"attentiveness" poems
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for the early morning teach
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she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
i swore to myself
that a flick of the tongue
would never shelter self-hatred
so deeply embedded into the patchwork of my being.
contagion is a sad **** thing
and cycles seem to be an endlessly contributing factor
those who hurt cannot become hurt
and so we place our self-pity at the top of our priorities
disregarding emotion so carefully hidden in the fragile mind of others.
however there are few who's torment is only self-projected
i am one
an anathema that exists in silence
my past has been placed in a box full of secrets
along with the evidence of my self-mutilation
is there a way to keep my eyes shut and my dignity revealed?
this world is numb, and the apathy must be getting to me
because i would rather not feel a **** thing
than to be plagued by misery
from myself and the ones i love
however, emotions are not choices
and humans cannot be reprogrammed
it seems the pleas and slurs i leave in place of words
are what my familiars take to heart
bodies speak such complex languages
and not everyone has the patience
or the attentiveness
to listen to anything other than a cry
and although i warn
and beg for warmth
i receive only glaciers
and memories of faces
overwritten with impassivity
what i would give
to reach into the darkest parts of my soul
and rip out this sorrow
that has clung itself to the shadows of my psyche
in the depths of my worst memories
there is a wish
a want
a need
to take this heart of mine
and throw it to wolves
to be destroyed but desensitized
in my heart
is all my pity
my lust
my anger
my sadness
and sunshine darkened and gutted
so very long ago
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
Sensual Spaces
the slightly parted lips,
beseech your entrance,
plead for a soft gracing,
a closing grazing,
a memory of
{entice consummate consume},
complete, fulfill,
long remembered far long, far more,
than the interminable sea voyage of the ordinary,
pressing drowning locking,
rinse repeat...
half an inch, less even,
much less,
separates two dancers,
a gulf, so much more arousing than
a can't-breathe grasping embrace,
an exercise to wondering
where the real pleasure kept...
be in no hurry
tarry, slowly,
seek out the
spaces between each finger,
all an invitation, all a question mark,
awaiting filling, answering...
yours in mine, mine in yours,
lock down this connection,
valley spaces tween peaks
needy for
the rain of touch,
the sun-skin heated insertions,
does not the curvatures of her
neckline,
cry out for
hands and lips attentiveness,
a space continuum
{~}
[^]
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+-+
%
t'is the almost,
the last step,
to the first kiss,
the closing connection,
of that first hand-holding,
crossing over the last span of the bridge,
the lowering of the final descent
to the shock of
first insertion,
the wooing nearness of a n'ere forgot scent,
the last step
to the first step,
that first closure,
that is the
final entrance to
sensual spaces,
hallmark passage
gateway found and instantaneous
lost,
that is ever-treasured as that
door just opening
and as fast
closing
to
love ever after...
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
you have entered the realm of life after separation.
gone are the daisies she tucked behind your ears. it’s autumn now.
you are getting older. your boots are heavy and your chest is heavier.
you were given something gleaming, but it isn’t yours,
anymore. you seethe in your own ache.
this is your first silver october. the blushing leaves have gone greyscale,
like an i love lucy rerun. they evoke a stab of grief between your lungs.
you have to rewrite the story of your life now,
go forward knowing that everything after will be somehow
lesser than her. no person will reach into you the way she did.
you are a lost girl. resignation is all you have left,
resignation and streets bitter with dead leaves, streets where you run and shout
a silent prayer of loss.
but then:
but then.
you are reciting a poem for a room of people and your words
belong to your body now. a deep glow has fallen over everything,
right onto a girl you’ve only seen once before.
front row. face open. taking in what you are saying,
your retrospective sorrow, with a particular kind of attentiveness
you have needed all along.
everyone is listening, but she is hearing you.
in that moment, when you are raw and earnest,
you think that perhaps there’s something different about
this one. how even when you are done, she still seems to be
hearing all the words you cannot say.
and then:
and then.
spring is thrusting its way out of cold dirt
and you are twisting and breathing and this girl,
this girl, she is one million ******* shades of red. all you can do is
look at her without turning away, as if you could do such a thing
even if you tried. maybe this is how rembrandt felt
when painting night watch.
full of thick, rich burning too immense for language to hold.
this girl, this girl in the midst of life after. this girl so good
she’s put meaning back into the messy coming of spring.
you have learned not to trust. not to believe.
to love with a window open, a hand on the door,
in case of incineration, ready to run.
but this girl, says your heart,
says the peachy light bleeding onto her lips and nose,
this girl is not like those who came before her.
you’ve been a stranger to yourself for so long, but this girl
is reintroducing the two of you, rubbing you raw with longing.
do you understand, you want to say to her,
how stunning you are.
standing there like that. in your sincerity and laughter, as it weren’t
breath snatching to witness. as if it were commonplace,
unexceptional. as if you weren’t the tenderest work of art.
do you.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC
Darkness.
He settles on my skin like an absent touch; His hands the hands of a past love tracing my outline and raising my skin.
He whispers to me in dreams. What was once, and what could be, he lingers in the thoughts I can't control.
He breathes silence in the space between us, enclosing every inch of my body in his icy exhalation.
He is the coldest of comforts.
He is fearful, but I do not fear him.
His chasm of understanding and attentiveness is an infinite book of blank pages to be filled. He hears me. He listens.
He Is the giver of time that nobody wants. He provides. When I am at war with my thoughts at 3 AM, he is on my side.
He does not lie, unless it is along side of me. On top of me. All around me. He is consuming.
He is untrustworthy, but I have given him mine.
He is the quietest of melodies. His song cradles me into sleep, and I feel him beside me as I drift away.
When I awake in the morning he has always left, but is never really gone.
In the brightest of rays, I can still see him.
He controls me like an illness, but only with my consent.
Darkness.
If ever I wanted to leave him, would he let me?
Could I cleanse my soul after his touch?
If I ignored his approach in the eve,
would he still be kind to me when the daylight faded?
I'm afraid to find out.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
Below Orion’s belt
He will fly.
Sailing in on the evening breeze,
Through a clustered cloud of E’s.
To the timbre of a stammer,
Above the cedar trees.
A wish for lips to seize the soul is filled,
Without tongue, or a love-stoned kiss.
No, this moonlight drifter need not sneak
To steal your attentiveness.
Raspy cool, birthed on a cool train, a Coltrane,
Flickering inside a steel blue horizon.
A stray bolt of lightning
in a darkening jar.
Did you see it?
Condensed droplets of jive crystallize
As sight spreads with a cock-crow sunrise.
Shadows yield to spots of sunshine, and
The hum knifes through atoms of air,
Awakening the Early Ears.
A fulfillment, furnished.
A drip, a drop,
A drip and a drop,
Arranged in pairs of sinking threes -
The details of an ensemble’s dream
Infuse the day’s reality.
And with one last vertical dance,
Time slips back to a simpered trance,
As basso continuo leads you home,
Through a lonely mountain pass.
A zephyr is crowned,
Sitting atop a morning cloud,
To culminate, an unfettered kite,
A lazy bird in flight.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
for every tear I shed that you didn't cause but helped to wipe away.
for every laugh I had that you made happen because you know it'd make my day.
for every apology you've given when you did nothing wrong.
for every time you've kissed my face, my neck, my lips to make me weak.
for every promise you've made and never broken.
for every wise word you've said to help me with my problems.
for every time you swore you'd **** anyone that ever hurt me.
for every time you've listened to my annoying and random stories with attentiveness.
for every song you've ever sung to me to melt my heart.
for every smile you gave and made to brighten my day.
for every hug and every time you held me close to make this love last.
for every time you've ever said the words I love you to me because I know you meant them..
for you, I am grateful.
to you, I am indebted.
for you, I don't mind.
and so to you, I love you.
[r.r.r.w]
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
I will not take from you.
I will receive what you freely give,
Your time, with attentiveness;
Your opinion, with deliberation;
Your wisdom, with appreciation;
Your care, with contentment;
Your trust, with meekness;
Your happiness, with joy;
Your sorrow, with comfort;
Your compassion, with relief;
Your humanness, with understanding;
Your adoration, with commitment;
Your passion, with fidelity;
Your heart, with sacrifice;
Your soul, with reverence;
Your love, with devotion.
©1998 Michael S. Davis
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
I heard of a man
who never owned a
television.
Instead he bought
a set of solid oak
bookshelves stained
like mahogany.
With the money
he saved on cable,
he filled them with
classics like Plato,
Aristotle, and Dostoyevsky.
He studied Darwin
and Descartes, and
memorized poems by
Whyte and O'Donohue
Because he never
made the switch to
high definition, he
could afford trips to
Rome and Tuscany.
Walking those ancient
streets and resting
in those heavenly fields,
he learned the art
of attentiveness,
minding the
genius loci
of a place,
and setting
one's cadence to
the breath of the wind.
And in the end,
he had a few books
of his own,
but they taught
nothing new
other than
how to truly live.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
Total shock, I say, what occurred
At our local aquarium in recent years.
Some call it the type of scandal
That violently shakes two hemispheres.
Henry and Roxy had been an item.
Much older than she, Henry was bound
To guard and protect his little lady.
A more loyal penguin was hard to be found.
How they loved to sing together!
He would belt out and she would intone.
The happy couple frolicked and preened--
Happy not to be alone.
Molting season came and Roxy
Experienced her catastrophic molt.
Henry stood by and guarded his sweetheart.
Of attentiveness he lacked not a jolt.
Roxy's feathers soon returned
And there she was in all her glory.
Then poor Henry started his molt.
That's when Floyd entered the story.
While Henry hid from penguin view,
Floyd caught Roxy's eyes.
His feathers were back in abundance.
What happened next? You can surmise.
When Henry's feathers finally returned,
Floyd had become Roxy's new mate.
They did what penguin couples do
While Henry sadly accepted his fate.
The new family soon multiplied,
And Henry eventually found a new friend.
What started out as an outrageous scandal
Wasn't so horrible in the end.
Scandals come and scandals go.
Some of them are hard to avoid.
Aren't you glad that you don't molt
Like our friends Henry and Roxy and Floyd?
- by Bob B
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 8:24 AM UTC
stillness
requires,
patience
requires,
consciouness
requires,
awareness
requires,
attentiveness
requires,
calmness
requires,
stillness
~~~~~~~
~~~~~
~~~
~
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:57 AM UTC
I am motherless.
She sits on the hutch in our dining room, in a ceramic urn.
Watching her fall has made me rise
I will be her polar opposite.
Her failure is my success.
I was numb to her death,
Like watching through one-way glass,
My heart feeling no pain, no loss.
Just relief.
I am safe now.
I am a muzzle.
I keep my feelings and frustrations to myself,
Bottled like colored sand and shells.
They rest on the tip of my tongue sometimes,
Rehearsed words to finally say what I mean.
But every time I talk myself down,
And push the words back down,
Fingers thrusting cork underwater.
From time to time I wish to shed a skin of attentiveness,
To take the words for what they are, rather than how they’re said.
I am a dream drawer
With broad strokes of man-made nostalgia I paint
A colonial home,
On a tree lined street,
A square front yard,
A big oak tree,
Green grass and a wraparound porch.
Inside,
There are varnished floors,
Built-in bookcases,
An Ikea kitchen,
And a Pottery Barn living room.
The kids wear Abercrombie,
The school bus stops at our front door,
and I am a mother for my children and for myself.
I am a street photographer.
Windows are my viewfinders,
showing a moment of life inside of a house. Click.
I am fascinated by the insides of a home.
I wish I could stop time and walk inside,
To see what’s behind that glass photograph.
I am a poet.
My dreams and desires,
My feelings and frustrations,
Are not spoken, but written.
I cannot just “turn on” my poetry,
I need something to speak to me,
Like my toes in a backyard pool during twilight,
Or a restless night.
They whisper at me,
Cast me meaningful glances.
I am a miner,
Searching for diamonds in a harmony,
Where I just have to close my eyes,
Smile, and be swallowed by the whale of melody and drums.
I am Jonah,
Wrapped in a musical hurricane,
I am surrounded and forced to forget
Everything but what I’m hearing.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 10:43 PM UTC
Sing to your daughters
read Sonnets out aloud
encourage love and laugher
so they stand out from the crowd
Instil a sense of fun
tempered with the wisest words
let them free to run
and appreciate the birds
Give them the building blocks
to aspire to great heights
teach the importance
of learning from hindsight
A woman's intuition
has a very special power
involving attentiveness
to every single hour
Melting the hearts
of everyone around
educated ladies
cleverly astound
Give them a guiding hand
light their journey along the way
be their solid rock
and by your side they'll always stay
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
Sullen stares lighting the way
Passing through this great abyss
Dreaming away
Losing control
Gaining doubt
My mind has gone
Leaving me here:
Stranded
I see the end
I do not stop;
desperate for closing
This is not what the world has done to me
But rather, what i have accepted from it
Do not follow me:
Off this cliff
Take the other way:
Reverse
See the hope, The chance
All that awaits you
Live your life
Don't look back
I have not seen hope
Much too long
I am done, finished
and incomplete
Emptiness is looming above
Haunting me with the hunger for more
My attentiveness, I have lost
I no longer see where my hope is
It must be out there
But who knows
Not I
Ability to trust: The key to faith, friendship, and success,
has failed me now
Completely and fully going against itself
Untrustworthy trust
Pure irony
Full truth
Nothing is as it seems
I no longer beg for justice
I have found I'm scared of the meaning
Let alone, what it truly amounts to
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 10:37 AM UTC
when you run your fingers
along the lengths of mine
like that,
you always
almost
have me a fool for you
but no.
because it's already happened
that you looked at me
with so much attentiveness
in your eyes,
so much intent
in your gestures
actions,
i believed you were listening
but you weren't.
you were simply just looking
looking at
"something too good for me," you said
i have never wanted
you to be one of the likes
i despise most in this world
the selfish.
but it was then that
i've come to the conclusion;
selfishness is because
of sometimes beautiful
and reasons worth being selfish over,
sometimes not.
i know this because i decided
to be selfish myself
and not to tell you
to act on your feelings
for i was scared
and i allowed myself to be selfish
on account of that fear,
keeping my love for you to myself.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
"You need not worry about the silence." He used to say. Though most nights I lay awake hoping I'll never end up a rose or a daisy.
morbidly brittle
with their lack
of water and
attentiveness
whatever
hope I ever had of
forever youth
drains through my soil
petals of swaying
promises
overexposed
wishful colors
depicting temporarily
as happiness in death
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
Blank pages haunt me so.
I want nothing more than
my words to flow
freely from my fingertips.
I crave expression worthy
of her attentiveness.
I want to grant her a repose
from the mediocrity of my
anemically feeble prose.
But my words no longer
shock and stop her heart,
her knees are stronger
and harder to make weak.
And I know my words no
longer impress her because
they no longer impress me.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Human wisdom is nothing more than time paired
with our natural ability for quizzical attentiveness.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
upon the thick chill of modern life
she reflects, drawing over the body,
a thin blanket of cashmere,
how it miraculously
denies the chilling, its darkening physicality
I,
I listen in non-responsive, full attentiveness,
thinking perhaps a poem she is demanding,
“we all need more miracle blankets in our lives”
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:36 AM UTC
You are for me
In times like these
I cry
In distress
Exasperation
I press
Myself against you
In time like these
I long for your warmth
The ache in my empty pain
Comfort seeking
Selfishly
Greedy
For your love
And your care
Your attentiveness towards me
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 10:27 PM UTC
I think you disgust me
(most likely)
because I do not wish to enjoy you.
I chastise myself and my poor judgement
every time you cause that dreaded ***** smile on my lips.
And yet
it continues.
I think you instigate my anxiety
because your manners and unnecessary attentiveness
make my stomach squirm
in a most grotesque way
and I feel that I do not deserve such respect from such a sweet soul.
Oh, if I could,
I would hate you.
I would say terrible things to others,
but it'd be all lies
because you are all anyone could ever desire ,
a tragic example of how every male should behave.
I feel so inadequate, so vulnerable,
so terribly close and alone with you
that I must shove a barrier between us
and lust for a boy
who's as distant and hurtful
as me.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
Is it
Those dreamy eyes of yours that I can't stop staring into
Those orbs that led me to your soul in heaven
Those receptacles that can elicit a myriad of emotions with a look
Or
Could it be
Those sumptuous lips of yours that I can't stop kissing
Those heavenly gates to your river of nectar that tastes ever so divine
Those sensuous portals to scathing remarks and honeyed words
Or
Is it
Your beautiful, wonderful mind that I cannot stop delving into
Your attentiveness to every detail when I tell you things about me and my life
Your appetency for knowledge of the universe and every single thing about me
Or
Could it be
The way your body merges with mine so perfectly like puzzle pieces
The way we understand each other so intimately like Siamese twins
The way you smile when you look at me, full of love and hope
I don't know what it is but I do know this
I love you baby
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
The kittens were being devoured by coyotes.
Brought the last four to safety and love.
The neighbors wild duck
Hatched thirteen precious ducklings.
The kittens hunted them, endlessly.
God created them all.
They are each precious in His sight.
Can one be sacred, the other profane?
God loves all aspects of each of their behaviors.
Gives me confidence, He can love mine.
"Creation is the primary and most perfect revelation of the divine."
~Thomas Aquinas
"God remains in immediate sustaining attentiveness to everything that exists, precisely in its 'thisness'."
~John Duns Scotos
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
Wow
What a day
You’re such a beautiful force
My hands froze but they’re so warm
I’m nervous and you know it
I’m willing to go for it
But I can’t
I’m struck
By the feeling of your touch
I tried but was skiddish
You call me out on my intentions
You try to make me feel okay
We laugh and smoked the night away.
I rather not tell
The reasons why I’m glossed
The reason my head is all fog
I’d rather not pour my heart out again
I’d rather much reside in a friend
But I did what I came to do
And that’s be with you
Your next level sense of awareness
Is something new .
But it’s also your downfall,
Your blunt approach
Surprisingly effective
You’re just like me
But more collected
You’re attentiveness
More selected.
I was shy
You have me shook
You sat there and read me
Like a book
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC