, I think that this
ought be, must be, responsibly,
be the best poem I’ve ever writ,
(though unlikely, as the best will always be the next)
that mine own eyes commissioned,
better be,
just got to be,
this holy-moly notion jeepers weepers,
conceptual rocks me deepest,
an awesome responsibility
to find away of saying
that this beyond conceptual,
coring, especially special sample
If there was to be a but one,
a singularity, a distinguishing feature
of what the human definition
innate contains,
how choice that we animals,
elevate ourselves to being human beings,
the only ones capable of wonderfully weeping
the implications are an astounding!
what a glorious burden,
what a wonderful decision,
the designer slipped in this microscopic checkmark,
somewhere in our cellular DNA perma-dynasty,
runs a common thread, these saltwater fears,
a residual global amniotic fluid hint,
from where we humans out-of-crawled
that empathy,
the signal of an elongated journey of eons,
the marker that says
show the caring,
a trait-ed statement,
us, unique
so often do I weep,
sometimes visible - in my poems listed, oft indicated -
so you could know its sharing was an absolution
that I granted myself,
that that particular poem was a costly one,
womb bloomed, tongue taken, eye written
sometimes invisible - even more, do they,
(nobody knows, nobody sees)
just well up, eye cornered kept, secreted,
only skin-staining the underneath-my-eyes
one more shade darker,
a reminder to all, to mirrored me,
that to forgive myself doesn’t
forgive forgetting
is this then my best?
sufficient to breech your
reserves of pseudo-cool,
that correct boundary pretense that keeps us as
mismatched separates?
you be the judge, you be the jury,
you be the prosecutor and the defender,
for it is all of us
standing in the dock,
on trial,
for in our lifetime
guilty of the inhuman crime,
of not crying enough
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 7:15 PM UTC
Some nights,
I dream of my father's fists,
or the blue-green color of his eyes
and how they watered,
became oceans,
when he'd had too much to drink.
There was a galaxy inside of him,
a great, gravitational mass.
He opened his mouth and swallowed worlds;
became a death-eater,
teeth biting down into a swollen black tongue.
When I was a fetus, I felt him pulling,
so I gnawed my way out of my mother's womb.
Covered in her blood, I met my adversary.
I dove into the sea to stare him down,
but could scarcely remember my amniotic swimming.
I drowned. My lungs filled
with the emptiness of space,
and for ages I floated, unmoored,
drifting by stars forever unimpressed with me.
One day, the universe will collapse,
time flying backwards toward its end.
I will see him as he was when he was new,
a stardust embryo not touched by awfulness.
I will know what it means to love.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
The sky, a plate
in kindly blue,
smooth
as the ceramic face
of this, my swimming pool;
the bobbing palm
glazing the back
of my starfish shape
like white liquid icing;
sweet, the water's after-taste;
gently
pungent smell lodged
in the nape of my neck
I will wash the blue
off my skin, in a tiled doll-box
cubicle
I will smell the smell fade
out of my fizzled wet-strung hair
just as sugar dissipates
into the hot
nothingness of drinks.
I will pretend to forget,
then forget
I was offered a plate
in a summery shade, bordered by
tree branches
I was in that half
amniotic vessel -
weightless
as a seed pearl in
an ocean or a lover
exhaling in the depths
of a kiss;
a posy of
air on liquid.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 6:12 AM UTC
~ For Molly ~
There cannot ever be, for me
an emotional peak so high
and beyond all other experience
so much my own, entirely.
A speechless secret, my unsaid words
preserving its wonderful wholeness
the not-telling, keeping it so precious
too precious for me, I fear, to shatter
the silence of its perfection.
The blood bond between us
holds no hidden barriers
in this amniotic floating universe
shock-absorbing all the outer world
nutrient rich, nourishing your growth.
My voice vibrating, rippling
in your sonic breathless bubble.
My body, in all its actions
and motions, marking your time
rolling and turning your shaping.
Your rhythm pressing my organs
punching and kicking, demanding space
Immersed in my body’s womb-core
snuggling safe and deeply nestled
in our sheer and utter intimacy.
I give you all I’ll ever have
my blood, my breath, my everything
beyond all my knowing and imagining
this is a devotion most terrible and sublime.
© M.L.Emmett 2016
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
i am lost in the wisp of your faltering
the fluttering of concrete entrenched
into stoic rigmarole
to reach out layer by layer
peeling unearthing
a catatonic subdivision of disjoint subdivisions
a limit ordinal
between touch and feeling
where we kiss on the cusp of that silent ocean on the edge of sound
drowned in the nebulous familiarity of
a distant melody
a tired resolve
re solve the old puzzle muscle memory's misted amnesia
half the pieces falling out the warn tinderbox
inarticulate drowned severed isomorphisms over
brea(d)thless infinities
self adjoint matted topologies
nestled snugly in the amniotic absolution
of form before being
hands of matted ice
contorted into perfection
by the sculpting propensities
of undulations of estrangement,
where we touch in the cusp of self reflections thousand mirrors inverted propensities
infinite infinitesimals
nestled meromorphic partitions
hidden corners in the brevity of dusk
multiplicities fragmenting behind empty veils
( to be seen is to be made discrete
to be discrete is to flicker
and disappear
(inevitably invariable
inevitable invariability))
we
stand in a waterfall of gravel
and drown our voices in the choke of our cellophane hearts
caked
into fillets of aphasic tundra
where we whisper our nothings in the desert on the boundary of silence
our words
escape us
like rats from shipwreck
we are
disembowelled catharsis
intentional and fatuous
retching upon itself
severed
and free
and dead
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
Both parents together, intimate we know,
Delivered the package that started your show.
Millions of visitors, with every shot,
Only one found its way, into the right spot.
Grow and divide, a zygote you be,
Doing it right, someday strong like a tree.
Living inside mom's uterine wall,
Totally dependent, make sure she won't fall.
Placenta forms encasing the egg,
If its a girl, her name will be Peg.
Umbilical cord forms from placenta to me,
A network of vessels carry nutrients to thee.
Things all in place, first trimester is done,
Growing and listening and having some fun!
Learning the sound of moms beating heart,
Already in the family, now playing your part.
Rhythmic and soothing, loving the sound,
Moms gentle voice, you will always be bound.
To answer her call, even late at night,
When her voice is silenced, its a terrible plight.
Amniotic fluid helps you float around,
Spot feels babies presence, you first here his sound.
The water has burst, head against bone,
Mom you ok? I'm hearing you grown.
Stop squeezing my head this is causing me pain!
What's up with this pushing, muscles spasm again.
Turn off the lights, this stimulation can wait,
Getting me warm, this feeling is great.
Hello there new person, I give you my heart,
Hi mother mine, hope we're never apart.
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC