"circulations" poems
I still write about life's tragedy
and its circulations
the things that call for celebrations
and the ones that cause damnations
Am not good with goodbyes
i never was
when things grew tough
i walked away
I've never felt a thing
i escaped attachments
i stayed away
and embraced solitude
I know most of us don't
understand my poems
my character is not that out
standing
i dodged bullets
and my heart grew solid
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
Complex circulations of electric impulse.... firing in impulsive reaction to there own free will....Yet they do not think...and send out missions and directions to **** that which was intended to heal...Now I feel all types of unwanted **** infecting the young....Floating around in unwanted company...Hoping to gain immunity...to death...Witch is the confusion of calling it blessed....See I've seen them looking around...but the only placed being searched is the ground...CC's of un wanted foes wandering about...In incorrect form yet perfectly round about...They have placed intricate circuits through out the mind...That have been set to detonate in time...Not blow no suicide bombers here...but to carefully inject the inception...Will you be fooled...misconstrued ..deceived to believe...that this is honestly received...or manipulated...by these impulse that have conjugated...To act upon what they feel...instead of what is real..No thought process...not time to progress...Only to stay the same...spreading to brain after brain.....after brain.........are you still >THERE
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
I used to hold your hand, grasp your fingers, and never let go. You thought this was silly, you said I'd cut off our circulations of blood flow, but I didn't care. You were mine, and I wasn't about to let you out of my grip.
Too bad you slipped, floating away from me, drifting farther and farther. And all I could do was watch.
It reminded me of a balloon I held once, a pretty yellow one I got at a fair; my small fingers clutching it tightly. Mommy told me to tie it to my wrist, so it wouldn't blow away. I should have listened.
As it took to the air, lifting higher and higher, into the clouds;
All I could do was helplessly stand there. Until the yellow dot in a sea of blue; eventually just became part of the sky.
It made me cry.
I think boys are like those pretty balloons, not all, but most. They come in many different colors and many different sizes and shapes.
Some say things like "I love you," "I'm yours." or even "Happy Birthday."
Others forget to tell you anything like that at all.
They just hover above you, as you clasp them in your hands, hoping with all your might that you are enough to make them stay.
And honestly, some are just meant to be "let go" or "set free."
Because they're not worth keeping, no matter what you tell yourself.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
Fame
Money, exaction of reality
life, envying their dreams!! perfections
existence full of theories and vexation
this is my perception
like a beautiful lie theirs no affection
always dreaming the same things, there's no end to this circulations
a nightmare, no strength for confrontation
sometimes the thoughts are good but no relations
always sweating, trying to make this icicles
double checking, mixed up, confused with this feelings of ambiguation
when will this end, illusions
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
That great emptiness in my heart
For years,
Spacious as the most distant dream
In which You appear suddenly…
For to fulfill me of Your beauty,
And praise the day and the light of raising,
For not to the precipice in space
Of the missing events as countless things:
Suffering and joy in the solitude of
Life…
That everything - to feel
The exhale of Eternity,
Inhale of Love…
To Be…
Again, and again
Reality tunes up:
Inflow and the outflow of the waters,
The fullness of the Moon and New Moon,
Rising Sun and Sunset,
Falling of leaves and shooting of buds,
Waters circulations around the Glob,
Life - Love - Death and
New Life.
Rhythm and rocking,
The Rise and Fall,
Inspiration and Exhalation
Countless forms of Existence.
Whosoever has the access in
The Fullness of the Beauty and Life?
At front of the Being
Which lasts as an invisible smile:
Mona Lisa or Buddha?
Whosoever participates in
The total suffering of Christ’s
Painful Mystery?
That everything - to feel
The exhale of Eternity,
Inhale of Love…
To Be…
How much do You need
From it
To praise each day by
Art and Work?
How much do You need
To jump into a day, anew
As into a water
With a hope, You can once at last
Find the Secret Script
Which is not soaked through yet, in the bottle…
To read it!
That everything - to feel
The exhale of Eternity,
Inhale of Love…
To Be…
July - November 2008
Leonard Gorski © copyright
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
The small words
“All that's mean nothing” not my words
but I often think about it, when reading the newspaper
I look for the no-news the filling of space
the news is often there and when **** flies they are taken
by surprise busy reading the headlines.
Being so wrong the want to set aside democracy and civil
behaviour the by- line has become a headline we must
demonstrate denounce the new from the stage or pulpit
by the pompous and incompetent
perhaps it would help to read the alternative press they
have less to lose and don't worry about circulations and
no capitalist master to serve
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 4:59 AM UTC
With my chin upon my hand
And my countenance bearing
An unintentional scowl of boredom,
I realize that my hand is beating
Just as my heart would.
I feel the pulsations
As my blood continues
With its rhythmical circulations.
Feb 15, 2020
Feb 15, 2020 at 8:23 AM UTC