"buoying" poems
On Sunday, my S.O. and I
Drove to see Chorus Line
At the Stratford Festival.
A matinee. Beautiful day.
We left the Refineries of Sarnia
For fine entertainment.
The Avon flows gently
Buoying white swans gracefully.
Blah... blah... blah.
All very real.
You can see why it's called, Stratford;
There could be no other name.
A good choice.
Best Shakespearean Festival in N.A.
She explained all this to me on the drive.
If contrary people suffer
From low self-esteem, I didn't help
The situation.
As we drove through rich, green farmland,
Grazing cattle.
She asked why some barns
Have ramps leading to the barn doors.
Well, says I,
*The farmers, because of the economy,
Have to sell their livestock in parts,
So the ramps give easy access for the animals
Back to their stalls.*
Huh, said S.O.
That's so thoughtful!
Timing is everything.
Sincerity in voice, critical.
Hurry on to a new topic.
Someday, for sure, she'll tell someone, somewhere
About the considerate farmer.
She will.
Timing.
Like the kick line.
Like a punch line.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 6:47 AM UTC
The now has left my body.
My mind is emptying
Of all thought of today.
The moment is receding;
I feel my feet lifting
My arms are floating
As if in a pool of light
Like water, buoying me
With untouching caresses
Lofting to evanescence
And I know it is fine
This feeling of pleasance
Of no worries in me
No hurrying to be done
Nowhere I have to be
No reason to run.
I am centered in this,
A feeling of completeness;
Of needing nothing else,
A spiritual sweetness,
A relaxing kind of comfort
Surrounds and enfolds
By singing unheard songs
Deep into my very soul.
I am happy here, smiling,
Somewhere in the self
Where not even I can see,
That I am someone else.
I am someone loving
And kind and caring.
I love this feeling so
I wish I were sharing
The sense of a world
Where everything is right
And everyone is floating
In the same golden light.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
When my body is broiled with the crispening macabre glean of anxiety; I imagine myself to be a buoying loaf of cornbread in a torrent sea of acid.
my custard colored crust being licked away by the ravenous maw of the current, this is no terrain for a loaf of cornbread in the first place.
Ludicrous.
Perhaps if I joined the sun swept crystal island of idealism, I could be drenched in honey and bound frivolously in nectarous orchard fields.
But then, even here, I suppose a Raven may spot me and adorned with a vulturous sneer gobble me up in my blissful state there.
So where shall my pappy crumbling loaf of an existence reside?
In the trenches of unbridled realization, lapping me up in a despair riddled prison?
Or the land of beatitude and glee unfettered from the brutalizing truths of reality...
Perhaps there's some bridging ground between these two polar opposites...
but how should I know?
I'm merely a cornbread I can't declare cognizance.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
Dealing with OCD
is like losing your mind,
You can be in a room
full of people, yet all alone,
Noone can ever know
when the horrible thoughts
will come and what they will be
you just feel a buzz, a hum, a drone
in your head and you try to block it out
but like Sony Xperia apps
running in the background,
they are there, infernal
consuming the bandwidth of your soul
there is a fine line between delusion and sanity
a clutching at straws, a search for help
pleas and pleas fall not on deaf ears
but endure it you must
until it runs its course
tunnelling on, pushing you to the edge
straddling the fine line buoying
bobbing, dancing, fleeting-
drowning you in its wake as you gasp and gasp
OCD is horrible and misunderstood
why it hit me, I know not-
when it came part of me, I never agreed
I just woke up arrested, paralysed
by the most unutterable thoughts...
I suspect it happened when I met
the thin woman with the one eye-
I have known no peace since then
Paranormal paranoia rules my brain
and I am mooted, glued in the vile filth
of guilt, shame, anger, helplessness-
like a generator running on fuel,
incessant the tyres do not stop burning
alone, sometimes, I ask myself
why? why me Lord?
the cup is too heavy for me to bear
and ghouls have made my mind
an open playing field and I cant break free
at times I wake up and its gone
I smile and dress up-
try to think normally, eat and sleep
but itchy insomnia rages on my skin
beads of sweat and shaking, my mouth is dry
I am afraid, frightened and I cower
OCD is crunching my life, slowly
and sadly noone knows...they just dont know
why I say 'off' things sometimes
they suppose its the preoccupation
of a busy mind, and busy I am
wallowing, silently, stewing in the prison
it seems there is no escaping this
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
I have found it.
That certain
circular way of being
I was looking
for it,
so hard
my soul in turmoil
one slight scratch
under smiling surface
and I would become
a sculpture
made of wax
melting
at the slightest
wisp of breath
burning ,
mercilessly
at certain words
forming
from your mouth,
your mouth—
that has placed
itself upon me
so many times
on our mutual
faraway cliffs
that no-time-zone
meeting point
above stars,
in other universes
and believe me.
Nobody can
live this way,
suffering for
the want
of an uncontrollable
urge to be
so
very loved
So I have found it.
My way back
to balance
it was in your voice
and my own
together mingling
clear lines of phone
cut through soul tingling
I now take this lotus,
planted in my being
since birth,
and hold my stance
prepare to
perform
the sacred dance
a mandala-painted
halo around my crown
a holy stone
in each hand,
buoying my spirit,
anxiety down
stones I will never
cast upon you
because you
are forever me
even as I
take my heart
with two hands
and return it,
still aflame,
into
my
chest
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
Sitting, waiting, contemplating…
Is it time?
I watch the waves roll up as they kiss the sand.
A sizzle escapes into the air.
The hot, scorching fire put out
Hushed, quieted.
I’m dying…
The clouds float in the water, the sky
The gulls swim, fly
My skin is pink, my energy drained
The sun greedy, taking, stealing away
I’m dying...
I resign, no hope, gone. It’s gone.
I walk ankle-deep
The waves grab at my legs, tugging
“Come” the waves call “Come” they whisper
So seductive, tempting, easy
Knee-deep the wind rushes around me, tussles my hair
The water, cold, numbing, driving my senses
I’m dying…
It pulls, tugs, pushes up to my thighs, my waist
The cold, I **** in a breath, calm
Calming, the rocking, the swaying
I hear the whispers. The wind calls. It beckons. It’s hungry.
“Let go”
I’m dying…
It’s easy. I float, I surrender
The waves sweep me away, buoying me up
I feel light, weightless. It’s so simple.
Beautiful, the waves reach over me, embrace me
The cold is gone, no the heat rushes in, burns
But only for a moment
The dark comes, consumes, soothes
Nothing more, never more…
Finished.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 6:38 PM UTC
*My heart is cold and empty,
Love has sapped me of love
In all the right places, rooted in me.
Time nourished me.
And it would be lonely for you there.
Scars bridged all fate I have,
Altogether. My poems--
Buoying me to the river
Of my mind, and out to finding you.
My heart is cold and empty.
So bring the world with you.
Your dream, your soul, your pride.
Bring the photo of your dearest smile,
The pallette of your eyes, that is
Also water, and sun, and sky.
Your discoveries and doubts--
Dear, take them with you,
For there would be many, there,
That are not. All is shadow within,
And burden, and gravity.
You would know what its like
To be the light or the feather,
A star, or hope
To one that is hopeful.
You would feel what it is
To be one, and being one,
And being all
With me.
You would kiss, as though
To love yourself. Embrace, as though
To set one free. And journey,
As though to settle on my heart,
Realigning all that is whole
With all imperfect pieces.
Now, live,
Love in faith.
Go after dreams,
And silly things,
Fail. Learn. Act.
Feel.
Drink coffee.
Sing Karaoke.
Be crazy.
Ignore poetry.
Believing,
That way,
Somehow,
You are loving me.*
© 2014 J.S.P.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
We were Impervious:
Two perfectly poised bodies buoying each other through the **** of life
Then the mass Conflagration:
A fire consumed and incinerated what I thought we could be.
I should have realized worship isn't a vessel of transcendence , but a ship fettered in servitude eagerly waiting to drown me.
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC
Once in a while I wish I could dial
The day back to right where it started.
I’d then reconcile with things that did rile
And left me despondently-hearted.
It isn’t the norm but some days just swarm
With episodes rank and annoying
And in such a storm, it’s hard to transform
A dejection into something buoying.
Still, all things must pass and greener the grass
We will spot on our side of the fences.
We’ll relinquish the crass and begin, smooth as glass,
With a fresh start when morning commences.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
I hate to admit it, but I want to feel special.
I entomb myself in the reality of mundane dribblings but truly my heart is wrenching as it can smell the fantasy.
The thought of someone wanting to know my favorite movie and memorize it like their sacred duty.
I'm soft; a kettle brewing with pang splintered yearning.
I want the waves of people to pander to me surrendering at my feet collapsing with poised beauty whispering "you are worthy"
I want to feel special, yet I know that I am not. I am amongst the innumerable flesh ridden boats of existence buoying about in angst and desperation.
I am alone and am pleased in this pod of solace.
But a broad stroking mansuetude hand that may caress my face and help proliferate the love I hide within myself.
Well, I guess that may be nice...
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Every story requires that character.
The zany tenacious fellow brewed so fervid in the condition of human.
Their genuine existence so present it almost feels incompatible in our world so driven by the lacquered shell of "image"
As I watch the corners of your lips lift in fluid motion, my body is splintered in waves of awe.
You are the broth that adds substance emboldening all the buoying ingredients amongst it.
Unbridled by the delusions of society you make the simplest things ignite with magic.
You are the character enchanting my story.
You are the character who is teaching me how love can flourish organically.
You are teaching me to become the scintillating character I want to be.
Thank you for helping me accept the unadulterated character that is me.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 5:12 PM UTC
The Last Bed We Buy
Grateful not to find myself
disembodied hovering high above
this stark cake of soap, gazing down
laboring to put names to faces, the couple
so familiar, side by side, palms down, still as
miller moths displayed on pins, I drift off
to the drone of Bill or Ted, rumpled as
a morning after motel king intoning
soft or firm versus memory foam
or pillow top, hypoallergenic …
the last thing I hear before we fall
fast asleep spooning on a plush queen,
not too soft and not too hard, but just right,
satiny raft to ferry us the last stretch of river.
Waving like the Queen we float past the last new
roof over which we will preside, nod in solemn
recognition of our high efficiency gas furnace
apt to burn on years after I’m gone, applaud
politely what jolly well may be a farewell
drive north through the Tunnel of Trees
some biting October afternoon, weep
softly for our old squirrel chaser sawing
soft imprecations to hips gone tender some
blustery April night dog years from now, blow
low Bronx cheers in a fond adieu to life mediated
through screens. Even Bill or Ted knows that grace
lies just ahead around the next oxbow, leaves us
to dream, two dormice cupped in a leaf, rills
and eddies bearing us seaward, buoying us
downstream on softly rolling shoulders.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC