"circadian" poems
The Sunflower is awfully bigheaded
For being so tall & gangly
With fiery blooms, rough around the edges
He’s quite a sight to see annually
He looks down upon all the other flowers
With his head so high in the sky
This makes the other flowers jealous
But they fail to realize the sunflower lives a lie
Because the problem with the sunflower
Is that he turns his back on the sun
Creating the misconception
That he does not need anyone
But through the circadian rhythm
His leaves continuously change
Eluding the very revelation
That the sunflower causes his own pain
So as the sun begins to set
The sunflower realizes what he’s done
He faces the darkness with much regret
Realizing he cannot live without the sun
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
Lithe, pharmaceutical muscles regulating microfiber hairs
Draw from the primitive neglect and sin
A clarinet changes the chemistry of champagne
Inside Humanity again
A stock infection of planets and galaxies
and their debris
Small enough to be e coli
and atomic dreams
Beading with the warmth of breath, persisting,
Naming dragons and archers in the infinity,
The cocktails brew people at the seams
Their sentences clapping the breeze
Into a day, or a season,
or her hand leading
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 9:50 AM UTC
~
*drawn to a twinkling
crown of muted lights
a moment in the waterfront
of your eyes
in between circadian rhythm
and a place called irresistible
there we listen to sun-filled hymns
and children's laughter
not caring what comes after...*
~
Aug 22, 2023
Aug 22, 2023 at 3:03 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldret, Kenya;[email protected])
Do you remember one era in Kenya?
During the dark days of dictatorship
When Daniel arap Moi
Was the tyrannical president of Kenya
And darkness of leadership
Loomed like the dark clouds of el Niño
When forty district commissioners
Out of the total of forty two were kalenjins?
Whose main work was to spy and terrorize
As the people forlornly groaned under the heavy
Yoke of state terror of tribal torment
When the president claims that
He was not aware of such tyranny,
When we used to sing a lame poem
Of jokoo! Jokoo! Jokoo! Jokoo!
On empty stomachs with no hope of food
No hope of jobs or even education
Street children swelling on the street
In total political nonchalance of arap Moi
As he only gave free milk to his own kalenjin youths
In Kabaraka schools, the Kabaraka school which was
Overfunded by the poor tax payers money,
Please President Uhuru Kenyatta as good as you are
With your dear humane heart of Bantu conscience
As you are armed to teeth with modern education
**** sapiens Gentility and polished diplomacy
Superb in quality of thought and supremacy of choices
The government of Kenya is yours and the people of Kenya
Are your political darlings, true bandwagons for ever
Kindly listen and buy my poemetics, my dear president
Remove Daniel Moi from the state house of Kenya,
Let not Daniel Moi be your adviser
Ignore him and embrace Kenyans
For common future happiness
Even if Daniel Moi is old, the truth is different
He is not a good man, he is full of Machiavelli
His full badness is measured in absurdity
Of terribly and horrendously crashed *** crushed
Testicles of poemcrats and political leaders
Of Kenya of yore and today,
Truth meted in When koigi wa wamwere became
A permanent staff of kamiti maximum prison without pension
Wangari Mathai beaten like an animal in a hunters trap
Ngugi wa Thiong’o jobless and detained without trial
Raila Amolo odinga’s testicles went missing
He looks for them on daily circadian
But once he nears their political pigeonhole
Then elections of the times flops, O! Poor Odinga!
President Uhuru Kenyatta with your suave intellect
You won’t get a pretext to say that
I was not aware or not informed
Please dear darling of the people
The people of Kenya in their 42 tribes
Novate Moi with the people
And your legacy will smile.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
Dizzy and uncontrolled, I open my eyes to see the smoke crowding the air.
For, my body has just become a safe haven for your hands.
Temptation has won tonight.
Moonlight is dancing upon our bare bodies and I am immersed in pure satisfaction.
Our lips have synced with the circadian rhythm we possess and the fire has started to erupt.
As the flames get more and more intense, so does the love we pretend to have for each other.
It continues to grow until we convince ourselves it’s real.
The bedsheets serve as our common ground for our broken hearts to rest on.
As we are climbing and pretending; pretending and climbing,
The fire is getting hotter, the love is getting cloudier, and our bodies are getting heavier against on another’s.
Faint whispers of phrases we dare not say otherwise fill the room.
Finally, the fire is extinguished and we are left to lay with nothing but reality.
Clutching each other for protection from yet another fire, we doze off hoping to wake up in love with each other.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
my circadian rhythm beats
at such high frequency
my mind is shattered
shards of broken thought
litter my consciousness
my insights lie scattered
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
Oh it is that time of the year again
I have to set the clock's again on my microwave
on my alarm clock
on my wristwatch
It's that time of year again
it fills me with dread
I become reluctant to leave the bed
even if I try to go to sleep early
as hard as try to sleep
I'm forced to count the sheep
The one clock I can not set
is the one that is most upset
My internal clock does not wind
to automatically set to daylight savings time
May I make a request, please
Just don't mess with people's circadian rhythm
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
Fountain of youth runs in his veins,
The man who lives in Sycamore Keep.
His circadian clock had come to a halt,
Rather than rejoice, he sullenly weeps.
You would think that immortality is
The pinnacle of human existence,
All the time in the world and not a
Single malady to be of any resistance.
Yet there he sulks, the ageless man,
Cauterized by the turn of each century,
As loved ones breathe their last and
Become a parcel of his fractured memory.
But that is just the shell of his woes,
For even with all knowledge amassed,
He’s utterly aghast with the state of the
World unwilling to learn from the past.
Every crook and cranny explored,
Every experience well savored,
Now monotony for millennia to come,
His longing to live has ebbed and wavered.
I was told by the man of Sycamore Keep
That immortality is a curse so alluring.
Indeed, a hundred cultivated years is
Much better than hollow eons securing.
But sir, think of all the riches you’ve accrued
And mastery of all science and philosophies.
Who wouldn’t want to have the time to mark
The world and purge it from all its atrocities.
Say no more, interrupted the ageless man,
I applaud your idealism and optimistic delusion,
But you’re missing one essential element --
Even as immortals, we’d still be only human.
And to be human, is to be fallible. Let’s just say
That immortal fallibility will engender no good.
It'd be best to truncate our lifespan for the
Sake of our survival, yes truncate we should.
And that’s all I heard from the man of Sycamore Keep,
Who went on his way to his millennial weep.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
I have precisely not one but two stalkers, two malaise menaces in my hands. Well, not quite literally.
Its all in my head, you see.
They pervade my robust, iron clad, sheer willpower.
Hmph, not really.
The two little rascals, attractive ones at that, present themselves during frenzied times of scattered notes, inked fingers with frustration crashing in the air.
Frustration grows ever-so-slightly when they efficaciously whisper to you, it will only be five minutes.
They leech time off my circadian clock, inevitably painting black under my eyes.
A pair of smooth-talking liars, the scourge of the Student Underworld.
Their flamboyant, beguiling gestures of distractions, alas, it is far too much even for
my
mind.
Even doctors cannot prescribe a medical concoction to rid me of these pests!
Beware these criminals!
They need to be obliterated, removed, pruned away from us, young innocent seedlings.
I introduce you to... ughh...
Mr & Mrs Procrastination.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
~
Bala^ comments:
"alignment - any which way one can if possible to make
****** and *********** simultaneously happen,
without any best position plan"
~
*may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity
my own circadian rhythm masters internal,
the most reliably unreliable human container technology teachers,
semi-skilled in the entrainment arts for this impoverished body mine,
deem it appropriate that early morn messages of
propitious possibility be greeted immediately
entrapped, awaken me at four AM with great glee,
because these elusives^^ know exactly what stirs
this being's cochlear cockles into birthing a
poetic cookie ******** ***********
your message meme provoking, inducing,
be honest man - simply seducing, my within
by your teasing words from without*
"without any best position plan"
*not to confuse the mere appearance of a routine
as worthy of the entitlement of "plan,"
much as the poem's own vanity chooses it own alignment
the relationship, the relativity -
always the
flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring
when your thrusting unplanned message
****** and bests my brain,
releasing a fully formed, instantaneous parrying poem
from an aroused, passing, unsanitized, second of sanity
for no better *** than this...
as per the unplan?
this tissued life,
this in and out
of punching and counterpunching continuous,
but rarely contiguous,
for we are never aligned for more than a moment,
the moment that almost always goes unnoticed,
for the heart's ***** tissues,
are mostly torn by how life
uses us roughly
so here is an aligned confession fecundity
this poetry gig, my salve,
to tenderize the daily redness,
the irritation residual of having no plan
however these fingerprints decided for you,
to present, upon completion,
this soft-spoken loud ***********
a peaking, not a leaking,
** ** ** - a screaming
hallelujah, i'm aligned!
the man found albeit briefly
a beat, a plan and its verbal, herbal,
best solution
may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity
the man and his plan, for a mega-second
his best,
unplanned but got and given,
in poetic planetary alignment
positioned
as are you and I -
the thousands of miles of distance tween us
as you read this
collage collapse
into a singular synapse
of ****** and ***********
hallelujah, we are aligned!
~
**disclaimer:
anything you say to me, can and will be used
for a poem**
~
5:55am
April 1, 2017
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
Conscious creature
You opened your eyes
And saw into infinity
Beyond a vast divide
You walked with agitation
Under a circadian sphere
But in slumber lapped upon
A recursive lie turned fear
So you gnawed and you nibbled
You scratched and you split
Without a pause in your malice
Until reality thinned
Until the atmosphere bled
All life, light, and breath
And you were left with closed eyes
And vast emptiness
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
Oh wilderness' soul ― I Beseech thee !
I feel your deepest awakening secrets stir
Whispers uttered in immortal Winds
Calling to the Fountains of my soul
Standing the hairs of comfortably numb
Spilled breath bestrewn upon frayed Mortality
Oh wilderness' soul ― I Bequeath thee !
The ashes the deepest Oceans my heart
As circadian Tides have ebb and flowed
Forsaken feigned love’s misbegotten guise
Now chastened sightless before an unseen labyrinth
Beset by a human blindness that decays all light
Oh wilderness' soul ― I Entreat thee !
Cleanse this molted flesh ― time shed ―
Artifacts of perfectly imperfect traces
Reminders of things we strive to forget
For in the self-loathed aching Silence
I feel the urgent pull of Wilderness' Soul
Reaching out ― Benignly
to Entomb my Heart and Soul
Someone you used to know April 1st, 2017
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 7:49 PM UTC
Blister packs and Auld Lang Syne,
the rain-dance in the rain-forests
where no one keeps time;
the maypole, the bar stool,
the sunstroke pilgrimage;
the Superbowl commercial,
the secret raiding of the fridge-
all conforming to some routine
of half-comfortable bliss;
we stumble blindly through
our blueprint futures-
we borrow our happiness.
The truth is out there
if you look within:
the circadian rhythm,
the central nervous system;
the clamour of your mind
in the face of chronic stress.
The Lenders are out
in the crowds now,
with their placards of high-interest
amongst the indifference
of the street-meat vendors,
the numbered tables at the bar;
we spoil ourselves in the reach
of the so near's;
that we forsake all of the so far's.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
I was encapsulated,
pressurized,
orbiting endlessly
through circadian-days
blending into starless-nights
eternal.
I wanted
to see the rings,
to feel the sacred-dust
on my face &
left the comforts,
only to be locked out,
forever wandering
in the asteroid belt.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC
We have touched so much since December,
steeping teas torrid and arctic ice cubes
a thousand fibers, prince bee his princess
generous blankets papering flu
the drizzle on wedding dawns or departure’s eve
pieces of candy for holiday celebrations
even the ending of a movie –
these are wild fingers that we have
rebellious, juveniles in mind
singing summer stories through knuckles
bodies long slenderized
and they are more than myself
to them, I have no name
but my brain and I are their mother
a well-mannered woman in command
I feed them lotion,
then play in the sand apathetic
whistles papercuts that sting with
mouths as lions tigers bears sharks leaves
asking which hurts most significantly of all we
have loved –
and then again, what enduring does not belong?
The adolescents scoff at each of their
five circadian baths, and I hear cries
for showers because soap makes them crack
but it is in your best interest, I say;
you touch everything that gets in your way
to move is beauty and transitioning more so:
my hands are dancers, pirouetting
on stage to fall harmoniously with
bashes, revelations, words I care to mean
yes, these are what causes the bleed of
my aging hands, and throughout their years,
rings dying them green.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC
there is a broken thing
reformed in amber
disarranging the spectrum
of sensical causal motion
nail biting following
migration patterns of neural
activity and we bless the few
who cut clean and learn early
those bespectacled masses
cannot intuit the limited scope
of aversion to blurry pink clouds
gussied up in peripheral vision the
pineal gland controls circadian
rhythms gushes dmt when
we die i wonder i
wonder what that (vestigial)
little pinecone knows
that we don’t
cased in spongy
grey matter and i don’t think
much of time as metaphor but
my watch strap broke
yesterday i hope
that is
important i do
nothing so simple or complex
as love but(i carry it in my heart)
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
In an ocean of night, dreaming of a closed dining space / We were snooping in on a harsh conversation of strangers that we knew / Towards dawn you spoke / as real in the dream as an apparition in the real / of Father and Mother / of them cruising off on a road trip / You faltered at a word I recollect but won't spell / It absorbed into whale song ticking to a time piece / itching to signal morning / and I could feel the depth of many fathoms floating over a waking to Spring / like being pressed against a cherry blossom trunk / in a tug of war, a push and pull / Let's go Jungian on this, he is much more pleasant / I did see a bumble bee yesterday, not a golden scarab, although that could have been a circadian premonition / and I woke up to a shower of blossoms //
May 11, 2021
May 11, 2021 at 8:44 AM UTC
Daisy *** patchwork dress, lalala
I baked you cherry pie while you chatted a wizard
hope it kept warm in the oven.
Dear, the contents partner our cheeks
a good-natured face, freckled of breadcrumbs at
each of six circadian meals to come by day.
Everything is rosy in this hobbit hole –
flowers, and mouths, and food laugh all in sync.
I reckon when you digest
we shall scamper off to our twin bed.
Lalala I sing, and lalala you sing, raccoons are so
close above the wooden beams
that I know their supper is dandelion stalks.
Tucked in, this is what is christened a perfect fit
your foot the extent of my head
and kissing at my toes, their lady stubble.
(You, the skilled shoemaker
who will not tolerate me hiding in pelt moccasins)
If the moon arises, we do not see:
lalala, mockingbirds sing the garden to sleep
but the vegetation dances
like a dwarf’s beard, though blonde somehow
saturating ginger for a reading nightlight
bellies full of sweet cakes and dinner number four.
You kiss me our Eskimo way, then as halflings
I whisper about the ariel orchard today
(Rosemary, red-cheeks, lalala) afore first breakfast.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
Rhythms of Mother Earth
Those which to life give birth
The pulse of all her life
When disrupted cause strife
Why is it we feel better when we go outside?
What has Mother Earth that is not inside?
Everything is connected
And, in turn affected
By that which causes disruption
Mainly, human corruption
Drop a pebble in a lake
All things affected by that wake
Of those energy waves emitted
Like those from a tower transmitted
Where have the butterflies and bees gone?
Those that took fancy flight above our lawn
Why have their numbers decreased?
And why have more become deceased?
What is this pulse, what is this beat?
That which surrounds us and is beneath our feet?
Mother Earth's heartbeat, herRESONANCE...7.83Hz (hertz)
The same rhythm with which humanity flirts
Circadian rhythm, day and night
Daily cycle of dark and light
A world, from the eye unseen
Yet perceived by those who are keen
Aware of our world which is synergetic
With waves that are light, electric and magnetic
What happens in a world without bees?
Does the fruit still fall from the trees?
Do we want to live without the beauty of flowers?
All for the incessant need for transmitting towers?
What is the ultimate price that we may pay
If we do not hold our cell phones an inch away
As waves lethal as high concentrations of uranium
Are pumped continuously into our cranium
Wireless hot spots become pervasive
Much like a species that is invasive
Birds migratory instincts disrupted
By those towers that have corrupted
That natural balance we have with our mother
A balance that cannot be replaced with another
This resonance attributed to Schumann
Is a frequency that is also human
(C) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
I pick this Earthly slide into Summertime, this season to begin, propels forward in all sense of Time, history retrograde, etched in Stone for Centuries, Coded in DNA, programed Circadian bodies, impressions applied geometric thickly glazed coat, generously slathered across my Retinal Screen.
Setup complete for me, attuned to Solar frequencies, aligned to cohesive Cosmic driving motion spiraling Syncopation with all partaking rotational bodies, all timers set to synchronous, all ties to everything celebrating their teamwork well done.
Activity accelerates, as does the heavy heat, both inseparable, together climbing ****** into sunburnt sweat, steaming, sizzling Sunday barbecue to reflect the Flesh boiling together in sympathetic Celebration of our Seasoned Sun.
Longer days accommodate for memories and fun, commemorate the Force of Season, into swing, will soon be swung, centripetal to glaze a different gaze lathered across my retinal screen, reverberate through Atmosphere, redistribute composition, smooth bottlenecking, flowing out yet emptying to take fill of what flows in.
No change of Season, nor change of Heart, no redirection ever knows emptiness, no moment leaves a Void unfulfilled.
No moment when the smooth Transition stutters to a Stop. The sync is in the constant movement bringing balance in equilibrium by shifting tides, Spinning Stars locking in, programmed by Primal Cause, the Synchronicity in Everything, so Summertime comes, this Time in which we rejoice, knowing it's all been planned, beautifully executed by mechanics of Nature.
Trust in understanding a Power much Greater is in Control, we are here simply for the Experience.
...Not to much more, just in attending to the Transitions of Ourselves.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
I want nothing and all
I want throatchase and falls.
I want spiteful endears,
And ricochet tears.
I want colliders with nothing to lose.
I want crashes indebts,
And bombadier pets.
I want cleft incoherence,
And bookies for parents.
I want you to know how to choose.
I want pratfalls regarded,
And paradigms parted.
I want sickly verbatim,
And writings circadian.
I want you,
I want you,
I want you.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 11:04 PM UTC
.
*blue clouds drift lazily
across variegated hues
of aubergine skies
shapeless shades of dark purple
open brilliant framed portals,
urging thoughts
beyond a feeble ray
of dappled light
upon sensual fusion
softly caressing
twilight adorned canvas,
the way moonlight
basks upon
freckled skin
brushing intimate flesh tones
perched atop a swinging star;
sketching the moment
a pink moon’s ebbing tableau
breathless sighs surrendered
in an intimate circadian rhythm,
our mingled moon shadows'
cadence unleashed
glow drops glistening
like heirloom diamond tiara constellations
swimming naked
between the jealous stars*
wild is the wind
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
I am not a number.
I am more.
I'm a rhythm.
A clock, circadian,
A heart beat,
The music inside me.
I am a rhythm.
I am not a score.
I am more.
I'm a movement.
An individual, its
Like a non-religious transcendentalist,
A dancer, prancer,
An accidental fall.
I have a purpose.
I am a movement.
Who are you?
A number?
A score?
An A?
B?
C?
See?
Its not you, its how we were raised to be.
Thirteen years in a structured school
Teaching you only how to earn points
And memorize facts.
But I want to be smart.
An astrophysicist
An anthropologist
A pediatric psychologist
I want to own a home.
Lease a car.
Pay my bills.
Invest my money.
Where do I learn to do all that?
Look into your future,
Inside your dreams.
How do you get there?
How do you find
What seems
To be impossible?
Let me tell you,
Its possible.
Education
Filled with learning,
Filled with ACTUAL learning.
And motivation.
Its a structure,
But its home.
Its a routine,
Its a family.
Its in your head.
You create your setting.
The gloomiest day, with a smile on your face
And you've already become more.
When you want education,
You'll find it.
You'll find it with passionate teachers,
And summer camps,
And clubs
And sports
And, AP stats?
When you push yourself forward,
You'll feel pressure backwards,
But it won't drag you down,
If you don't let it.
It's a choice to make.
You'll be here anyways.
Its that day you walk across that stage
And find the smiles of your peers
And realize that although you're still here,
You're moving forward.
I know that I am more.
Than my 11th grade AP test score.
I know that I am more,
Than my homework,
Than my scars,
Than the number of marks
That are on my arms.
Than my rank,
My GPA,
Or any standardized test I took on a Saturday.
Than the number of hugs that I get when cry,
Or the number of graduates who will say good-bye.
Because at the end of the day
Or right here and right now
Or whatever cliche
I know I can say
I am more.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
Rain-slicked reflections of
the sun's last offerings
disperse within the por-
ous asphalt, inducing
a faint chorus of tire-
spun splashes fading-in
and out behind impa-
tient honks, like waves against
a cargo ship announc-
ing itself to the docks,
"I have arrived! I have
arrived!" The workers, their
jackets waxing iri-
descent limes and oranges,
wave in the freight, crane up
the containers and shout
down the lines through the bay
mist inscribed by currents
of blustering winds, top-
lit by a swarm of head-
lamps, crane lights and high beams
careening through the in-
dustrial din of space,
ensuring no foot fal-
ters and no hand misses
a hold, and the cargo
slowly, but surely, moves
on toward its final des-
tination, and like great
migrations of butter-
flies, birds and whales, that place
is always home, sweet home.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC