"buoys" poems
Your soul buoys up a body of mine,
leaving imperishable marks of an illusionary joy,
holding me through a lagoon of flowers,
embracing me in a verdant of sigh;
my soul becomes your captive while my body tells a lie.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
I fear.
I fission.
I flow.
like a sponge,
I become aqueous
when wiping blood or saliva.
like a finger, I lose myself in rings of prints.
I am the ography
of space loosely tied to the
end of a carrot. detach me from
ice and I float to the other side of the island.
I wave at ships passing night or day, captains
drunk or sober, buoys clean or covered in mucky ****
save me.
I am losing my
mind on these stairs
crawling the ceiling, these
riches made of paper, these children
using liters of glue to stick themselves to
each other.
everyone is stuck.
everyone is covered in barnacles.
everyone is design on my pine tree’s needled hooves.
a horse gallops four at a time. they name it “power” for the dreams it has of stormy women.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 9:13 AM UTC
A lone ship,
no particular direction,
thrusts forward and
pushes through,
fighting, often,
impenetrable waves.
Waves in constant rush,
pushing back,
slamming into its
outer walls,
repeatedly,
diligently,
never losing
momentum.
In the distance,
a lighthouse makes
its presence known.
A vessel’s unfailing
guide,
a beacon of
safety and light;
a way back home.
Providing a path
out of the dark
and noxious waters,
this pharos,
with aid of buoys
of encouragement
throughout this heavy
journey,
provide a stability
not often recognized
by other ships
in the night.
Oh lighthouse,
bring me home
where roots of
benevolence grow
and branches of
serenity
may take hold.
Embellish promises
of provisions
and comfort,
as route to never
be lost in those
unenlightened waters
again.
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
It’s 11:49 p.m.
and we’re still driving.
That’s all we’ve done.
The needle hovers
lifting and landing
upon the E for empty.
We’re content with
the smoky upholstery
that buoys our curvature.
The mechanical shelter
that trundles beneath us.
He’s rubbing his chin
where his shadow grows.
His ruby eyes on the road.
Knees pulled to my throat
I breathe and savor constellations
wondering how they might feel.
Stubble and midnight starlight
is how the next day begins.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
Ethereal and Base a harmony so diametric a solid.
Wisdom's forgiveness lands to the unyielding new,
white spray on black lava, merging
elemental minerals in salt water.
Life the mediator, yearns for compromise
algea harvests sunlight at the hard shore, grows into plants
fish munch coral creating sand washing up, a tree's foothold creating soil...
can rock become Earth any other way?
Mother's beauty, an unknowable generous smile
and confident grace from the sun.
Ages
sitting wrinkled and depleted to her waist,
beauty transforms
into unknowable generous laughter alighting graciously from wise eyes,
like a flock of Heaven's doves so close to home
stirred by her running children: daughter and son.
All the while all the yearning is unrequited.
For her children, Beauty is vertigo,
painful reality rooted to the shore.
Eyes long for the horizon, Vision Country
between sky holding its breath and water measuring out patience,
The heart spills out futile on the crystalline sea,
but Sadness, belonging to clear water,
lightly buoys lonely Ecstasy,
Completes the voyage.
The Vision pairs selfless love with unmet desire,
opposites' harmony the firmament,
but the sound breaks from tension and the echoes fade,
and the senses footing gives way;
vertigo with dove's wings tied shut.
Descending minuscule between dissipation
falling through molecules of bliss,
and diffusing atoms of despair,
to the last remaining positive and negative
and the tension's silver thin wire between.
It cuts tied wings free,
slingshots the dove's soul back up,
at the last second, the tension's iridescent thread tangles loosely on her foot.
She hurtles back up through the scales of size:
Microns, amoeba, minnows, birds, primates, people,
over trees, looking down at cities, mountains, yet higher
borderless nations, green and sand continents,
and again all the crystalline blue seas.
The silver filament draws taut, holds the dove's ascent,
wings slowing in awe as she views Mother Gaea
her intensely brilliant sphere accompanied by vivid tiny stars.
in a cold cold soundless night...
Grandmother teaching her children to fly;
Beauty's yearning realized complete.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
The smoke stacks that line the waterfront be like giant joints puffing thoughts of her into air embalmed by hundreds of rainy days
That slow burn, against the icy bay and the barges that carry their loads through them
This corner of the world gets six hours of daylight, tops
Greys seared by neon, smoke and clouds and fog produced as one
continuous substance
There's a pleasant blurryness here
floating amid the buoys and the docked ferryboats,
In the way the monorails glide above toward a 1960s dream of the space age through an Amazonian jungle of glass and cranes
in harmony with the clouds sailing overhead
Here is where you go to let off steam deferred, where you ride trains through a kind of dark that arrives early, stays up late
as shadows wander across the gum covered walls of Post Alley
like ghosts made of espresso mist
freed from lit joints protruding from the skyline
to a high beneath starless heaven
Resting into the glow of that harbor
against thoughts of her that cloud the view of the sea.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 4:33 PM UTC
Strangers fall in love, zap arc light
others grab, finger dumb only to repel
those held most dear.
Seeing and sawing, gnawing ankles off in
polar bear trapped hugs.
You’ve heard this one before:
North pole lures south pole onto an ice floe, pushes her
with his toe out to sea.
SOS magnetic flux girdles her majesty.
She drags him, dinghy wed, out bound channel
past buoys and cruise ships and seals.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 7:56 AM UTC
you make me sick
to my stomach,
so much so
that I joke to my friends
that the very thought of you
makes me throw up a little
in my mouth
you make my world
go round
because it's constantly a chase
but that's okay because the love
I feel, keep my feet floating
off the ground
your smug, self absorbed
stench of a personality
turns me off
a repulsion
that even I have a hard time
putting it in to words
you have a million dollar
smile, baby
and eyes that penetrate my soul
my brain turns to mush around you
but I'm too stupefied to care
you're the 7 deadly sins
and you preach
such strong sermons
while you back stroke your way
past the buoys of your principles
so fake
you walk into the room and
my heart beats
an extra little ditty
just to know I can breath you in
while it tries to race itself
to an early grave
I see your face
and right through you
I look into your eyes
to a soul I can no longer find
my body does a 180
but my heart stays,
silly, silly heart
I dont want to see you
you're not worthy of my time
I don't want to not see you
you're the only reason
I even want time to exist
I don't want to hate you
you're the one I loved the most
but alas
things aren't always as they seem
so
good luck, you will need it
but I need no more
magicians
with awe inspiring disappearing acts
and tricks that cut me in half
but don't put me back together
again
you were once my dear friend
a confidant, my lover
a video game partner
or a tricky cribbage opponent
you were my favorite
and now you're just the bad taste
in my mouth
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 9:20 PM UTC
From the Lady Liberty to El Capitolio
Comes the Pichardo and the Salas that lie above me.
Where the dirt isn’t always brown to where the streets aren’t always bound.
When a good time is always easily found with a bottle of *** and a good dominoes round. I am from the land of the gossipers where talking is everyones favorite past time that the last thing you can be is a mime.
I am from jumping rope and playing cards, to watching tv and driving cars.
Where no matter rain or shine no one is ever left behind.
To where 90 miles away is not as far, but for others its more then three days.
From shopping and movies to parties and buoys.
Bipolar weather and fresh trees to hot days and cold waves.
Where the feeling of sand in your toes is the best to where the football games always have a bet. Where hanging with your friends is the best reward because no matter what you can never be bored.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 8:24 AM UTC
*Red leaves land
From a treehouse, through the wind,
For this whisper,
While the earth buoys the waters,
And the waters—stars,
As we lip all silence that there is,
Together.
This is how we kiss.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
Down at Portleven where the harbour
Watches
Day in, day out, filling with small craft
I sit in the sunshine
Legs crossed and sketch
These rocking cradles
Sleeping.
Blue netting tangles the edges with orange buoys
Draping the nursery in a softening
Becoming gentle rhymes
The air sits still
And today my drawings
Hang on a wall.
Love Mary x.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
where sea sings to sand
in crashing surf melodies
crisp scent of salt air
seagulls screech, sand ***** burrow
sky falls off the horizon
blue on blue oceans
conjoin cerulean skies
far as eyes can see
squinting slightly in hot sun
warm smell of tanning lotions
buoys bob in and out
mesmerizing slow dances
rocking with the wind
gliding boat sails billowing
golden crests reflect sunsets
Del Maximo
©July 16, 2009
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 9:45 AM UTC
the first thing I notice is the jetty
the waves littered with little feet and bouncing foam and
bobbing buoys of women, two of which
call me to remove my boots
and let water lick clean
old clammy toes
but I walk out on the jetty
past the rock where scuttling children fear their mothers will forget them
past the crop of young fishermen, smiling between tides of beer and
counting the fish they have yet to catch by the worms they have
in their new tackle boxes
past an empty can of Budweiser
past an old bucket of bait that even the gulls wont touch
deeper into the bird **** that paints this rock thumb
pock marked with bowls of orange soup-
carapace and minnow bones
denying a smoke in favor of the ocean’s oyster breath
trading the cooling molten gold of a California beach
for something I was sure would only be found
where this putrid jetty purged into the sea
and I was close
even as you drove me home
I couldn’t forgive you for following me there
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
Poetry,
the life of me,
the breath that buoys me,
keeps me over the darkest depths
of death, that which holds my soul intact,
and keeps my spirit whole.
I only wonder if that is all naught but an artists ego, itself covering the transparent reality that may be mine.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
A swarm of horses sailed toward the sky
half in reverse of the ocean,
a heart that questioned the reflection of seaside.
Back in the south she melted bicycle gears to liquor
Quenching a million budding buoys becoming boys.
Inside her smile, a compartment of spit
beside the blinds sealed off to the color red.
In a room full of eardrums
a name like a knife,
rooting and sewing the ground of your yearning.
The moon shook you
As fast as headache turns to dust.
It hits harder then your hands,
softer then tears of antelope sliding down sails;
A reminder how you looked
when you first caught my eye
Plastered on the tree of a chandelier
Hanging as high as suicide pastries
Under emerald flavored corneas.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
We are all part of the Dead Poets Society,
in that we are all adeptly capable
of free thought and expression.
The difference, between
true romantics and the (in)expressive realists,
lies in the passionate mumblings which echo across prairies.
The difference is simply that we
cling to life, to dreams, to desperation and to death
as though they are the buoys of a great journey - invincible.
While the realists puncture holes
in dreams and death alike,
sinking with abstract thoughts like great boulders - motionless.
The difference between two polar opposites
is the brazen stroke of being
and the frenzied, wild dash of living.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
He lodged for six days.
It was nice to have the company, for a change.
But we both knew
he wasn't here for vacation.
After all, Minnesota in fall is not leisure material.
The kid stank, hard.
Like old bacon. Or rotting sausage.
Maybe he had a pork chop fetish - though,
he didn't eat much last night.
21, in the late sixties.
Old enough to drink
or die.
I knew why he was here.
I could see it in his eyes. They were soft. Afraid,
afraid of what lay before him.
I could see the uniforms, the guns, the folded flags.
I could see the War.
But him,
all he could see was the border.
I took him out, first of October
out on the Rainy River.
His extra weight sunk my Evinrude
a little deeper into the water than normal.
Poor engine had to chug hard.
We approached the buoys marking the edge.
I cut the engine 20 yards from Canada.
I wanted him to jump.
But I wouldn't say anything.
81 years hadn’t robbed me of wits.
His moral paralysis added drops to the rushing river as
he gripped the edge,
knuckles white, muscles tense, rising
leaning over
poised
ready -
I thought, for sure, he’d go.
But he sat back down. Defeated,
defeated by the chains that bound him.
I said not a word, humming “Yankee Doodle” softly as
his tears broke, openly this time.
Minutes passed, maybe hours.
Stars heralded the coming of night.
Holding a torch for light,
I started the resilient engine,
pulled up my fishing rod,
and turned back to the States.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 3:49 PM UTC
a nuisance
scraping the sallow pavement
is what it was.
P ondering the truth and throttling
A cquiesence like it was a familiar
R use to be outplayed by vision plodding
I rises holding us against the
S ubtle egress of omens.
W arble no longer, paradisiacal birds.
I gnite no longer, city buoys.
T his is where they come to salvage ire.
H arbingers — dark, something fire
L eaves on damp graves
O ver grasslands lay quiet, felled dew
V ermilion eye seeing all
E rupt in a flash of a gun.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
Death should come at the end
when the muscles have given their all
and the only movement left
is driven by the trained soul
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
Ihinabi ko sa bukana ng payong ang ulan.
This is to believe that sheltering may not always be, or simply perhaps an undertaking of weakness. A radical strangeness aspires to be bold. I may not be able to transcend its nakedness.
.
This is to deny the common verity that in the communal of water, shade fails a transliteration. We cannot be forever in hiding. Our smallness reveals our flowers. Our unmentioned stirrings. (A spire of technicolor through the lens of apertures. It starts to rain in Pasay.)
.
I see children swift-bodied in the streets. I hear the sublime song of a defunct tractor. Once in its vitality, Earth was its derelict. How did it come to be that when I peer into the openness, light slouches into form, conjuring an image: your face, hiding amongst the crowd?
.
This is to recognize the potential of dwindles. Its vertigo that it tries to protect. Its height that it tries to conquer. Its fall that it tries to eschew. What if bones are just homes to tiny little currents and that the way our body assumes the stance of jackknife, simply a foreboding?
.
Itinabi ko sa sukal ng araw ang payong.
This is to perceive that all light lifts away from the dark, my heart always falling into its hands. Morning opens your face like delicate streets, pulverizing fog into chamomile. Silence is endemic. *Makati *buoys overseer reconnaissance of obvious beatings. Revealing a long line of ligatures -- umbilicus of wires. Serenades of futility. Our useless meanderings.
.
The depth of Sunlight finally turns primeval stone. That is our defeat -- all our darkness put to trial. I am tense with the finality: she will become parasol and I, the weather past moonlight waxing.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
Imagine hot
water music
traipsing down my throat
when you had your sharp tongue
shoved down my throat
with contestations simmering in my sinews,
a few of them scandalous
some true like the sudden fleeting of your crepuscular brow
to two moons paler than the love –
or the long traverse to the treacherous
roads of your skin mapped out in excess
your lecherous debris sprawling everywhere like words
to a book or silence to an early morning commute,
your undulant bursts outmatch the weight of my
steady anchors, imagine this cold wind sinking deep
into the bone at 4 o’clock in the afternoon
drunk in front of faceless crowds
hunting for purpose, discombobulated erudition
in sodden corners and cheap thrills,
imagine the scrumptious twinge of
the Sun that mangles its arms to paint a new
moon for us both and think of this as a consignment to
oblivion when the twists and turns of the road
remember only measures of steps that have no names
and not the passengers, where one wrong forceful
shot at fate could mean the end of all things down
below an ocean of muck or just stale blackness and ravines
of voices bellowing to call out departed ones
where you are just as trivial as
driving in Kennon Rd. at night without maps
and beacons, only far-fetched city buoys,
the frigid wind, the collapsing bannister of the night
cloying the turns sharper than how it was to first see you leave
in the morning, bringing in the fog for the first
light of reality to burn.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 4:26 AM UTC
From smithson's crystaline jetty, I spy.
With my little eye, an isle of the dead.
Surrounded by the bland entourage of buoys
I stand heavy and still for an hour, but dry.
Wandering in my loneliness,
While I want to swim around the jetty of your eyes.
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 4:28 PM UTC