"churlish" poems
capsized beating purple algorithm
for a heart,
cross-nit aspirations
still taste dirt on my teeth,
the mission creep of eager eyed poets,
carry a briefcase with my levi's --
close cut cigarette encounters,
all brick shantytown of a friendship
them lovelies run on endless,
it's starting to get cold outside.
restless sprites circle our *****
exhaling greek mythopoeics
every sure footed step.
alcoholism echoes in my skin
a depth charge i cannot cut out,
we all have broken thoughts here,
all have blind spots in our stomachs,
they read like a preacher's insecurities:
burly things we warm ourselves with,
the winters sting bitter.
something is wrong with me,
sinkhole of ambition and honey kisses,
all the great thinkers **** themselves,
it's the staunch lack of spotlight,
way the earth drips lackadaisical-like
we just call it a perfect orbit.
shake my hand and feel a goldilocks pulse
anemic shards of a cornered animal,
we cut right
to the bone
here, or so we tell ourselves.
and love is always the answer?
that sure footed toothy angel
so beautiful, it couldn't just be our
churlish blood,
frothing and calming,
frothing and calming,
electrons rise and fall to create light,
they still circle an untapped atrocity
perfectly,
like this, like it must be
god
or something close. something
stopping them from running, free
from bonds ionic or otherwise,
bare feet
beating the pavement until there are
no more stones to throw.
firstborns of the universe,
each star is a setting sun,
blinks staggered,
still grew us up quicker than most,
there is no aphrodisiac like heliocentrism.
them bones cut good
doped up on oxytocin,
those empty thoughts still rattling,
dig sharp -- then nice and numb.
and we cutthroat and glossy,
sharper than ever.
walk outside
smoke a cigarette
know how much you love her,
look at the stars --
it's ******* beautiful isn't it
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
i have held with
fascination, when i was young,
all of my toys.
a parallel universe of
marvels. imperial is the mood
of these ecstasies!
i remember my cheap svelte revolver
back in 1998 bought from
the festive bazaar in the marketplace at the dreary heart of Bocaue when i was
consumed by the thought of brutal force and how swiftly, in the hands of men meant for twisting open
the doors, welcome death
or the metallurgy of it.
i used to run off into the sunset
toting my gun high with pride
shunning the Sun, and the
reprise of my carousals is my mother
soldering in her white hands
a "walis tambo" and summoning me
homeward with a churlish grin
on my face, triumphantly ecstatic
over my rendezvous.
now my gun has withstood the
tatterdemalion of dog days
and in one corner i felt its
brokenness as it yearns to
be retired early in the peak
of my youth. happiness wears down like a chip on the old linoleumed floor and i tinker with
it to unsheathe the grime
of the unspoken stucco concrete.
i placed it in a box, my black revolver, together with the toys
that i once laughed with
when only bliss is as simple as a juvenile love, or the easy picking
of a santan over the fields
where i ran off into
the viridian laughing with the verdure of the world that i once knew as something so beautiful
and intricate.
i heard my black revolver went
somewhere behind the macadamized wall where i dreamt of having a basketball ring nailed to.
only i knew how to play
my revolver, and now that i am
caught within the heaviness
of all things that mean greater
than all other joys,
no other days could ever
surpass how
i made
a hero in myself
mighty with the tales
that i keep.
good ole black revolver, 1998.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
I never made a poem, dear friend--
I never sat me down, and said,
This cunning brain and patient hand
Shall fashion something to be read.
Men often came to me, and prayed
I should indite a fitting verse
For fast, or festival, or in
Some stately pageant to rehearse.
(As if, than Balaam more endowed,
I of myself could bless or curse.)
Reluctantly I bade them go,
Ungladdened by my poet-mite;
My heart is not so churlish but
Its loves to minister delight.
But not a word I breathe is mine
To sing, in praise of man or God;
My Master calls, at noon or night,
I know his whisper and his nod.
Yet all my thoyghts to rhythms run,
To rhyme, my wisdom and my wit?
True, I consume my life in verse,
But wouldst thou know how that is writ?
'T is thus--through weary length of days,
I bear a thought within my breast
That greatens from my growth of soul,
And waits, and will not be expressed.
It greatens, till its hour has come,
Not without pain, it sees the light;
'Twixt smiles and tears I view it o'er,
And dare not deem it perfect, quite.
These children of my soul I keep
Where scarce a mortal man may see,
Yet not unconsecrate, dear friend,
Baptismal rites they claim of thee.
2.2k
Her heart is like a sycamore
Roots digging deep and holding strong
Extending branches that fractal and fracture
Into broken vines and twigs
Flowers croon and give bright wings
Only to die and be forgotten
As they permeate the ground
So that more can stand as a sycamore
Flourishing with their own spring colors
Until all that is left of her
Is a hollow shell
Of a bullet shot in the dark
The only evidence
That something may have been there
To stand as a sycamore
And grow
Now only sought out
By skulking foxes
And churlish creatures
That roam on reposed
Forgetful
Forest floor
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
i lean against an oak tree in a glade
to watch apollo fall behind the hill,
the sunlight in the west begins to fade,
as evening closes in, a sudden chill.
the nightingale sings songs of yesterday
an arching song that lifts my spirits high,
the robin in the branches drills a lay,
as sunset breathes and reaches to the sky.
the sunlight falls in opal on the ground,
a song of heaven, darkness has no place,
the world is hushed with hardly any sound
and i can sense her passion and her grace
and still the sunlight drifting through the leaves,
holds back the last of day that darkness weaves.
that darkness weaves, that churlish empty sound,
which deafens moments reaching in their gold,
desire or dream, the chains that hold us bound,
the drowning spirit lifts and then is bold.
while nature rests her head upon the land
and bird song fills the avenues of trees,
her vision is ethereal and grand,
a haunting inspiration on the breeze.
i'll echo songs of summer centuries,
that mock and hint their ebony array,
the wind calls out like wild and distant seas
as through the peaceful glade the light of day,
that held its last soft breath of falling light,
in hollow sorrows dreams of quiet night.
the soul finds solace, time enough to rest,
the beauty of the earth is here to see
and where the light still lingers in the west,
i see a glimpse of sweet eternity.
so blindly now the day will sink and fall,
the light that holds the tenderness recedes
and my lost hopes their last enchantment call,
as that last glimpse of daylight leaves the meads.
while questions of the heart flow like a stream,
with tender echoed strings that fall so far,
as cheery revelations clear the dream,
of softly fallen evening's gentle star.
so with imagination’s dying spark
the day so leaves us here the tranquil dark.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
Life stagnates as people start trickling back to their houses. Some look forward to the expectant faces of their children, while some others dread their churlish wives. As they saunter along doggedly, the day’s events play like a broken record in their heads – a mimicry of sanity. A crow caws somewhere as though lovesick. Streetlights come on and fireflies hover in a daze. Bicycles, cricket bats, and skipping ropes are lugged back home by children who are repeatedly beckoned by overbearing mothers. Almost in a trance, the buzz of the day fades away as a feigned tranquility descends.
molten skyline…
an earthworm buries
itself deeper
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
Questions asked—
Answers evaded
Questions asked—
Churlish responses
Questions asked—
Reality revised
Questions asked—
Dangerous denials
Questions asked—
Squeaky clean!
Questions asked—
RED HERRING!!!
Questions asked—
Deny FBI
Questions asked—
AD HOMINEM!!!
Questions asked—
Boast, repost
Questions asked—
Uncivil snivel
Questions asked—
Snide asides
A question asked:
Where are we?
Scary judiciary?
End times?
Revolution?
Not in this Kansas.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 1:49 AM UTC
colors
slide over
ink-slick
○°○ skin ○°○
○°○° °○°○° ○°○°
○°°○°○stretched○°○°°○
°°○○°○°°○°○°°○°○○°°
a skein of
furtive fabric
wrought of woe
and wrested
from futility
°°○°○°°○°○°°
pundits posture
○°°○°○°imposing ○°°○°○°
○○°○°°○°°postulating○°°○°°○
○°°○ ○°○their ○°○ ○°°○
○°○° importance ○°○°
°○°○°○ ○°°sleek°°○ °○○°○°
°○°○ insolence °○°○
curls °°○
crafted○°
churlish
like a
pre
°° hen
°° sile
°○°○tail
SøułSurvivør
(C) 6/28/2017
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 9:03 AM UTC
It was time to do some re - structuring
In - house changes were necessary to bring
about better performance, modernization
otherwise we'd be left behind with no motion
He spent his time leaning on a *****
doing nothing, not good enough we're afraid
then a quiz programme with as much charisma
as a wet fish - now we wouldn't want to be churlish
However, contract has expired, you're fired
from your duties - we're moving on to new things
anything must be better than what dullness brings
we may not use your services again -going
'Well gentlemen, that's another one gone
who shall we get rid of next so long.'
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC
Inspiration from a fellow writer
And a chance at contemplation on a peaceful Saturday afternoon
Have led to a quest for forgotten moments
And thoughts of pleasant abstractions.
A hint at appreciative visuals
Carries the thought to a fig tree
Growing majestically in its place in its earthen patch.
Words fail to describe the abundance of life that exists
As sparrows flit through branches heavily laden with fruit
While the wind gently rustles leaves shaped like green hands outstretched,
Casting gentle shadows on a silently bustling anthill.
A hummingbird zooms in to smell a fruit,
Squeaks twice, and exits with the soft thrum of its wings.
A lizard skitters through the jungle of grass and snaps up a mouthful of ants
Bringing chaos to the ant kingdom.
Yet tranquility is soon restored to the fig tree soaking in the solar rays,
And the tomato quietly ripening under a cloudless sky.
Under that same sky, countless battles rage
And boiling chaos tears at its leash.
All of creation groans with pain of labor
As the fallen dig deeper in their graves
And are consumed by beastly desires.
In a forest, countless leaves gently whisper their sorrows
As warm light dances through the shadows.
The surface of a pond, as smooth as glass
Is only momentarily broken by ripples of activity
While the beholder stares deeply into the reflection.
Below the surface, ghoulish beings lurk in the mire
While deeper still, the mud of hypocrisy churns wildly
As the unworthy tongues set in and will clash in unfathomable violence.
There is something desperately wrong
Yet churlish scoffers ignore the signs
Blinded in selfishness and greed.
Again and again they play games of chess
Where all the pieces are pawns
Replaced with fake queens
While the kings of value are forgotten
Set aside until they are shot to pieces.
Yet all this is hidden, beneath the surface of impeccable glass
As devilish turmoil roars beneath the skins of men.
There is but one hope for a life of meaning
In which true peace can be restored.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
People take ownership
of your words
your memories
and make them
theirs
Subtle shifts
in intonation
detail and substance
Not untrue
not really a lie
but not yours
Not anything that
has your essence in it
And they weave you
into them
through those fond
‘remembered’ words
and false
fabricated moments
Taking something
from you
labelling it
in their own hand
blotting the ink
dry with integrity
absent or not
they parade
that part of you
appropriated
Like a head on a stick
a scalp on a belt
or a heart on a sleeve
depending on their need
And you can’t reclaim
something stolen as softly
and stealthily as that
it would be churlish
it would be cruel
Perhaps their desire
to have you
as a jigsaw piece
of their making
in their sky
is the greatest compliment
and is worth
becoming part fiction
condoning a myth
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 6:54 AM UTC
"I hate myself.
I'm so ******* worthless."
You know when you think something so much that it becomes a mantra?
You memorize each letter and you write it out a thousand times in your mind and you whisper it to yourself while you fall asleep?
You think it so many times that every time you close your eyes the words are there, painted on the backs of your eyelids and you can't ignore them at all?
Every breath in feels like preparation to say it over again and reply to the not-question posed by the universe at large over what your mantra is and you just know the answer no matter what?
Every thought loops back around to the words swimming in your head to the point you're wondering how you could have started in this world speaking anything else?
You bite your tongue and the blood tastes like those words and you just want to paint them on your skin to show the world your perfect mantra, the words that have forever been with you, that you never doubted once?
My mantra is a bad one.
I've been told, I'm not allowed to feel that way.
I have to love myself.
I have worth.
Even thinking those phrases makes my head hurt.
My mantra doesn't quell the spreading hollowness in my chest or quiet the white-noise of regret and hatred in my head.
But it doesn't make my demons angry, like the ones people force on me.
My mantra reminds me how to deal with the hollow void in my soul that tries and tries to swallow up my body and crush away everything else and leave a black hole in my place.
It tells me that with just a slim line, just a smooth slice to the wrist, I can stave off the void.
With just a small burn I can beat away the demons telling me lies.
I can convince myself to eat.
I can force my lungs to work.
I can make myself live, if I remember my mantra.
There are people who need me, broken though I am.
And I can't just let the void consume me, even if I should.
Even if its better to have this churlish waste of space
This disgusting, grating, barbarous, surly, persnickety, talentless, slow, moronic, lying, cheating scoundrel of a self wither away into nothing.
Even then.
I need to keep going.
I'm needed.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
When I want to write
And the words are churlish and
Sluggishly slow in coming -
And even when they come
They linger at the door-frame
And rub their soft cheeks
Against the painted grain -
I read in a special voice.
Sometimes it's the voice
Of my English teacher from
Junior class. We didn't get along,
But not a word passed her
Lips that wasn't as gilded and
Mellifluous as edible gold-leaf
On a chocolate-chili sundae.
Or the voice belongs to
Rives, who plucks meaning
Out of words like candy
Out of an Easter egg.
He savors every syllable
Like it's an annual treat
And lines them up neatly
In his throat like some kind
Of spoken-word songbird,
But the things I write are
Least likely to be read aloud
By Rives and my English teacher.
(And reading in their voices
Seems too proud.) So I pen
The last of the stragglers down
And clear the alien voices out
Of my own (often sore) throat.
I enjoy my words, wallow in
Phrases, and praise lines of
Alliteration about as often as
A soldier runs past shelter
Helter-skelter and takes his
Chances with unfriendly crosshairs.
My voice quavers, quivers, shakes,
And shivers when I read my work.
I find every letter and line
And nuance absurd, but
I keep myself in check. Editing is
A controlled demolition of
Punctuation and capitalization;
Sometimes the "submit"
Button is hard to hit after
Splaying one more page of
Myself into crisp computer print.
But I breathe and repeat
The words that are lodged
Under my ribcage like a
Stray bullet: "You are not
Superlative; you are not
Fantastic; you will not be
Famous; you will not be
Any better for a long time
And even then you may be
Terrible, unbearable, and
Infinitesimal,
But everyone is."
click
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 10:04 PM UTC
I’m phased out to sepia, Pet,
The last cab on the rank,
My good looks and *** a memory, Sweet,
For which, I’ve you to thank.
One day blending through to next
Increasingly a blur,
Dissatisfaction total now
For things ain’t what they were.
Ignored by all and sundry
Quite invisible to they
Who converse in hieroglyphics,
Incomprehensible, I say.
Overtaken by technology
Can’t figure out the phone
Facebook, watch and wallet mishmash
Won’t leave us alone.
Confusion at the pace of things,
It’s all moving far too fast
Queuing up for life
Leaves us, inevitably, last.
But bitterness ain’t with me
For I’ve loved your churlish ways,
Tho we’ve sailed through life on cobblestones
That old sunshine warmed our days.
But now I’m phasing out to sepia, Sweet,
Cos I’m the last cab on the rank
One quick kiss before departure, Pet,
For which..... I’ve you to thank.
M.
Auckland
22 April 2015
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
She was a weird slipshadow of a girl
All churlish silences and artless gloom
She’d come to realise herself before her waking time;
Lost happiness in periodic tantrums and cold looks,
Ate little, and immersed herself in books
Found solace in the solitude of sparsely-furnished rooms.
She knew herself too well - she took her flaws
And scrawled them on the wall in solvent ink
Her logic being that her social standing
Was diminutive
And nobody would truly give
A righteous **** should she be found
Floating face-down, amongst the bullrushes.
Perhaps there would be solitude in death,
Solace in God.
Because it’s ****** to be free,
And that’s too sad.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
PORCELAIN CASTLE.
She lives in a porcelain castle.
She's stuck in a butterfly net.
Forgetting that they ever met.
One another, each other together fighting always.
Ever biting back.
Porcelain's not good for castle building.
Don't you dare to forget, ever, never ever.
Porcelain castles they crack.
Fragile people hide inside.
Regretting things they can't decide.
Of yin and yang and cymbals bang.
Religious sounds of church bell clangers and hangers on.
Earrings of pearls and churlish girls.
Mothers and fathers and buckets of laughter.
Porcelain's not good for castle building.
Don't you dare to forget, ever, never ever
Porcelain castles they crack.
Clairvoyance dispelling of tears, well spent.
Destroying dark rumours over years and years.
She's crying without trying.
There ain't no more lying.
No biting or fighting.
Retrospective viewing the past with regret.
Heading for Dignity,
Luck of Lady Grey Day.
(c) Livvi
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
she was not a predictable kind of girl
not on the elliptical after work, kind of churlish,
living in a simple world type of girl
her hair cyclical in raphael kind of curls
and her biblical storm swirled whirlwind eyes unfurl
in the rain
like a pirouette
like a rose
like rolling thunder
May 30, 2021
May 30, 2021 at 4:55 PM UTC
I am not party girl, or drinking or *** I am not ignorant or shallow or churlish. I am not tender , or easily stepped upon. I am not titanium.
^
^
I am weak and easily broken. I am volunteering for fun, I am lover of simplicity and friend of comfort. I am confused, and sometimes scared.
-I am Emily.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
The noise of the day that clattered, now like a symphonic cachophony has wained
The many tasks to do, people to communicate with over
So I didn't get to all, but some, others I couldn't
But good was done
The application of logic as a blunt, wholesome instrument
Shattering the petty churlish moves of a fool
Like a game of chess with glass pieces
Seeing the opponents flaws in their transparency
Knowing, pre empting their next move
From a distance not knowing the king had fallen
Checkmate, but if you need another lesson
I'll gladly oblige, chess or something more your style
Tidley winks maybe??
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 7:55 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
I like to believe
that nobody understands me
and I'm one of a kind
lost to obscurity
but hinting of mysterious
significance
And I feel sorry for
my uncle's three-legged dog
and the malignancy
of fear in rural America
and the failed successes
of the Bolsheviks
I wonder about the air
in Saõ Paolo in January
and the muskuloskelatal
infirmities that creep in
and make the aged
into churlish curmudgeons
There is no way I could
hunt truffles or find a fresh
Morel in the woods when
I didn't even realize until
my grandmother died that
we own a creek
Uttering vespers in moonlight
yields some sanguine lucidity
like contemplating the nuanced
differences between polenta
and cornmeal mush
It's like I'll never write a poem
in time or finish a marathon
or kiss a stranger deeply
through the crisp ventillation
of nevermore.
We might daydream the bombastic
colors of Cezanne but all
we'll ever be is some nondescript
platinum ischemic flash,
a slimy buffet consisting in
all-is-lost
An apocryphal journey
to the center of the city
faces our insubordination to plastic
with the harshness of a dictionary
in the face of the illiterate
But in the end, apoplectically
forgotten, I come to the
unintelligent conclusion,
mathematically speaking,
that there is nothing singular
nor more available
than the finite banality
of my empty, insufficiently
obscurantist words which
flow and choke and all can know
and see clearly through
though I insist that none
of this pretence is born
of any maleveloence, and I chide
"How very meta of me indeed"
to have thought of another witty
and most cleverest retort
the day after the insult
was first delivered
But I used my last gift card
to purchase this still life
to pierce the hollow
cerulean satisfaction
otherwise known as tears
Barring diastolic ******
I'll stick around to see
how this all turns out
and hope that one day I can stop
being so completely understood
And then I can hide in the lonely
and find refuge in the cave
as a single meaningless scrawl
buried in the last pages
at the end of the world.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
Do I inspire or am I dire?
Amusing or just boring.
Oh humph you say and turn away
Good gracius, are you snoring?
I really thought that you would have
a little understanding-but all you say is go away
and don't be so demanding!
If that's the case old funny face,
there will be no nights of passion,
until your churlish ways improve
in a politer fashion!
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
You make me so giddy inside
nervous like
a warm runny egg.
You are so respectful
of boundaries
which has left me
wanting so much more.
You are a conundrum
always looking, looking, looking
at me causing blood to
flush my round cheeks.
I want to bone your firm ***
and make you ***
till kingdom come.
Cream your pants
and come undone.
You make me so churlish
all writhing inside with
a heavy licentious
attitude equating to
the silent space
between us where
nothing is said
and our eyes meet
but words seem to
stick in my
tarnished throat
choking up
on all those internal
sultry soliloquies
trapped tight
in my esophagus
wanting desperately
to venture forth
through tantalizing
whispers of the heart.
And somehow
I break through
that anxiety
and pour my soul
into your open arms
and you release me
making my fears dribble
out all over my pants and
all over my cheeks
in tears of joy.
You make me anxious
when I'm **** naked
and antsy like string beans
peeling their skins off
to reveal tiny round
little green seeds
not unlike peas.
You make my plant stems
and flowers engorge.
You make the sunlight
within me adored.
You are so kind and careful
by the way you carry
yourself full of warmth
and confidence and balance
and I feel an inability to express these physical desires seeming
endless in their tidings.
I always seem to keep my
****** secrets to myself
because they are bottomless
and embarrassing beyond belief.
But your words seem to
release me and so finally
I can speak.
You are so open and sensual
by the way you observe me
and I find myself burning
alive inside
my guts all squirming
in loose knots
trying to unravel
these trivial thoughts.
Still wanting to leap
the distance and smother
you with wet kisses
my body is burdened
by natural urges.
These animal instincts
that venture on purges.
You make me so lascivious
by nothing of your
own accord
by the way you look and gaze
deeply into my eyes
for moments at a time
never ending
this joy is never ending
but secretly
I wish I could open you up
enough to hear your
******** screaming.
I wish I could satisfy
your insatiable need
and be able to pleasure you
instead of you pleasuring me.
This relief is somehow firm
and I've done a lot of freeing.
I ache to see your face
aroused and flushed
by something I'm not seeing.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 3:19 PM UTC
This morning I woke up a little earlier than usual
and grabbed some leftover boiled peanuts out of the fridge,
which I ate cold.
They seemed to have lost a bit of their charm,
since I always ate them hot at a picnic table in the market,
and I was usually accompanied by a friend or two.
So I sat shelling the cold peanuts,
with a paperback in front of me on the table,
which I neglected to read because my fingers were rather wet.
After a significant amount of time, during which I shelled peanuts
and pondered the various happenings and constituencies of my small lifetime,
I began to read.
And as if days of time had lapsed,
the empty shells had turned a churlish gray color,
next I looked at them.
Upon wriggling my fingers through the mound of halved shells
in a sort of diaphanous trance as I read, I stumbled upon a shell that had yet to be cracked,
which awoke me from my reverie in bestseller prose.
I was quite puzzled about how I ever could have missed it earlier.
I proceeded to roll it around in the palm of my hand, noticing its incredibly light weight.
When I opened it, there was nothing inside.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
No one's permission you need-
living your life
is not like getting
a licence or permit
to do this or that--or passing
an exam-
you are
your own government
you are
your own authority
you owe none
any obligation or duty
it's your playing-field
to none
do you yield
only that to yourself
be sincere and true
for none
does care or bother about you
in their selfish and often
blind and senseless pursuits
so sad indeed but so true
it seems to me
it's best not to have a name
as namelessness attracts
the attention of none
it sets me completely free
how churlish
are so many
who assume
they are born
to superiority
who proclaim:
' look to me
be my follower
in me
you'll find your destiny'.
how much more
I 've learnt
wandering in the wild
of nowhere
where nature teaches and smiles
the flowers greet me
the breezes sing their songs
in glee
the butterflies, the bees
the birds, the insects
the warbling stream
the dancing leaves
nature in her pristine beauty
beneath a mild and gentle sky
each living thing relates their own story
only, only
I should be silent
humble, empty
ready
their voices to hear
(how innocent this elemental life
that does over the folly of man transcend--
how sweet, how comforting, how endlessly dear!)
here
there's no coercion
no human clamour or commotion
here's perfect freedom
that teaches me every lesson
about living
I am transformed
transfixed
to the mystery and splendour
of timelessness
no one's permission
I need
this, this is my truth
my salvation
my liberation.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC