"attenuated" poems
Two separate divided silences,
Which, brought together, would find loving voice;
Two glances which together would rejoice
In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees;
Two hands apart whose touch alone gives ease;
Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame,
Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same;
Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:—
Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast
Indeed one hour again, when on this stream
Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam?
An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,
Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last,
Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream.
3.6k
If charged particles are not guilty of existence, why would anyone be? Man who holds book or man who holds gun, the choice is neither obvious or attenuated. Reactionary causes rash tactlessness. Still, proof must be exposed. Who will avenge a payback unpunished? How to take satisfaction in evening the score, when so many more will fall before any justice will cure the lure to revenge? It depends, on how charged particles defend, or how you decipher foe from friend. Call upon prudence, or we shall see no end. Precaution is canniness in your own circumspection. Please use forethought for neither the neutron or proton are happy with these electrons.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
so it begins when it begins
blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
of the day's toil;
the countryman stilts through
mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******** clad women
and women who are (really ******** clad) ready for bathing work,
collections of red days and even
tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —
the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
kennels and makeshift asylums
there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
that only rises when bellows
of festivities harangue the many streets
bending in them, the curve)
men moving from neck to neck
of bottles — (in the north there
is only four corners of bottle: gin,
pristine brook; in the Visayas is
the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
potency) plucked out of the vermilion
and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
out of this?
carabaos, equines, hens line up
the slaughterhouse behind the
TODA; you know a fine day when
it happens — breaking eggs
against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
archaic sensurround, barrage of
simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
our mothers, faster than repose
of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
to silent radios, leaving windows
open revisited by the eve of cold.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
The music of the morning is red and warm;
Snow lies against the walls;
And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight
Pigeons huddle against the wind.
The music of evening is attenuated and thin --
The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid;
The crying of a violin.
Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west,
The delicate lights begin to twinkle
On the dusky arches of the bridge:
In the green sky a long cloud,
A smouldering wave of smoky crimson,
Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed,
Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant,
Sings the first star.
1.5k
Sensations of strength come unexpected
They are newly born and welcome
Precious as all new life.
Unpredictable, they appear and disappear,
Fleeting in their attenuated passing, they are fragile
Leaving a sense of wonder, then loss.
Mine to nurture, this fragile strength might transform me.
I hold this seeming paradox
And feel a celebration – a beginning.
Nov 22, 2009
Nov 22, 2009 at 7:07 AM UTC
Armed with knowledge
of any given set of rules,
One inherits great Power:
arbitration of One's own
Be well-versed
enough to be able to subverse
any and all obstacles, however adverse,
and, moreover, to be able to transverse
thyself (and, by extension, thy universe!)
perchance edified by some means of verse,
(but not necessarily: bask in the diverse!)
during this sacred and fleeting saga of the converse
called Life: denied, defamed, and defiled by perverse
and attenuated souls; true cowards: unwilling to traverse
their own inner darkness, rather opting for the reverse:
to turn themselves schismatically and indefinitely averse
to the divine, ineffable, and limitless inverse:
So this plea, please:
Just be you,
let them be them.
Let me be me,
and let her be her.
Let him be him,
just let us be us.
Just let us.
Lettuce.
*("Why he talkin' 'bout lettuce now, mommy?"
"I guess he just think he funny, the fool!")*
Look, point is:
You are you and I am not,
and I'm okay with that.
I am I and you are not,
and I'm okay with that.
I hope you feel the same.
If not, by me it's coo',
yet I jus' gotta say:
I pity the foo'.
Bask in the holy beauty of this Life
while you still have the chance.
Truly, Solace awaits those who are willing to face this unchangeable aspect of this Life:
Diversity is the nature of this Universe;
the Void is One is Two are Three are the Ten Thousand
(et cetera, blah blah blah)
Get over it and strive for balance.
Maintain balance.
Create it.
Be it.
Be able to lose balance and find it again and again and again...
Be it.
Be you.
I'll be me.
I'll try, at least.
I hope you do, too.
I mean, I hope you try to be you,
not that you try to be me..
'cause that's for me to do.. not you. that's..
oh jesus, here we go!
Foremost,
One must harmonize with One's own Godself.
Nary another
can or will do that for you,
nor shall ye for any other.
So, whatsayeth thou:
let's just try
and we'll see just what we can do.
I'm optimistic,
albeit a sign of weakness in such a needlessly vampyristic world.
Please,
heed my verse
should ye be so apt,
or, rather:
inclined!
Thank you for reading.
Blessings upon thy Path.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
Wars fought far away
Attenuated results
Not accountable
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
Leeza, Lisa’s 14-year-old little sister, is anxious about the first day of school. She didn’t tell me that, I’m not sure 14-year-olds talk anymore.
Now that I’m almost 21, I can roll my eyes, like everyone else, and say, “Teenagers.”
Leeza’s a jingli, all-angles, taller than I am (when did THAT happen),
redhead who’s fast becoming a Lisa-like beauty.
School starts, for her, in 11 days and every piece of clothing she owns is draped across the furniture in her room or the floor, as she organizes her skool outfits.
There’s a pile of rejected apparel in one corner - the outcasts -
and a stack of magazine cutouts showing the clothes she plans to buy.
I wandered into her room that afternoon and she watched
me suspiciously, like I might steal her nonexistent baby.
“These might go together,” I said, holding up a top and skirt as a combo.
She winced, involuntarily, as if exposed to something distasteful.
Apparently, I’m getting old and my teen-taste is attenuated or worse yet - past its expiration date.
.
.
A song for this:
Houdini by Eminem [E]
Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana
Aug 27, 2024
Aug 27, 2024 at 3:27 PM UTC
goaded by a stereophonic monotone:
a flumine voice waxes with lovelorn dregs.
i heard the plump word of rescue
dangle from the heady decibel of song,
winterward, blue-veined and stillicide.
no more, shall the wind traverse the impasse of the verdigris. the incertitude
of beginnings sigh ultimately.
o people, your darling children soldered
to your denims. o rosefrail and sightless
bannerets — we mourn such coming.
it sleuths with a tangle of fingers
underneath fringes of flesh-warmed
draperies with a different temperament
as moderate as climates in squandered tropics, flows with a truth wishing it
more of the untruth:
never shall return, in faraway lands,
never shall look back and lay in prairies
attenuated, continue to sing oblivion.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
*The textures of a star as with her flesh
Are not those that seep nor soften
That they grace the hands divine
With the airiest of moistures or the fluidity
Of fire. It is far from that.
All smoothness that I know I felt
And are all too palpable.
Now I abstain from such,
From such nakedness.
Not the papaya, the apples, the grapes of La Union,
Nor the watermelon kind of touch
But of the moon attenuated, the pierce
Of the narrow light or the folding abaniko,
Could unravel me towards the discovery
Of wild fragilities, little by little, all too tender,
With its river, and its regions forbidden
And its sections.
I circumnavigate my passions
Towards hers.
I shiver.
I have yet to measure a feather,
Her waist,
With my lips.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
Take my fetus and go
Through and through the mighty seas,
Cleft of stubborn knocks and the bayonets
Rocking through and through the eves. Whose pirouettes and epilepsy crooked, Asunder, blessing the attenuated biology of Say, a field mouse or the hummingbird. What nuisance it transcends itself into. How It has marred even the plight to lock oneself In that windowless box of time. The Atemporal box featuring those curious amaranthine engravings about its sides, upon its top. Though the blood may not spill from side to side, and while the nellypot may collywaddle, there is an immense sincerity akin, fused afore to the intimacy of an authenticated orphic boketto.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
electric — conflated with
the doldrum of once ignited feeling
on the russet table work
and the stringing aroma of flyblown
coffee painting the morning something
earthenware;
i imagine
women lounging
and displaying their flamboyant dresses
confessing a dull promenade
parading their attenuated ***** reveling
a queendom on recall and this bane,
merely resolute, gives itself a new
meaning as a hand of forgive
men resigning their bags on the corner,
grunts, heaves deathly serious disallowing tomorrow's arrival into
a throb of being in place, folding newspapers to a club and smiting fervently along with the endless waiting,
verses lying cold on the froth of the tile
and the wind ripening the brew of
contestations — punctuations in their
cupboards still and reserved in hermetic
space curating silence, giving dins
their polished ends,
open for all: churlish boys,
naked girls, faith-used women, strife-torn men, usual suspects,
rebels and the overwrought –
never closes like a hand in cold
or a rose, its face occulted by
identification sideways torn, inside and out struggling,
scrunched to squint on some pale light through chinks on the battered
wall, sipping coffee,
mmmm, that
morning ripple transcending the
heaviness of the city before me.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
Letter 'C'
Letter 'S'; compress.
Wrap it to the left side,
Now to the right.
Fibres sooth my skin,
Rough ****** against integument.
Take it from below me,
Kick it away.
My neck and jaw hold me;
Rapturous, my head is high.
6,000 Newtrons force elongated time.
Ancestry is blocked,
Origin destroyed.
Only twenty minutes,
Trachea gripped, cervical vertebrae;
I'm not kneeling.
Convulvulus arvensis
My roots are deep, hard to suppress.
Attenuated and twisted,
Sheathed around others;
Proceed to ween suoport.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 5:49 AM UTC
*The Sun is not allegiant to the fire.
The grass crown the earth before your feet,
Trees stretch their long hands like those
Of a drowning man's, and the sand shines,
Revealing itself, like attenuated stars,
Like eyes, a lot like eyes intoxicated
By an eager love.
See, I adore...
...your chaos.
I don't believe in storms
Rid of miracles, nor lies
Of truth.
I will make you love you.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
Under the umbrella of your love
A seedling sprouted
Roots were found
Aquifers were tapped
Winds were attenuated
Weather was buffered
It was all simplified
The meandering river of life made sense
Under the umbrella of your love
A little sapling stepped into his shoes
And became a man
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
people ask me if my brain has started rewriting itself
If my consciousness expanded to take up the space left behind in these two months of rapid decline
Maybe in the week my eye has refused to read street signs and text messages
I am asked If I start hearing people’s locations as my sight slips further out of my reach
as if this is a neotech drama about self awareness and I am Neo
I just need to wake up, take a pill and I will harness the Matrix
more aware of my lost ness of my smallness
Of how I am I insignificant and absorbed into the collective strangeness of a crowd
It is not a different kind of light or of seeing but a falling darkness and sensing things in the night, when bats are flying low and recklessly close. When I feel the current swell around me as the unknown let’s me escape in previously grandfathered ignorance.
Tonight I am not ignorant. I am looking at a blank and dismal map. It is not filled in in the slightest.
I am rust and berry pulsing within a thick cracked skin in a sea of unbeing, only aware of where I touch the raw, colorless, and endless universe
Intensely attenuated to my body curled in fetal position
against the thickest nothing I have ever encountered.
like a slumbering geode
Filled with colorful secrets
Poised to bloom
I wait
But rocks sleep forever
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 4:04 PM UTC
at last again the dying
(this prickish
the soft and)
Spring is to hotter
(body are
the
more )
become in Summer
(a tongue)
of such heatness to move
articles of fun
to disdissemble gorgeously
they
's
shoulders fiercish cumly
and they's
muscles pointed
waists
attenuated
to hipish
widely spend
(that where
where spends
my wonder
to wonder where
what under there
is what underwear
)
think
i hope
it's
skinny
it's
thin
neon easy
to "please"
too "please"
hot too
"please" to
remove please
on your knees
(please?)
in Summer where
under there
wears
an itchly urgish
to bare
the clefted fold
in freshly cloven 'air
in (the)
dying (Spring time)
the (only) pretty (ring time)
When Birds Do Sing
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
If love was a starry, clear sky,
I would find for us cosmic patch
of lunar infatuation swirling among planets.
If somewhere is heaven,
it is here
in the tails of comets sparking in your eyes,
at that time when ship with your body reaches port of my hands.
If somewhere is heaven,
it is here
in the window of our shivery hearts,
in sound of bee wings next to the ears of yours.
If somewhere is heaven,
it is here
in fragrance of linen laid by your hands,
in tea brewed with your golden dreams.
If somewhere is heaven,
it is here
in your singing amidst forest of birches,
in cello playing in the darkness of our alleys.
If somewhere is heaven,
it is in the oaths out of our mouths,
it is in long, common stories attenuated in house full of lilacs.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC
Nascent thought provoking
threads flit to and fro
unseen solitary pinball wizard
cavalierly fiddles indiscriminately
leveraging outcome
silently holistic thought fragments
strewn staccoto scattershot
attenuated blitzkrieg
brain storm saturates,
par for course sandtrap engulfs,
chaos reverberates within
besieged cerebral corridor,
quotidian mental onslaught
spurns refugee exodus,
psychological ploy asper viable coping
function forgoes figurative
foothold toe tully forfeited
tenuous grasp slips forcing migration,
Sans psychotic shrapnel
clefts emotional well being,
without rhyme or reason
sense and sensibility rent asunder
rational, overall logical
modus operandi quashed
dealt fatal savage ******
soundless insanity relentlessly pounds
fifty plus shades gray matter
noiselessly bombarding
lofty craft cognitive faculty atelier
strafed emotional rescue
relegated to twilight zone
outer limits house barbed bereft ken
dolled, hallowed, and lobotomized
mined kempf desecrated sacred reliquary
orbits like a neurological asteroid belt
Self healing fragments repelled
despite fervent application grounded
evincing proof of positive thinking
courtesy Norman Vincent Peale
fore gone conclusion crowning
accursed albatross gussied as SPD
(schizoid personality disorder)
undefeated champ decamping forever
within noggin of this mortal male
til death do me part!
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
I fall into the dreams I craft.
Unshackled from the present,
I heal my aggrieved heart.
I ponder, fiddle with the past,
Shape time, trifle with fortune,
Fashion what could have been
And remain comforted until
I can no longer remain, for
There are others.
Others who will not know
The bone-tingling joy of first love
Who will never see a sparrow hop
Branch to branch in the dead of winter,
Who face attenuated life without despair,
Who dare not dream for fear of want.
And yet they do dream,
Dreams infinitely more modest
And infinitely more powerful
Than my own constructs,
And I awake, silent.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
Back when life wasn't such a burden,
when sharpeners and cheap razors were solely used for their intended purposes.
Back when kitchen knives were only used to help dig in,
when scissors cut paper, not your skin.
Back when you're life wasn't wearing down as attenuated,
when broken glass was a mess to clean up, not create.
Back when ropes were only thought of to jump,
when your thoughts never strayed dark enough.
Back when you were too naive to see the world for what it is,
when not everything triggered a need for such a thrill.
Back when you didn't need to test out if you bled,
when you didn't wish you were left for dead.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
Why this house? This house that walks without frame? Only air strides
circumventing the dome. The permeable atmosphere
flows freely shaking water down my arms,
pulp by pulp, fragment by fragment,
consolations for tippling music streaming in the ears.
Blowing arias – intone of regret, or the loss of beautiful things.
Preferring silence over sanguine narratives. How are we to assuage yearning?
I heard someone say, “The ideal is unattainable.” – strange, holding
the small of one’s back and lament the narrow ends of the world.
Strange the flight of birds, the hum of buses past Quezon City.
It would drone that you do not know her – and that she is never somebody
else’s – that is dearth consoled. Your palm indents delineate not fate
but the steady distances of things close to contact, eluding tragedies.
Why this house, and why you?
I have no blueprint of your home. I know not what festoons the balustrades.
Your rue for the absence of a balcony. A panel over earthenware I suppose,
or partitions to separate dreams from stilled things impaled to the wall.
I presume there are photographs of you in every corner
to remind you of your gathered storms.
I know not the smell of your home, but I have your
nameless fragrance on my shirt wedged, ambulating with me through the halls of
where I chase moments like cirrus stirring in a somersault of summer.
Make use of bowls with
evening water and flush the specter down like how you would, cold water
into throat from a night of weeping. Somewhere there,
the China will remind me of your elliptical face in
the intensity of leaving. Your eyes
the windows for birds humming a music I do not hear. I have been to too many neighborhoods,
I have seen unfinished structures foretold by obliged scaffolds holding together
a would-be home. Why this house? There are only shadows intimate on
the floor. The sudden burst of impossibilities watered down, attenuated by
piercing glances through the thickest of nights black with remorse.
The palpable silence gyrates and the diameters of the world are too close
to break in sidereal circles.
Why this house? Because you are in it, and outside,
through the thick quietude, underneath the paling moonlight,
you pretend you see nobody.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC
through the lips of
the horizon
a purple parasol
of attenuated *****
spread, flagrant is the crepuscule.
these are the exiled
in the heliotrope world:
trees saluting the length
of sprinting air to calm
these undulations -
painted are the leaves
with blame.
lips sinking to find answers
hidden underneath the
derelict of sweat, noisome moan
after quieted breathing,
heavy with the undeniable boulder
of craving's weight -
tongue naked, freeing itself
from the oubliette of flesh,
finding what is still to be
tasted in a covetous harvest,
it is indeed strange to be here,
in this absolute hour
of absent resoluteness.
to deny want and embrace fullness,
my eyes slope these visions
and then dive through steepness.
no words have to be said,
only their significations
held secretively as roots
are unseen flourishing in their
obligations to this flower,
your flower
underneath the twilight
of bodies crossing each other
out, love's derivatives
ensue.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 5:34 AM UTC
this is when
we keep on keeping on
our fingers laced and kinked
to some incited cold
gives us no unction – i leave
you with irreparable harm
trudges across flame, guesses
the assailant of aches.
when these crosses straighten
within the whelm of your mouth
i will curl them again in sweet,
successive manners of graceless joust
and then when you come before i,
or is it i before you — whichever,
this music is never a notice of
ease — only rescue without warning
or attendance, seeping underneath
pallid floor work, lips puckered
pursed to attenuated form of bow
and mine eyes arrow through
your triple deeds arraying
and i can never ignore how immense
the moon is in the river of the same vein
riverrun, away, wayward—
lisps of white and red
and soon obliterated when both our
avenues close and we walk
home, hands separately yearning.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
In the heat of passion
I'm not a kind man
Though kindness lives through me
What is a bard to do
Beyond engraving words in history
His honest intentions fall short
In reality's locomotion
Her repertoire of remedies
Attenuated by degrees
What wind deletes delusions
The dragon stops and groans
The journey has taken its toll
Upon its haggard soul
How long to fly, to run
Perhaps to frontiers of stars
The distance eludes the dance
Its furnace getting hot
Hot from the cold thought
Of forever moving
Toward indistinct destiny.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC