"apogee" poems
You are a sailor if life is a vast ocean..
Here sail-n-surf,very thrilling notion..
Heart does trade with silly emotion
Desires ditch reality,if you lack devotion
Trusting too early is not so very wise..
People turn strangers in their uprise...
Be an artist not the tyrant of ur life
Anger at its apogee, cut like a knife
In dejection time,even silence is noise
Enduring other's hatred is a better choice
Speech is razor-sharp,can easily slice
Before making a decision,think twice
Eyes turn coy when the truth is caught
Just keep it simple n filter ur thought
Like weather, experiences are cool n hot
Hardwork is perennial but luck is not
Deeds are examined,so keep the token
Progress is still when hopes are broken
Pain is felt when own soul is shaken
Just believe in God when all is taken
Pearls come out during ebb at the shore..
Money gives gold but manners shine more
Success is urgency,patience is the cure
Nothing stays forever,expiry is for sure
Life has its fragrance,life has its taste
Laughter is healthy, worry is waste
Love is water, dilutes colour n caste
Polish your soul,skin goes ashes at last
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC
Once, a boy came, new to the coast
tall figure, his skin supple dusted with white,
he was silent at times, quite
sometimes laughing like a child,
vulnerable yet strong, she sees.
The mermaid was in awe, but she didn’t realize,
a crashing wave, that’s what he is.
Day by day, she drowned herself
In thoughts under her ocean dream;
baffled by his presence, in doubt she continued.
On the third tide of their apogee,
without warning the boy vanished,
like a wind, leaving no trace, not a foam.
Devastated, in losing her one precious pearl,
the mermaid cried in remorse.
Every night she sang to the skies,
until she felt an ethereal glow,
deep down she knew
what was needed to be said.
A celestial granted, for once again they met.
In valor with trembling hands, a note she had professed.
Prospective and believing still
the prince she had wished for,
turned out to be nothing but a loving sin.
The mermaid smiled as she disappeared into the sea
with every song now comes a broken, and shattered dream.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
in complete melodies
the frequencies i hear
can not be contained by anything
love is drifting through the hills
and you are home to its trills
she dreams of light, the fire bright
and full of crystal skulls and eyeballs
dozens of monuments are built
just to mark the moments
when we could have said i'm sorry
merge with the mountains
find the source of fountains
shine the diamond compass
if that's what you are really here for
broken dams are our business
feed the swans their luminescent lunch-boxes
duck for cover, its a wonder that we are all together here
that's clearly redundant
the tendency to dream
is the most important human faculty
its a tragedy that the lack of nuclear power
showers the atomic world in rainbows
as forlorn teenagers in the ice-age of America
govern our equipment from their parent's basements
and carouse with comfort upon chairs, cushions and couches
a million times the victory
a million miles of rope to weave
a million are the paths to god
and a million more are the souls
who've learned to cope with tragedy
i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
i am furniture remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your television set
i am electromagnetic static
within the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she wrote
i am a silent p
i am a violet apogee
i am a cosmic minority
i am a message in your tea leaves
but if you stand too long in my shoes
you’ll likely drown in solitude
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
Her shoulder rose like the moon
above the black velvet of bolero jacket
She took his arm, his eyes--
An apogee
She took the room
in reverence
So slowly
shed the mountains
shed the light
hand to touch their wonder
Gazing after
her noiseless ascent
which never happened
while they watched....
Pearls—
roll against warmth
luxuriating offspring
cool encircling
contents iridesce
their energies’ warning:
Nothing quite that simple
Nothing quite that still
Nothing like the opulence
on the Proud Eve of catastrophe
Pearls—
caught in the lining
of what never happens the first time....
She heard them before she saw them
rip their orbits!
fission her universe!
in the mezzanine of the symphony hall
Pin ball in the Fun House
Bingo bounce
off—
the hardwoods of space....
Universal Theory of Scatter?
Even now I can still hear the clatter
of their round smooth souls
in the doorways of distant relatives
How could I know?
You would condemn me
to find them all?
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC
With eyes of restless mental fraught,
...in-kind with dancing dreamy thoughts,
and hope in lovelorn passion’s play,
prismatically amorous frenetic fray;
...yet your heart at apogee to mine today?
And if I say solemnity?
As you presage a beauty…
And if I say solace?
While you oh petulant beauty…
And when I premune peace?
You stir it with such beauty…
And as I yearn with much desire?
Commanded by your beauty!
Burning in my chest a fire,
An Eros to your beauty.
With eyes of restless mental fraught,
in-kind with dancing dreamy thoughts,
and hope in lovelorn passion’s play,
prismatically amorous frenetic fray;
yet your heart at apogee to mine today?
And you the beauty of my dismay. . .
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 11:19 PM UTC
See the Rabbi. See him tormented by choice. See his people. See them wracked by hate. See the others. See their anger radiate outward in glowing spokes, exploding firebrand in a tinder city.
On a night like any other, the moon at sixth house, fulcrum of pinwheel zodiac, the Rabbi, awash in lidless starlight, rises somber and makes his choice. And when the sun is furthermost, he and three of his others gather at the murmuring riverbank where the brown clay is most pliable and begin to dig, sifting rock and root from trundled earth. Hours spent exhuming the clay, molding it, kneading its muscles, tracing its veins, baking its skin in the starlight. More hours spent in whispering prayer, the words bent and somersaulting over themselves like tumbling books.
See Truth drawn on its forehead, life etched from clay and word. As the sun rises, so it does, wavering at first, but steadier, lapping at the river, and their faces move slowly across the water. See the Rabbi speak to it, his words winding its mechanism. See it stride past the ghetto, wade through the market, and into the borough, siege unto its own.
See the others scream for mercy from the kiln of its stare, from their flaming tenements, their crumpling rooftops.
See it wade back through the market, past the ghetto, back to the riverbank to kneel in the underbrush. See it tilt its head to the lilt of a stranded daisy caught in a vagrant gust. See it caught, too, and see it see. It sees the colors of Eden in the ferns. It hears the river churning sediment, fossils, gravel, whirling over driftwood. It touches moss on a rock; gently rotates its hand to let a grub complete an oblivious circumference. See it sit in silence.
See the Rabbi meet with the others, then his others. And on a day like any other, when the sun is at its apogee, they slip down the riverbank where it still sits, still. It ignores their autonomous logic, their homunculus rationale. They are perversions of variety cloaked in righteous intention. So it remains.
See the Rabbi and his others gather at the murmuring riverbank, shadow conclave in shifting sunlight, then rise somber and decided. They pin it to the earth as the Rabbi chants, invoking the void in which forbidden knowledge spirals. It squirms under the power of the Word, mind-forged manacle as incantation. See the Rabbi draw to a close. His hand is arbiter, swooping down to smudge Truth from its forehead. What is left but Death.
See its hand crumble in its passage as it reaches for the stranded daisy. See the colors of Eden darken in its eyes, its own body the dust that denies it light. See it collapse into itself, the clay that was once animate spilling onto the riverbank. See the Rabbi and his others shimmer then fade into city grey.
The daisy stands still.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
It is so measured that rising arpeggio, only to fall and rise again in quicker values, through the dominant seventh to the heartache moment of that minor ninth, a very apogee of dissonance. Then it goes higher still to the fifth, holding to that Phrygian harmony before returning to the tonic minor and a measured fall in the bass. This is a deliberate descent to the sub-mediant, and Bach’s touch of magic, the equivalence with the dominant minor ninth. But then he gives us hope: an extended and joyful play through sequences that rise and fall within each bar, to rest finally on the mediant’s echo of that opening, that measured rise and the quickening fall. We have hardly smiled with relief when Bach pulls us back into the insecurity of the dominant of the subdominant, that V of IV acting like a bridge to a long, long discourse in the dominant, a pedal E holding firmly to itself whilst rising arpeggios and falling decorations and sequences pull and pull through innocently related keys. Longer and longer play the rising passages until short motives of imitation interrupt, treble to bass, tenor to alto, until: a first inversion arpeggio of the dominant seventh measures out the opening rhythm. This happens twice in short succession, as though holding the progress of the music to account. A questioning perhaps before a four-fold sequence asserts the dominant and a chorded caesura. There is a pregnant, though faintly resonant silence as Bach spins the dice of tonality and chooses the subdominant to bring the music towards a waiting Allemande. The music moves through a play of subdominant to dominant, minor to major, the mix of flattened fifth and flattened ninth. It is those intervals that determine Bach as the father of ambiguity in the 20C school of jazz harmony, Arpeggio then a falling scale, and repeat and repeat again, but moving ever higher by sequence. At last five chords – merely a shorthand for closure via the expectation of a right display of the performer’s improvisatory prowess. They prepare us reverently for the tonic minor before the stately Allemande leads the music into the elegant steps of its walking dance.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
Poetry is the altruistic apogee of the individualistic emotional egoist.
The lack of feeling, and the lack of empathy,
the petty attempt to hide them with creativity.
It’s truly astonishing how we can fool ourselves into thinking we’re kind
When we’re just wasting our time, pretending to see when we’re blind.
How could we ever emulate our chemical imbalances on one another?
The only way to do it is the kindly overrated feeling of love and affection.
And why would we need words, if we’re sure about our love for each other?
Oh, we’re puzzled to believe that our puny poetry represents felt perfection.
Yet we just walk through the valleys of lyricism,
Lost in our own wishes for joy or demise
And yet we become shadows of perfectionism
Filled with the detachment we criticize.
Our representation is our perdition
We've lost ourselves in our own mission.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
Daddy belongs to
an exclusive club,
out beyond
the rules of atmospheric
pressure.
On our precocious little fingers
we count,
on tracer paper
Mommy checks our figures.
Being she was never clever
with math,
she consults with the slide rule.
No crystal ball needed,
we all know where Daddy's been:
at the apogee of his ride,
hanging out in zero orbit,
checking
on his own figures.
He must be
lonely up there, fishing off the dock of a satellite,
until the moment he reels one in.
He does his best philandering
once we've shuffled off to school
and Mommy's found her solace
underneath
the hairdryer.
She's stopped looking up
at night
to observe the starry heavens.
They only made her cry,
which, in turn, made us cry— for her.
One time we heard Mommy tell Daddy
she knew all about his long division
and how he misused
his slipstick.
With the cruel turn of a smile
he reminded her
her math is routinely
wrong.
"Usually...but not always,"
Mommy whispers in her sleep.
Tomorrow is lift off again
for Daddy,
hunting exponentials
from
heavenly bodies.
For us,
the ones left behind in the wake
of his rocket trail,
it's
addition by subtraction.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:46 PM UTC
another broken day
a reminder of how far i am from where i need to be
thoughts of you have become traps littered through my mind
my only victory lies in its dwindling frequency
its effect however never flounders
as the pain in my chest seems only to grow
this journey is getting old and colder
upon every shooting star, I wish for a newly paved road
one that is not just orbiting around the pain of us
where i take solace at every apogee
but one that takes my aching heart
beyond the pull of our broken infinity
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
The flowing water in the dawns mist
Whispers memories of our youthful bliss
Carried away, downstream, endlessly
Into the open arms of a restless sea
This shall be the place we forever rest
Intertwined and woven like the cape weavers nest
Never again to know solidarity
Cradling the life of tomorrow is our apogee
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Dear Mr. Harlon Rivers,
When I was young,
I wrote like a young man,
With fervor and righteousness,
But heartfelt was not eloquent,
only self-satisfying.
Now that I am an old, old man,
My mind does the best it can,
Simple lyrics born in the poverty
Of a mind in an angular decline.
But never did I command the
Troops of this language that
You have under your command,
At this, your peaking, your apogee.
Your master key unlocks all
And set our souls soaring,
But yet we cannot reach you,
For you orbit at the point farthest
above our modest reach!
Your Admirer and Devotee,
_________________________
Please sign your name below if you agree.
You know how.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
I am the coy smiling handsome man
and my feet beat the darkness away when I rush.
And I rush, in the alleys, sightless,
an actor led by lines of wilting dialogue.
And jasmine litters the gutters, fit to be dredged, the
aroma and the petals streaked with reminiscence.
I rush. I am the man toward an apogee,
a scalpel, with tastes as keen as winter lavender,
and eyes that feel the weight of tastes behind them.
As I dredge the depths for rarer tastes
I rush toward the gutter.
And like the gutters I thirst, in the levees and fen-
In the fen the rush of prey caught
Idling fills the space inside my eyes like oil,
and I dredge the lake for traces.
I am the actor, the dredge, my wit rehearsed
and I am acquainted with the lady of the night.
I smile as she caresses my oily deluged eyes-
And her eyes are filled with bile,
accented by jasmine, even
in the dimmest light of
gutters are rushing to an
apogee, fiercer than I'd like them to
appear, but I am the scalpel, to incise the insincere-
I am the prince, an heir to exacting the coerced-
I watch her eyes like windows from the gutter like a vigil
and hold tight to her breath.
I pour her blood in paper cups
until her breath is weightless-
And I rush, an actor, in the scene that we portray-
I am the giver, the oily deluged eyes that close around the flesh
and rend the fruit from the rind.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 12:52 PM UTC
Sirious ********
Study is ********
Will you let me be.
There'll be other days
to write more poetry.
Smirking, missed you too.
She's studying with language barrier,
under repression.
Taking years to slowly do
what we can accomplish in a day.
I see, but what are we to accomplish?
Blow it up? rip it down? to rebuild?
or embroider?
Like repairing a tapestry.
Fill the in gaps,
complete her story with hard data
and prettier pictures.
Half on one hand, six in the other.
Make do and mend.
Change the world for a second
Which of us drew the short straw again?
Zzzzxxx
Tripping over myself and our humongous marriage of minds.
Apologies.
Apogee.
Nadir
©Atalanta Undigested, 2013. All Rights Reserved.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Look who's found who
Look who stole you from your rest ...
And in believing, we cheated death
September's fall is warm and crisp,
on the road and on the path
I could make you an empath.
Introducing empathy.
What do you owe me and I owe you,
Or do we own it all collectively?
I'm not a healer
Let's forget about the stealers
I thus am nearing apogee.
Have to write this poem for you.
And me ...
Introducing all that blooms into our home.
While the tribal does a dance of revival
And we're harvesting (what's sown).
When I see you
through the windows open wide,
A watched *** never boils.
But 7 kettles resonates.
We all go away some times,
But your picture's in my mind
so when I'm many metres away
Even then, I cannot stray
I go and climb the tallest tree.
I sit and wait for you and me.
Introducing empathy
Introducing empathy
Introducing ... you and me
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
Formless words...broadcast scribbling space, their diagram
of poetic motion washes over you...formed on impact.
Dark room's glow in broad daylight--your fully developed
picture...deepest blue of two worlds in one, betwixt vibration.
Hue of the canonized, twanging entire a cloudless sky...
enriched tenfold in mimicry of you.
If only stained glass and silk would wed, search light's
spectrum...distill the most affecting gradation of blue--
then would you see a just replica?
Visionary's shield...where earthen wend unveils the abysmal...
that eyes may remain upon you--till one is ferried, and
vision seen through.
Apogee of seventh sea...epicenter of dancing Nine Muses,
whose round keeps the Blue Flower earthbound.
Blue Flower of the poet's pilgrimage, whose synesthesia
electrifies.
Blue Flower...a nebula pinned to earth, the name of spring
born of you.
The golden section of angels fly their flawless form to you...
that High Art may pray to High Art.
...Blue Flower, commended spirit rife with grace...whose
ceaseless hour at hand holds beauty alone.
Mind, quill to tongue riven--if ever...ever is now--Blue Flower...
ever is Now!
The words of this poet have begun fasting...not to eat of what
they cannot sacrifice...their Blue Flower.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
My life burns down 'round my ears
My pain a bright flame that sears
No way forward can I see
The world arrayed against me
I'm cast into the Abyss
Feels like there is no justice
Reality, darkest fear
I scream but no one can hear
When I feel adrift at sea
Farthest from my apogee
Up from the ashes I shall soar
Pain and sorrow will be no more
My life's mission is polemics
I rise, for I am the Phoenix!
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
do you know
how much light you have to have
to play in the dark
ask the lady of the moon
my trilling lover of comatose dreams
**** queen dressed in fallen roses
on her knees
her head a cocked jaw
throat; a giraffes
for shirts of skin and magic wands
she prays to be broken
split saliva jewel
kink clutch
little crying angel
hugging her ball and chain
shawled *** a trussed cathedral
bound in silk
a vomiting flower of *******
her feet bound
puddled black crimson
crumbling at every teasing cuddle
and darkened bite like ghost fire
flame on flame
her ****** buttered Kasbah dark fruit casaba
i take a bite
red teeth and stretched tongue
adorn the hood of lust
and sink flying
into blood scape's womb
she screams hooked on satin's *** nail
wailing; hideous mirth
and folds sweet and sour
siracha tang
her mouth a gagging river
of ***** and oleo tubes
eyes gazing globe video games
**** brewing perfume's of delirium
**** star ships at apogee
riding the glitter rim
my ****
a rabid swoon of towering babble
is full tonight
brimming with white blood
red and trembling milk
to fill your mouth my love
and the bitter honey of my soul
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 12:07 PM UTC
"...Hello...?"
This is a cry for help,
Is there anyone there?
I can't take one more skelp,
Is there anyone that cares?
"Hello?"
This is a prayer, quick, someone save me,
The weight on my shoulders is too much to bear,
And my lungs are collapsing at my sadness' apogee,
Please, please, can anyone hear?
"Hello."
This is a plea for intervention,
For I can't stand life any longer,
Each breath and day an invention,
The dedicated instruments of my torture.
"Hello!"
This is a final goodbye,
For no one has heard, no one has cared,
About the man next to the tracks with his final sigh,
Who jumped from salvation, his soul, despaired.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
Towering over the rocky shore,
mentoring the intractable,discordant waves.
Rigid and stubborn,over which the eagles soar
"They" come here for absolution,the murderers,the soothsayers,the knaves.
Tweleve kilometers away from the tower,she watched,
living in sweet sardonic solace,in an ancestral cottage.
how "they" climbed the crumbling earth,body and soul parched,
desperate to be purged,freed from guilt-driven *******
Ruminating over the storm swept silence,
she loathed man's dependence on belief.
Comatised, mentally enervated in its absence,
The belief commands discipline, our obedience.
Scrambling over the jagged rocks,
she climbed to the base of the dominating column,
A vulture sitting high above,looks down to mock.
the blinding circulating light,an eerie feeling she could not fathom.
Ascending the two hundred and forty eight iron spiral stairs,
as surreal force encompassed her, she instantly felt possessed, her mind awakened by last night's nightmare.
As she stood high above,adjacent to the vultures,
She acknowledged her mind grow vacous,empty , free.
There was something calming or demanding about this structure,
exterminating her inner thoughts and memories,reaching an ******** apogee.
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 12:52 PM UTC
artists of flesh
wielding shades of exertion
splashing on canvas sheets
bright through closed eyes
I'm your thumbprint expressionist
mattress impressionist
bristles for taste buds make
broad strokes the emphasis
aptly utensil
fills focal to edges
though tipping the easel
conception seems effortless
brilliantly tincture
accentuates fervor
while crescent depressions
raise apogee further
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
life is a gestation whom due time is like no other
every cramp of it is a question to a hint to an answer
too many ways, paths, hopes and names to consider
umbilical cord is to feed, from reality, thirst and hunger
the embryonic soul and soul ought to suffer or to suffer
shall it ignore ignorance, it will drink thirst and eat hunger
places to materialize in, moments, similitudes to buffer
may it illuminate ignorance, it will eat thirst and drink hunger
questions to answers, labyrinths in mazes, thanks to prancer
pica seeks pleasure whom apogee reality will witness never
but to baby senses ****** is the eternal supposed starter
life is due, life is dead, illusion, O soul here is your answer
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
Give me stairs
To attain some lofty pinnacle
For stairs are sheer simplicity
An elegant solution to reach some apogee
Incapable of failure unlike the
Mechanical complexities deriving from indolence
Presumed superior to the apparent drudgery
Of clambering upward unhurriedly and
Thus assembled ultimately to fail and frustrate my overwrought soul
While archaic stairs continue unwavering ever upwards
Give me stairs
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
Your imprint's emplacement
Massed fate's apogee,
Where words become pavement
Whilst time sets them free.
Too bad you didn't like it.
I actually wanted to make you feel special.
I don't write love poems
For this reason.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:02 AM UTC
Born at the age of sixteen
To again experience the cusp of noon sun
At the bottom of orangeade syrup
Indelible on your tongue, permanent
In a mid-summer twilight
At the touch of sweat skin and wet ears
On maple arms and black foot night
Singing to the will o’ the wisp
(Leather bound a thought
They will read it, perhaps pay
And take pleasure in your hymn
As verse of summer knows the animus
Which lightens the load of e’ryone)
Ineffable are his hands on terra cotta walls
A hot whisper in the ear and cotton lips
Which press the skin on beachy nocturne
To the ocean, the unforgiving expanse
That vomits all my woes
Which I throw back into it
To again experience the cusp of heat
And boiling blood and salty extravagance
The emotion at an apogee
That makes the world a rumination of wonder
(Not to live without fault
But to thrive in its decadence)
The heat of twilight cakes my legs in shorts
On yellow sunspots, glowing in his amber eyes
Soon, to appear on the cusp of gothic moor
During the late ombre effect of dusky sky
When its nighttime cataract reveals, the moon
A pitted moonscape
The moor is silent and whispers to its dwellers
If I were to find him there, in the fresco
Etched into the crystal caverns of night
Would he respond in the marsh
With the crickets between the reeds
Or the owl on the ground mole
As the whispers of naiads?
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC