Caustics poems on Hello Poetry

karol stefan olesiak Oct 2012

Of

Of immaterial vision birthed in mind.
Of spirit annihilating the selves,
of calling it plan. The one-
a semblance scattered on deck space
refracts on reflections of the reactions of tokens
of the carnivalesque,
of the hunger artists,
of phenomenon-
which may or may not exist depending on reflective surface of the true self,
of the motion of tides,
mocks motion in body,
of obsession.
The tonality of the "be" and the "is" and the "will be" is deafened by the "I am,"
by the Ohm.

Of shuddering and implanting embraces,
of blessing on every ember of cleanliness that is true self,
of the oneself that exists above selective memory,
not draft of time arrow but the material existence of dream,
not disembodied but embodied.
Of breeding,
of circumstance and forking fourth dimension prison terms,
of crowd control,
of she wolves and their feral children,
of forceps interpolating material reality of conception,
of Dreamtime,
of pain,
of pleasure,
where they are relations-
of skin perversely hanging, dually,
gratifying and sullying-
Fraying beautiful disasters that react to invisible ripples

I, the oneself, implore you to awaken in your utility and then outside of it.
Take those boot straps and bend the bars of confinement with them.
Chisel and sculpt light into a fabrication of quantum of action.
Celebrate the ordinary and expose it.

Of stargazed caustics,
of the early universe.
I stand awake as not the expression of design
and no longer connected to Earth by my roots
but awake inside cocoon,
entrapped behind slits,
of alien cage otherness.
The Akh beseeches ownership of the Ba
I want play dice with god and end in draw.
I am Sekhmet-Wadjet who dwells in the west of heaven,
I am Sahyt among the souls of Of.

This was written during the arab spring in Egypt. There was so much hope in the air that it could reach us in Nyc. All of love to the egyptians. Never stop fightingl

Travis Dixon Sep 2011

poetry

poetry is more than me
it's more than words
& more than rhyme
it's vaster than space
& faster than rhythm surfing
the waves of time
amplifying its
frequency with
each &
every
line
pointed by symbols (signs?)
clung to limestone precipices
like vines within concrete crevices
whispering screams of defiance
against ignorance's yokes,
again our arrogance jokes
about the insignificance of other folks
of the other ones
of them, those people, the absentminders
relentlessly fettered in golden
coats profaning their shine thusly true
so that the unnoticed may reflect upon the surface
as the caustics of thought refract through
the waters of spirit & soul
churned out of each & every mind
a field of poetics
lurking behind the edifice of structure
deified as functional perfection manifested
but utterly infested with ***** sheets
& replete with redundant repugnance
filtered by plumbing that dumbs **** down
to the basement level deep underground
where much is mumbled but little is said
aside from the storm a'brewin' overhead.

#poem #poetry #word #poet #poems #writing #writers #poets #wordplay

Bohemian Mar 2019

His vibes

Somewhere in a casket,
Random in my ransacked room,never opened.

I have your silhouettes stored,
Those which I presume a man would never behold.

I imagine your shoulders broad,
Splendid as a bridge across my glee,over which my eyes could be driven.

While I could be soaked in your chest,
For you be so taller.

Your skin being tight and thick,
Such as it already feels to be bugging in.

Your kurta being loose weighed down,
Revealing the sweated collar bones,and much of the rest.

Your complexion could melt upon me,
Wallowing under the sheets.

Your caustics could potentially outshine mine,
Up to the brink, your douchebaggery could shine.

You may sing anything, Ghazals or even hums,
Your baritone could lull me to sleep,with the heft and flatness of it,with some added tunes.

Our towns could be kilometers apart,or the residents even for light years,
Might be the same for our creeds.

Your breath could be a bower,
To the desert of mine.

Your eyes being shrunk crescent moon,
With the lashes too dense,but sight like an arrow piercing.

Your poetry could define,
And for being poet from you I wouldn't envy.

Your resilience could be better than mine,
And your adamant nature,suffice to repeat an act a million times,to achieve the desired.

Unlike me an ergophile,
You could draw a better parallel line.

You were allowed to smoke,
For it, I have an affinity untold.

Your profession be any,
Your passion be vehement,I promise then, to find you in graphite and mullar and heard in Mozart's.

Your hands masculine,with the veins bulged,
And circlets and totem wrapped,red and orange around.

Skies be your preferred roof
Under the rainy sky,the sharing of petrichor shall feel sanctified.

Your gales be a crescendo
Of delight.

Your age could be more to mine,
But things could be divine.

| Preferred but do not care |

#sillhoutes #casket #presume #shoulders #man #bridge #chest #tugged #into #wallowing

onlylovepoetry Aug 19

I don’t know where we went wrong…(she doesn’t read my poetry anymore!)

she doesn’t read my poetry anymore;

sent every script, faithfully, always honored & acknowledged with a pithy comment, then came the occasional emojis, then too often silences, longer and longer, made me realize
it was an imposition, created excuses,
finally ceased sending…

so now there is no doubt,
my muse is
disused, and I feel,
forlornly bitter and
use-less lessened

look for excuses to provide her a dance,
no poem
too similar, overly familiar,
not reflective
of our true reality, still,7&

she doesn’t read my poetry anymore;*

cannot muster up the bitter mustard I feel,
and see the little, minor, signals all is not
perfect, select edit, make disappear, tiny
grimaces, misperceived caustics asides,
and the reality is such, that wince internally,
but the love poetry has been put aside…
and

may 26

— The End —