"assuages" poems
Twisted sheets, mind on stutter
Unable to sort through this midnight clutter
Put it away for tomorrow
But what to do with my gnawing sorrow?
I circle soft blue on color book pages
Hoping the repetition eventually assuages
The raw edged reality of lonely dark hours
Filling the void with Crayola flowers
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
686
They say that “Time assuages”—
Time never did assuage—
An actual suffering strengthens
As Sinews do, with age—
Time is a Test of Trouble—
But not a Remedy—
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no Malady—
2.9k
Soulful Migration
Dedicated to all whose names are only spoken from headstones and now flowers is the only representation of their sweet presence that use to be aromatic and change our moods and thoughts with precious regularity now we are left to recall their words from memories grand in a much sadder land
A stream of faces and lives collect in a desert pool man’s measure stands in the stature of those he
Knows life’s heat he assuages from this spring shadowed and cool the best medicine man knows is
Family and friends formidable are the mountains the arid land belongs to no man although Georgia O
Keefe revealed its hidden Burnished glory time is the relentless stalker youth falls before its will surly
The bugler stands at life’s sunset to play taps so life is ran this one thing I know he will play reveille at the
Eastern gate the hair has turned snowy white soon the soul will know freedom we who are left will
Celebrate and speak the truth of your nobility you placed in our soul’s steel and granite enough to defend
A kingdom the majesty of God declared your lives must be or all would be vain life can best be described
As grand theater the elderly are the stars and we are the understudy the divine architect designed the
Physical stage in perfect ascetic severity the symmetry is flawless no angles are hidden from view the
Cost to play on this stage is everything you have or ever hope to have the consequence is eternal the
Low and frivolous are denied any central part
Good by Uncle Floyd aunt Kate
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
Picture it when in a flash of a description, brought you the news
it said was your derelict.
when in becoming we ultimately fail
our being championed by our unbecoming
seeking the real scathed by a sizeable truth
like a persimmon in your tender hand.
This is the default
sketched over a sagging paper, plugged within the air
the motes depart and is as easy as it is explained: an elusive
thing that may never be captured. Something the arriving
betrays then assuages with a word treated benignly:
a transit.
let gray define the day: let the file describe the motive:
let presence soil where we stood our place
like a monument: let it seek a real object
or a found language
a wafting presence is lost somewhere gliding over unnamed territories
commencing a displacement said was our undisputable location
roads becoming roads vehicles becoming salvage
birds becoming orchestra shambles becoming complete
thus dearth becoming us before our denied image
from a source that was our implacable place like a deadspot discovered
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
O leave your hand where it lies cool
Upon the eyes whose lids are hot:
Its rosy shade is bountiful
Of silence, and assuages thought.
O lay your lips against your hand
And let me feel your breath through it,
While through the sense your song shall fit
The soul to understand.
The music lives upon my brain
Between your hands within mine eyes;
It stirs your lifted throat like pain,
An aching pulse of melodies.
Lean nearer, let the music pause:
The soul may better understand
Your music, shadowed in your hand
Now while the song withdraws.
1.4k
Manila is fray
Tough enough to die,
Brave enough to see ****** against
the billboards
***** on the marketplace
***** men haggling for prices
the corners are squalid -- rats with ambitions of men take their places in
the esteros
a car-horn blares, wanes old moon music.
I sing songs of malversation. Trains all graffiti.
My heart like a jailbird freed somewhere
in the big sur; love assuages nothing,
comes with a cheap price
a freak December night in Roxas blvd.
i sit on marble benches and dream
of artilleries, garlands on snuff-nosed
barrels, nuns grieving dust
in the ground. communal bathrooms
drunk in foolish caricatures,
the tabloids displaying flowerheads --
the democracy in the streets a ****
for kings, no love to lull
me to infantile sleep
tortured are the bulls
matadors hiding behind faces red like
faces of statesmen flushed with
the spirit of bourbon
whereas we are here river-facing
northern tip of its undying source
like wives on balustrades waiting
to catch the fragrance of inamoratas,
light reenters
interstice of chary webs of dull heads hemmed in like canopies in the throat of overthrown ponds, scraps
of metal sold for a night's worth
of gin and Sinatra,
Deep within the grave, the dead laughing
at the dead living. Atop waters,
yachts peering into drowning fish,
in the middle, a jam of buses
belching lassitudes that strangle
the console, the man in all of us
the same, cursing behind the wheel
and everybody else different
dancing at the top of our heads.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 5:04 AM UTC
come, little wolf boy
you do not scare me.
i've seen you before. i've met you before.
i know you're truly weak.
behind a sleek fur coat
you hide your many scars
of fathers you have long since passed
once you found out who you are
you're fur is soft,
a comfort for me
after all, i haven't seen you in so long
it assuages me and thaws your heart
you've been running for so long
through snow, sleet, and hail
you've forgotten that you can rest with me
we always stay together though gust and gale
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 7:21 PM UTC
I just wish I could get my
head and my heart
to play on the same team,
but they are constantly
at
odds.
My heart still yearns for
a man that
never loved me to begin with,
convinces me that
it's worth responding when
he texts me some
empty ******** that
momentarily assuages his guilt
for his selfishness.
On a Saturday night when
all my friends are off with
someone who loves them,
my heart pumps heavy
against my hollowed chest,
trying to manipulate my
fingers like weak little
puppets,
persuading them to send a text
I will regret in the morning.
My heart replays the words he spoke,
the times he made me feel like I mattered,
the way our bodies made art,
how he understood me like
no one else ever has.
What if I made a mistake,
my heart demands of me,
a mistake in cutting him out,
in choosing to ignore his texts,
in attempting to move forward?
What if no one else will
ever open
their ears to all of my secrets,
their eyes to all of my skeletons,
their hearts to all of my mistakes?
What if I missed my
chance for love?
Remember, my heart whispers,
how he stayed up all night
unfolding himself
and
how you shared your poetry
and
how he sent you a text a day with
a new matter to ponder
and
how he knew what you thought
before you said a word
and
how he understood every
face you made and what it meant
and
how the lyrics you heard
always mattered to him
and
how he cared about what you were learning
and
how the minuscule moments
of your life meant the world to him...
or so he claimed.
And then my brain swoops in
to remind me how
he was all words, no action.
Days and weeks went by
without a peep
even though the week before
he had insisted on showing up at your
apartment five days in a row.
All he cared to do with you,
my brain recalls,
is share a smoke on the roof
and discuss life,
but never did he once care to
share in the outside world
with someone who he so claimed to love.
My brain reminds me of
the secrets he kept,
of the woman he lived with
behind my back,
of the gross refusal to make a commitment
even when he claimed
he would think of me in his last moments
and that he had never
felt for another like he did for me.
My brain knows of his emptiness,
of his excuse-making,
of how he blamed everything on his
pathetic circumstances
when he really was just a
selfish ******* who deserves
not a moment more of my time,
ever.
When I get those texts
that claim he's thinking of me
after church or
send me song lyrics in some
pathetic attempt to reawaken our
"connection,"
my brain reminds me to
ignore,
to remember that words are empty,
to wait until he becomes man enough
to give me what I deserve.
My heart makes me weak.
My brain keeps me strong.
My heart wants you.
My brain doesn't need you.
And even though I want
to listen to my heart,
my brain knows better.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
i feel so held in the cradle of the canyon
the dips in the earth
the way she swells and wants my eyes to know it
the way she bathes my breath
in tiny ice crystals
as i stare
frosty-eyed, at her
dusted in snow
it all is a caress -
soft as sheets
floating, fluttering, onto skin
as lover makes the bed around you
her voice softens
to a whisper of pine needles in wind
as cold dampens, assuages, sound
every cell is called to calm
drawn to a hush
i think i can close my eyes and rest here
i think i can open my ribcage to more breath
sweet and crisp inspiration
hushed sip
i think i can soften into the blankets laid out for me under these trees
a sensational winter picnic
a cordial invitation
from earth and saraswati
Dec 8, 2023
Dec 8, 2023 at 10:53 PM UTC
awesome apothecary addressed as Agamemnon
alleviates anxiety, and alimentary aggravation
anodyne appeasement arrests ailment
amphetamines acquaintanceship assuages
agonizing aches also advocates amorousness
assiduously activating admiration
aggressive attacks assault air afoul
affable affinity affects adumbration
anatomical accidental addiction attested as academic,
although afterward abnegation absolutely arduous,
affianced attired apparently as an anomaly
Ares and Abyssinian Astarte admixture
acquiescence affliction affected adroitly,
and abruptly abends accessible
altruistic alms axed
albeit admonishing, alluding,
and attributing authored
autonomous anonymous adroit arriviste agents
accompanying as accomplished accomplices
accredited ace advertisers
applaud ascendent assaults amidst agonizing appeals
acting all acrimoniously apropos
avowedly ardently, and antagonistically, agitating
appositely advocating ancillary assistance
addict adrift afloat anchors away
assails along, among, and an alias archenemy -
adorned abominable assassin alters ambition
adroitly, aggressively, absolutely
addict announces asseveration
against avid admonishment
alarmingly annulling authentic affiliation
anew anonymous ability acclaims alignment
aegis actually adversarial abetting attrition appetite
acceleration ascendent after aplenty anesthetization
additionally activating arced analogous arrow
advancing added abdominal and arterial agony
abject ambivalence arrests accomplishments attainable
any artistic avocation absconded
asper auditorial approbation, animadversion
artificial aggrandizement abrogates astuteness
appropriate adjudication affronted
alternative afforded amnesty about acing audioslave
as aerosmith ambition assumes arriviste affectation
already appalling alacrity awakens amendment
although Awol administration adamant
acrimonious affront agonizingly attributable
announces another afterworld
apparent ailing apparition
ardent allegiance asking anyone appreciable affix
apathy abounds attending apriorism allotment.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
She fears him, and will always ask
What fated her to choose him;
She meets in his engaging mask
All reasons to refuse him;
But what she meets and what she fears
Are less than are the downward years,
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs
Of age, were she to lose him.
Between a blurred sagacity
That once had power to sound him,
And Love, that will not let him be
The seeker that she found him,
Her pride assuages her, almost,
As if it were alone the cost.
He sees that he will not be lost,
And waits, and looks around him.
A sense of ocean and old trees
Envelops and allures him;
Tradition, touching all he sees
Beguiles and reassures him;
And all her doubts of what he says
Are dimmed with what she knows of days,
Till even prejudice delays,
And fades—and she secures him.
The falling leaf inaugurates
The reign of her confusion;
The pounding wave reverberates
The crash of her illusion;
And home, where passion lived and died,
Becomes a place where she can hide,—
While all the town and harbor side
Vibrate with her seclusion.
We tell you, tapping on our brows,
The story as it should be,—
As if the story of a house
Were told, or ever could be;
We’ll have no kindly veil between
Her visions and those we have seen,—
As if we guessed what hers have been
Or what they are, or would be.
Meanwhile, we do no harm; for they
That with a god have striven,
Not hearing much of what we say,
Take what the god has given;
Though like waves breaking it may be,
Or like a changed familiar tree,
Or like a stairway to the sea,
Where down the blind are driven.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
I sit around chewing bubble gum
Its flavor dull, and flat.
I spit it out into the greasy, stained waste bin.
It stares back at me angrily, lying next to
Some brown boxes, random yard waste,
An oily blue rag, and a raging red
Hunk of plastic, which once was a fire engine,
My misery reflected in its misshapen contours.
I’m trapped in my world
Of fake “How-do-you-dos”
And tepid conversation about the weather.
Each day is an agony and every moment, surreal.
I cry for a body that is not mine.
My soul burns with each passing lie I tell someone
When they ask who I am.
I hate love songs, happy songs, and celebrations!
They are never for me.
They are the bubble gum I scrape off my shoe
As I walk down the aisle to watch the latest horror movie.
The violence on the screen,
Only slightly assuages the rage… in my female soul,
Bound for eternity in a hairy, meaty prison.
I always feel like ****
A female mind forever warped
By this absurd male body.
The lies I tell become my little deaths.
Little deaths are pain and envy.
Pain and envy are like bubble gum…
Endlessly mashed together and sticky.
A woman sashays past me,
An unknowing feminine tyrant
Enjoying my salvation with the
Parting of her pretty red lips,
The sway of her baby-making hips,
And her graceful, yet sleek fingertips.
She delicately sits, her soft pleasant voice
Floats back up to me. Dysphoria level: CRITICAL!
She dictates my days and nights...
Inadvertently taunting me as she giggles with her friends.
But my eye’s long drinks
Of her crisp, cool water were never
About my thirst.
-MorganLA
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:43 PM UTC
January Frozen Ground
Amplifies sounds, found,
Tucked underneath the worst of regrets
Clutched between ****** knuckles
In the bottom of my soul
Dusty, yellowed pages of the hymn
Words of Gold
It reads like a holy book
States melancholy, a definitive purpose
Assuages hopelessness
In a comfort that is warm and serene
Surreal
A sensation
Almost hallucinatory
Roaring through my body
Soaring through my head
Upwards, a crown
Words of gold.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
Grab hold of the night,
Slip in through her curtains.
Sink in your teeth & bite,
nothing must feel uncertain.
Holding my breath,
I'm seeking passage out of here.
Eyes & memories,
body & soul,
Boundless energy fills my lungs,
& assuages me whole.
Small kisses of love,
are my only tokens.
I shudder and think,
of what's finally awoken.
Hands are tied,
future is set.
I am a rider,
observing a unruly death.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 10:02 PM UTC
I made another stain
On the missing pages
Time to pull them again
Away from the edges
Invisible and vain
Lost words to the ages
Letters call for eyestrain
Redaction assuages
I leave empty spaces
Tell another story
I draw stolen faces
And have them say "sorry"
Tell them we'll go places
But everything's blurry
Nothing else than traces
Left in purgatory
I pull on a corner
And make sentences split
The journal gets thinner
But words won't ever fit
I'll make my world cleaner
Since lines come out of wit
Squeeze tight ***** of paper
And trust the trash with it
Dec 24, 2022
Dec 24, 2022 at 10:01 PM UTC
I lie in the half light, shadow of dusk approaching.
Beside me lie the empty boxes of every prescribed drug I could find.
Confetti of blister packs surrounds me.
Too late now.. It's done!
The telephone lies within my drowsy reach.
Three little numbers.... I picture them in my head... Those three 9's that could still change the outcome .....
My index finger twitches briefly.. I see it.. Then it returns to stillness.
I feel a little sedated now....ever so slightly detached and I think to myself that's a good thing ..
To drift away on a sea of peace and tranquillity,
I hear the most haunting melody.. Real or imagined I can't tell......then I smile to myself.
As if my exit from this world would be accompanied by beautiful music!
Alas I shall slip from this world unnoticed.. Without so much as birdsong.
I shall leave behind so little to aid remembrance ..: no real evidence that I was ever here ,
A tinge of sadness in my drug soaked mind....
Not completely anaesthetised yet..still pain there in my heart.
I turn my head.. The telephone eyeballs me...
My finger twitches a second time .
I feel strange now.. Floaty and ethereal ,
The pain has nearly gone away.
I roll clumsily towards the telephone,
It seems to be moving away from me .. The bed is enormous,
I know there's not much time ...
I stare stupidly at the receiver.
Three little numbers....then nothing.
Nothing for quite a long while,
Then the smell of hospitals assuages my nostrils,
Wearing a crisp white sheet.. Not a shroud..
I muse if my failure to die was a weakness or a strength?
To leave or face a nothingness world...
Perhaps there is no glory in either choice,
Each path as empty and desolate as the other....
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 6:09 AM UTC