"befogged" poems
The woman in the window
Looks out beyond the glass
Beyond the reach of her whispers
Befogged upon windowpanes glance
Farther than the bounds
Her own breathe imbues
Out of reach her long fingered touch
Tracing her murmurs on looking glass dew
Grasping for the shadowed artifacts
Only time does nonchalantly drift past
Perched alone upon a cloud of silence
Her thoughts eddy in soundless swirl
Spinning like dizzying shadows
Swallowed by a thirst for light
The other side of window beckons
Only she knows she’s looking out through a sigh;
Seeing no one familiar looking back ―
For what hidden jewels within abide
She dreams of dancing leafless by daylight
Twirling beneath the whispering willows sway
Just a step away from being free
Just a step away from feeling alive
With first step beyond imprisoning hesitation
Crossing over the threshold of a dream
Through a liberating portal outside the glass
Just on the other side of the windowsill ...
Jesse e Stillwater
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
Lost my way in the storm of your body,
kissing your lips kept track of my steps
I noticed every line and curve of this mountain
made a map to help myself.
I looked around to find these eyes full of love,
and I did find them, befogged,
I found the very eyes that made me fall in love
looking at another person’s route.
I wasn’t the only one climbing your peaks
but that’s what you made me believe.
What a thunderous event, isn’t it?
“it isn’t what it seems to be”
you say? sure.
I have heard better lies
by the very thieves who came that night
who robbed me of my conscious mind,
blindfolded my eyes with believes
pushed me in a storm and made me leave
my childish thoughts about you,
about what I thought was love.
I made a map of your body
just to find my way
out of the forest where
trees grew
l i e s.
-no bitter fruit than truth
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 7:06 AM UTC
There must have been a million raindrops falling down hard
Loud drops plummeting from the place where the sky overflows
The seemingly infinite pitter patter painfully counted one by one
Noir moments impinged beyond a rainy night:
Splashes splatter, showers flood torrentially,
Shards of water blind the befogged windowpanes,
Catching the candle light’s dull flicker
Upon the sway to the heartwood of the rain sodden trees
But underneath it all, there's this heart
Nobody really knows ― unborn and alone
Waves of silent reverie seize firmly a fragile heart,
Only learning to grasp the soul’s most poignant sensibilities
Wrought fifty shades of melancholy blue
Dreaming with eyes wide open
to see you tiptoeing around me
Bereft of touching as we reach for love
As if it were a moment we could hold
But I'll reach to you from where time just can't go
In that beloved moment leading the way back
into my dreams
Broken silence roused the moment's ache
With a boisterous sigh, the daunting fading murmurs
Of unspoken breath cogently exhaled
Hallmarks of a secret place no one else can go,..
One drop at a time…
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 11:42 AM UTC
i am bone-tired and befogged with melancholia; i cannot wait to fall and bounce cheerlessly in a field of forlorn, arenaria flowers, all over the sunless forest floor. leave me be — a strange girl in a sleepy, run-down town. leave me be — a hopeless case in my own quiet apocalypse.
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 1:17 AM UTC
Fooled by childlike exuberance,
because your sweetness is your depravity
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
O fog,
shrouding the busy highways
softly
muting their resonant roar
to distant growls
Unfurl your smooth fury,
crumple these cars,
shatter their frames across
and beyond their concrete tracks
that separate forests and hills
and thicken the air
with acrid smells
from exhausted horsepowers.
Embrace them,
O fog,
and guide their screeching tires
over the embankment
roaring hearses
unreigned
by your moist arms
* * *
&) Discovered recently among H. D.´s unpublished papers at Yale University Library, malevolent scholars take this poem as proof for the poet´s befogged imagination during some of her post-imagist periods. More englightened critics, though, point to the stunning topicality of H. D.´s mythopoetic mind in its accurate presentation of mankind´s archetypal struggle against nature. There is as yet insufficient biographical evidence that the mature H. D. possibly had a short but intensive attachment to the infant Ralph Nader, who later became head of the U. S. Environmental Protection Agency. – For serious information on the poet, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H.D.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
Tessellation & Interstices
**”A tessellation or tiling is the covering of a surface,
often a plane, using one or more geometric shapes,
called tiles, with no overlaps and no gaps…In mathematics, tessellation can be generalized to higher dimensions and a variety of geometries.”**
the insistent need to be distinguished
means many are not,
indeed,
this hunger
to be an influencer
and never just an influencé.
creeply creates a linear surface,
a flooring to be trod upon,
a tessellated plane,
were we each fit in
right-tight juxtaposition
and we are noticeable for our
uniformity and
the scuff marks of having been trod upon,
well used.
it is in the chips of irregularities,
the overlaps and the gaps
where we touch and connect
with our individual Ah Ha’s,
where our Venn Diagram Lives
intersect, infect, interfere, inject,
in the tiny
interstices
tween us,
the jagged, irritatingly edgy
rubbings
that the friction of creativity
is comedically inseminated.
I love a good tense sweat,
that invasive, deep boring burring,
that demands
instant creative solutions lest the angst of
an unwritten-in-the-moment-poem
is even more annoying,
before it is annoyingly,
befogged, lost forever.
that is why with old age,
fearsome fast
short term memory loss,
some turn to the speedy freedom of
free verse,
unconstrained by socks
and well fitting shoes,
and the slip on sneakers
of rhyming,
so insistent on perfection,
that the
burr is absorbed,
the irritant rubbing is creamed away,
and that loss of
a pouring of the soul’s *********** of
Done!
is
our exclamatory mutual curse
Mar 23, 2024
Mar 23, 2024 at 10:26 AM UTC
Rain pouring
Befogged windows
Vague memories
Of once lost love
Its falling harder
Stronger memories
Greater pain
...
Tear
...
Stop falling
Stop reminding me
...
Scream
...
It stopped raining
Memories faded
Despair
**** you rain!
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 10:37 AM UTC
Everything is blurred:
Beclouded and befogged.
I need an illumination, as his smile captures my eyes.
Dim and dusky, I ask myself, 'What's going on?'
I need to be closer.
But as I go closer, the harder for me to see...
As the sound of his voice diminished as our distance from it increased.
And it hits me-- a tear fell from my eye as his shadows gone for a while,
like the chances we have-- blurred and fantasied.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
Just a note
to say, thanks
for the many years
of enjoyment
when I first met you
I will admit I found
you a dry and boring
old stick
It took a while to get the knack,
to be enamoured with your style
but once converted, I was, a fan
and read you by midsummers night
in and out love, through tempests
and battlefields, with friends, foes
and witches,
on balconies, in shoreditches.
upon islands where all seemed familar
but in such a confusing way.
Through battles and histories
fact and fanciful.
I walked withyou and
your word play
at my heels like a dog...
sometimes with clarity
and sometimes befogged.
Your words dear friend
have so often been apt...
Tho I sometimes wonder
if you knew the effect
your scrawl would have
as you sat and wrote
making it up as you went along,
I wonder if you thought your
words were whisperings in a wind
there....and then gone.
And now you are famous,
world reknowned.
A bard no less
with the Globe at your feet
Yet to me you are a friend,
your words comfort, and inspiration
in a world unstable...
So again I say,
Thanks for the plays
the sonnets and things
it made a difference
more than you know
but just to let you know...
I still haven't got the knack
of writing in iambic flow....
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
warm for the season
clouds hanging to the ground
hiding the sun
making mid-day feel like dusk
such days may make some folks
forlorn and grey
and they prefer to stay indoors
secluded, warm, in cozy places
practicing various social graces
for me
the blurry silhouettes of familiar shapes
open the doors
to visions of a magic world
the old oak tree down by the grocery
looms huge, somewhat mysterious,
almost a bit uncanny
an ancient giant rising from his lair
the hedges in the garden
have grown into dark vanishing walls
the path between them leading
straight into misty white uncertainty
even my neighbor’s little dog
appearing suddenly
looks like a werewolf’s tiny brother
I do not bother
nor do I take flight
I am befogged
yet I do recognize
abundant water in the air
enhances our view through ambiguity
makes us enrich our world with meanings
more fantastic
and quite otherwise
than those when days are clear and bright
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC
Colour-coded lists
with satisfying check marks
Tally for self-worth score
Free time is a dead wasteland
Work compulsion conquers all
Work is my saviour
Proof that I have use
Grateful for the gift
of structured daily toil
I don’t need a break
I am far too strong
I am made to stand
in any roaring storm
Endlessly on point
I cannot relax
Maybe I should take
a class in calming down
Another degree
Major in stillness
Minor in poems,
music, walks and gardens
What happens to me
While I do ‘leisure’?
What will I be worth
when I take time for me?
When days are rough at work, and heat is high
My self-esteem is carried by a role
To prove each working day that I am fine
And value comes from actions to assist
At frantic pace that slowly dents my soul
Beware when job and self strong-overlap
Identity is blank beyond my job
Then molehills swell to snowy mountain range
Allotments to sheep stations in my mind
And working day and night a sleeve-worn slog
Befogged in role, befuddled in self-worth
In muddled shame, obscured by guilt and fear
With added slow fatigue and hopelessness
And where do your needs end, and mine begin?
All rules of world and life become unclear
Learn to take time off
Negotiate with myself
New type of self-worth
Creative time, open field
Discovery nurtures all
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 1:26 AM UTC
There’s many legends told of those who tended to the nets
Whose talents brought grown men to tears, made bookies hedge their bets.
One man’s special gift was to make the goal lamp glow
Therein begins the woeful tale of Red Light Racicot.
The story starts at Granby in Quebec’s junior ranks,
Where pimply youths have slapshots which seem fired from tanks,
And flashy cat-quick goaltenders will often steal the show;
Alas, no such heroics came from Red Light Racicot.
The ease he was beat stick-side left his goalie coaches dumb.
Granby supporters prayed as one that they would trade the ***
They called him “Ancient Mariner” (stopping one in three or so),
Surely Les Habitants would not sign Red Light Racicot.
But indeed, Les Canadiens dragooned him in the draft,
Fully convincing one and all that Serge Savard was daft.
Children throughout the province prayed *Dear merciful God, No!
Don’t let our Forum bear the taint of Red Light Racicot.*
But then came a stretch where Patrick Roy’s work had been poor,
And Hayward and Vinny Riendeau had each been shown the door.
And Montreal fans heard the saddest words they’d ever know:
…Starting in goal this evening is Red Light Racicot.
He flailed at wobbly wristers and wound up on his ****
And gave up much more five-hole than any village ****
Even cross-check befogged Savard knew it was time to go
And mercifully, he released poor Red Light Racicot
In Heaven there’s a glowing rink where gods of hockey skate:
Maurice Richard, Howie Lorenz, all of the truly great.
In one net, Georges Vezina makes saves with stick and toe
But someday they’ll all float soft goals past Red Light Racicot.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
i cry oceans over you
your befogged mind refuses to believe my feelings revolve around you
my hurting is your actions
sprawled within me
trapping me
prisoner to you
and you don’t even know
even if i wanted to leave
i died in you
and now i’m stuck in you
its probably my fault for believing you when you told me ‘forever’
im never permanent
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC
We have grown old of age
And thy bond to us should be an eternal nova,yet we have been deceptively acquainted with thy word: we have adopted the ways of foreigners and overturned the identity of exorcism as our manners, defy those by thy faith and drift us deeper into the crust by the day.
Our hearts roar in rage
For we have forsaken thy teachings Jehova.
Our missions are disguised; we are enchanted by Earthly things,which root us into sinners.
With visions befogged by blind optimism.
We took a bite of crusty fruits,blinding our faith and now,the devil engulfs our souls by the day.
We yearn to worship thy name; come to our liberation; we are lost sheep and seek redemption. Lead us away from this real fiction. El Shaddai, lead us back to the garden of Eden.
Hijenduanao Uanivi and Otja Tjipee Uanivi
Thursday,31st January 2019
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 3:26 PM UTC