"circumnavigate" poems
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'
Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.
Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.
Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.
In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.
Ahha!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
Like a lotus emerging
Unsullied
From the mud,
So have you appeared,
In this world,
Yet not of it.
I consider myself
Most blessed of all men
For having glimpsed upon your face.
Not even Michelangelo,
With all his magnificent frescoes,
Could have conceived of such beauty.
The most flowery prose of Marquez wilts,
Inadequate to fully describe your radiance.
The supple, rich compositions of Mozart
Are a rancorous cacophony
Compared to the melody of your voice.
Your entire being is a testament
To the masterful craftsmanship of our Lord.
I may circumnavigate this world
Sample the most luscious of delicacies
Climb the lofty peak of Everest
Swim the English Channel
Trek the Ural Mountains
Watch the Caribbean sunset
Walk the entirety of the Great Wall
But none of these
shall hope to compare with
the blissful moment
When my eyes fell upon you.
It was truly a day of days,
One which no other can rival.
You stood out
A swan
Regal in its repose
Amongst
Ducks
Babbling away
In their ignominy.
I have found my muse --
Alas! --
But for a moment.
Yet I shall not rage.
Neither shall I weep.
Just because
He got to you first.
Just because
He is
Perhaps
More worthy
Of you.
I shall not fly
Into a maelstrom of emotion
Sulk with resentment
And seethe with envy
Just for losing
Something
Someone
I never even had.
Just because
She will never be mine.
I shall not have
To lower and abandon myself
To the maddening clutches
Of grief
To wantonly fling
My artless soul
At the burning altar
Of undignified melancholy.
For it is foolish.
Yet I cannot help
But do exactly this.
Act like the boy,
The child,
That I am.
For what else am I?
I am not a man
Like him
After all.
Not adequate
For anything
Resembling a soulmate
For anyone
Like her.
I can never hold you
In my arms
Never gaze
Into your eyes
My ears can never hear you
Whisper
Sweet nothings.
And
My lips shall never
Meet yours.
So what
Else
Can I do
But mourn?
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
Who’s to say how
He might come back for a second
inhumanely heaped-up helping,
if we grant that immensity
of our assumption He did come
kingly first into this inside-
out size from a do-you-miss-me-
yet’s mirthfully mythical realm
I have seen Him
lurking in a particle-board fine
finish on the thin outer membranes
of our estranged and better faces;
He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent,
but far too theoretical
for our broadly practical, turned-
away gazes to rediscover
There He is now
rising in the favela’s gap-
toothed grins with fabulously naughty
corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists
using cur jests his ***** charges
imagine as flightless quarrels
grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle
were they over-stuffed on golden grain
And there again
on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered
conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts
with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps
of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid
as dainty fingers crawl in toward
a gelatinous glob still clinging
to the powerful pretense it’s meat
And there once more,
conceding oms, He restless flickers
at the margins of blocky beige
Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks
circumnavigate the darkling
smooth patches and spit-spark a few
conscious drips to squiggle out from
the babble of noxious red seas
Emerged, this welp
won’t toddle off to dribble-stain
the dressy linens of a made-up
nanny’s well-mannered and ornate
evil; it will curl up instead,
a swaddled yawn with no yearn to
suckle under His real mother’s
gaping wide and grungy bloused best
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC
When I was born,
From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice,
Saying, This be thy portion, child; this chalice,
Less than a lily's, thou shalt daily draw
From my great arteries; nor less, nor more.
All substances the cunning chemist Time
Melts down into that liquor of my life,
Friends, foes, joys, fortunes, beauty, and disgust,
And whether I am angry or content,
Indebted or insulted, loved or hurt,
All he distils into sidereal wine,
And brims my little cup; heedless, alas!
Of all he sheds how little it will hold,
How much runs over on the desert sands.
If a new muse draw me with splendid ray,
And I uplift myself into her heaven,
The needs of the first sight absorb my blood,
And all the following hours of the day
Drag a ridiculous age.
To-day, when friends approach, and every hour
Brings book or starbright scroll of genius,
The tiny cup will hold not a bead more,
And all the costly liquor runs to waste,
Nor gives the jealous time one diamond drop
So to be husbanded for poorer days.
Why need I volumes, if one word suffice?
Why need I galleries, when a pupil's draught
After the master's sketch, fills and o'erfills
My apprehension? Why should I roam,
Who cannot circumnavigate the sea
Of thoughts and things at home, but still adjourn
The nearest matters to another moon?
Why see new men
Who have not understood the old?
1.9k
Somewhere along the way the
silver threads that embroider daylight with dreams
have melted, losing architectured edges and I find
these days it's harder to tell whether I'm
even awake at all.
Trance chaos, but curiously calm,
considering and sleepy.
My corridor is long but I
have no reason to hurry.
Broken lamps against the walls
dusty apartments to spiders and fluff.
No lightbulbs.
Only husks of maybe
once upon a time ideals.
There is a familiar light of
gossamer gold murmurs over me
I've been here before and
there isn't much farther left to go.
Incandescent airspace
pulsing like a living heart
rising, ebbing, coaxing me on.
The lamps are a silent vigil to my journey.
Again I am here at my tabula rasa.
The door is laid with bricks, sealed by my own earthly hands
Will not open! Will not open! Un-opening door.
And as far as I've ever come.
Light all around, fleeing from robinred tetris brickwork.
Intimate, tantalizing, maddening
Bone aching Mystery.
Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet.
I yet.
Yet again.
I am here.
Crossroads. Yield to trains.
There is no last stop until I
play cartographer
and circumnavigate
Wasteland concepts. Swamps of muted wishes.
Until I put my broken lamps back together
I am here.
Wandering,
waiting,
a ghost.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
I keep a list of words that remind me of you.
*Buoyant, Renegade, Circumnavigate
Alexithymia, Insatiable.
No.*
I have this dream,
Of living on Mars, surviving without oxygen.
Leaving everything in the world behind
But never you.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
Sun dust haze
an old wooden door
I reach, locked
handles, hands
pressed splintering
knock,
The newspaper reads EVACUATION NECCESARRY
Exasperation of the lilting seed of sanity;
the clocks unaligned to my watch
the fridge has been off for days
milk curdled, cheese hardened
this Panadol, IbuProfen parachute me
down, codeine
hits me hard upon the ground
the fireplace surrounds
a dragon breathing flames out of our mouths
and the room is no longer hot;
it is supernova.
Stars sound like songbirds outside, shooting,
gargled gin smells like grace,
erase
the drone of Arab spring
the scent of comradery
for a security station
computational bastion;
calculus of reason,
reputation, family, existential crisis
lets circumnavigate
to the window ,
reality split by liquid,
a rainbow in the sea,
children dancing beneath the Pohutakawa tree
“Hello?”
“Hello, were you here all along?”
“Long enough to see
those purple hues of your dressing gown, you
standing aimless across the room,
you came here today too?”
“I didn’t really choose” balloons, still tied to the ceiling
pop
“I must go”
“Stop”
ground dissolves, glass
mirrors, present, past
pop
“take my hand
lets watch the angels carry the sun away”
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
This lonely container; used to interact and circumnavigate
the complexities of this earth, of this land, and of this temporary place.
To meet, mesh, mold, and communicate mentally and physically with other
fleshly canisters on this ride, this trip, this journey.
Then emotion is what our essence does, the spirit of us that resides within,
Yearning to unite with the ethereality of another, to bind with their intangible magnitude.
Loneliness connotes desolation, void, and emptiness; the heart weeps longing to fuse,
There is unconscionable comfort in reaching an island in twain, not in singularity.
Though these receptacles oft give us fleeting tastes of satisfaction,
It is yet impermanent and fulfills the hasty need of our lust in the interim.
Yet when we make exquisite LOVE to one another,
Our vessels dance whilst our souls provide the music, the dance floor, and the ambience.
We were made to be together,
And I love our fit.
ChawzzyScript
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
It's a logistical rule I own
To attempt a poem
Every day
Based on a word
Or a feeling
But I wasn't
Feeling much
Today
So I gambled
A gambol
In the Webster's
And it was my thumb's fate
To find "Palpitate".
Funny that the previous poems
Both deep and sincere
Had the Heart as their center
So clear and unpretentious
And damn-near annoying
Relentless in their calling
Out to a Lost Love or three...
Old "woe is me"
Always attempting to
Circumnavigate the heart.
To go around the push-pull
Of Love lost denied
And surf away on the curl
Of swollen palpitate.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 8:54 PM UTC
one so involved in their own thoughts
needless to say they have allowed it to circumnavigate them
around their life
nothing makes sense
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
I'm the wronger
a wooden soul
destined to stoke for eternity
I better start smoking again
maybe the harder stuff
to get my soul used to breathing in ash
my lungs will be black and caked full
chugging deer blood and bull
to erase
the feeling of me
you tell me I'm an un-thinker
superfluous thoughts of a prosthetic heart
I had a dream once
I was peeling
never ending oranges
pulling the skin from the sweet juicy
flesh
drops of tang slipping from my fingers
but never sinking my teeth into
orange suggests so many contrary things
trees indicate life
prosperity
but eating an orange means separation
illness
tie me down
batter me
I think it unwise
you chasing me
to the un-pearly gates
those burning barriers
you circumnavigate
while I will smell of citrus
for eternity
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC
I need to escape the past,
But how do I escape that which has made me,
That which has developed me,
As a film,
Pressed with the stains of a forgotten time
But a remembered pain.
How do I forget the past I created and in turn used
To create me and my knowledge,
The power I use to circumnavigate
the treacherous waters of the present,
A present so wilted by my distaste and displeasure
One simply cannot fall away
And out of the depression the past creates.
How can something like the past, in the past
Be so current,
Ruling the present and so Forward
As to rule the future.
How can I escape the past,
The past which built me?
Is to ask how can the house escape its builder
When without it, I would suffer no grandeur
And experience no appreciation.
The past has built me,
Moulded me,
The faint moss washing over.
My past has led me to this present,
The present I am so grateful for,
How could I wish it undone?
I am not my past...
But I am my Past's creation,
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
*The textures of a star as with her flesh
Are not those that seep nor soften
That they grace the hands divine
With the airiest of moistures or the fluidity
Of fire. It is far from that.
All smoothness that I know I felt
And are all too palpable.
Now I abstain from such,
From such nakedness.
Not the papaya, the apples, the grapes of La Union,
Nor the watermelon kind of touch
But of the moon attenuated, the pierce
Of the narrow light or the folding abaniko,
Could unravel me towards the discovery
Of wild fragilities, little by little, all too tender,
With its river, and its regions forbidden
And its sections.
I circumnavigate my passions
Towards hers.
I shiver.
I have yet to measure a feather,
Her waist,
With my lips.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
I’m feeling right as rain on a window pane in a war of attrition,
And I love how the rain beats me into submission,
And I hate how I’m always in need of some reason for a division,
That riddle of forever being cut down and somehow risen up in the middle
Circumnavigate the delusional oceans of my mind,
And I love that place between being dead and alive,
And I hate how I’m there and yet still to arrive,
That riddle of being lost and found by being stuck in the middle
To be a fly on that flower on the wall,
And I love to see how it feels to be left out of it all,
And I hate to be unable to fall,
That riddle of asking “How?” and not “Why?” that comes with being trapped in the middle
I’ve written this part,
For what feels the millionth time,
I can only resign.
The scars upon my hands,
Connecting teeth-marks
The guilt within my heart,
That’s where the sickness starts,
That riddle of being sick and yet unable to survive without lingering in the middle
To be a Superman is so **** superficial,
Superb superstition feels so insuperable,
Juxtaposition in a definition of terms makes the Super seem just simple and little,
That riddle of being everything and nothing that is superimposed in the void of the middle
And I love how I’m here all alone in the middle,
And I hate how I’m here all alone in the middle
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
~
Who can circumnavigate Avalon's depository and the palpable swoop down toward earthier terrain?
Yet, here I am.
Where is your gravity taking me, Kahn?
This building is an invitation, and I am humbled in this sense of arrival. The books are stored away from the light. So a man with a book goes to the light, the serenity of light.
And therein lies the hidden meaning.
But you won't let it become just a building; you want it to remain much a ruin; it's all somehow sinister in its celebration.
Occasional distraction is as important in reading as concentration.
And I'm reading between the lines in a corner carrel, looking out at academic crop circles; I grapple with each texture: it's this combination of imposing austerity and weathered familiarity that you seize upon to make your current landscape hospitable.
This building is an instrument, creates a sound in my head akin to music; and this music remains a glowing source of solitude, all driven by a desire to be hidden but sought after—a celebration of all things lost and unnamed.
Here I find closure by opening a book.
~
Mar 29, 2024
Mar 29, 2024 at 10:52 AM UTC
Where does forgotten time escape to? Does it seep away like heat after a heavy rain or does it hang around us all like a fog in the morning? The seconds fall and form wrinkles that stretch across us like scars from a time left behind, a feather that smelled of roses and rotting wood. The minutes feast on us like ravenous vultures waking from a slumber of eternal winter. Our reflections move in slow motion, unnerved and apathetic to the plight of its supposed doppelganger, while we, tangible we, circumnavigate the void of our thoughts and predetermined anarchy with a crazed sight of apprehension and fear. We come around to gaze upon our reflection still running in place, still chasing the forever mystery of right and wrong, love and hate, life and death. We shrug with pity and envy before moving along to circle the world of ourselves once more with the whips of time at our backs and the hounds of hell at our heels.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 2:11 PM UTC
Circumnavigate Earth with your never-ending journey;
To find peace,
But instead, you land in a place of abomination, of pure horror
Poverty, sickness, pollution, ****** **** war,
Hatred
You move on, but everywhere is synonymous to everywhere
The only tranquillity that can be distinguished,
Is up in the place between heaven, and sea,
The place only reserved for your species
Designated to your entirety so that you can still live free
For as long and far as elegant wings can flutter
Superior to the Hell we call Home, to the Home we call Hell
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 11:18 AM UTC
Gently feeling round the edge,
detect the shape of inner you
and I’ve been tangled in the texture,
taste and weight and scent and hue.
Ardently keening for the contact
Hearts race. Our basest needs need meet.
Now heat is emanating out
like all the clothes about our feet.
Circumnavigate your figure
in a boat inside my mouth.
Paint long ribbons in its wake,
colour you in till you’re a lake.
The water’s warm, the tide is rising
let the swell come rolling in.
Lovely undercurrent rythme,
relentless. Drawing me within.
Here come the breakers, catch a breath,
asphyxiate a tiny death.
Between your thighs my ears are roaring,
hear a pulse and nothing else.
Convulsions padded by our warmth
Hold on, and throw a gentle fit.
We're just swirling in the swell
The outside world does not exist.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC
soundless space
directionless drift
toward the sun and the stars
toward Saturn or Mars
reckless release
of empty debris
we greet as we pass
with a silent wave
we circumnavigate
every heavenly body
we see on the way
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
If this train went off the rails just as I was saying, "I love you,"
and the clanging noise caused you to hear, "I'm so far above you," instead, would you then go on to die regretting every previously treasured moment of our lives that we'd collectively spent on the off-chance that I'd been a pretentious ***** the whole time?
If I went broke before you could cash the check that I wrote in order to fix your broken childhood home - the one that your parents still live in and stand to lose if this check doesn't clear - because of some completely unpredictable market fluctuation/bank identity theft error,
would you hold me accountable for it?
If you counted every syllable in every sentence that I spoke on your half-birthday and it didn't add up to your age divided by one-third of the time it takes for your ruling planet to circumnavigate the solar system, would you then find our relationship to be some kind of gross horror?
If I walked away right now, while you were in the middle of asking me some ridiculous out-of-context question with no consequence, would you think it's because of some kind of insecurity or cowardice?
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
This was the longest waking week of my entire life.
It had its ups and downs like all things transient and brief.
But where was all the love that once there was
Replaced by deadened muffled sounds of grief.
This was the longest rising day of my longest week.
Its ups were the ecstasy of success and recognition.
Its lows were the highest form of malice – degradation
Of the soul undermining my essence
The very capacity to be me, assaulted
by wave upon wave of noise and human existence,
clouding my thoughts, mindfulness and deeds
in mists of accentuated wants and needs.
Would there have been no other way to circumnavigate
The pile of ash that was my day? No phoenix here
To be reborn, but dust and charred remains
Forsworn to wallow in its own worrisome way.
Could you imagine as much as this, for if this be,
Nothing is nothing and these things are nothings.
Do we in our fragility presume to exist?
How can we, when we do not even know our own names?
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
Nosferatu would have balked if not gone bald.
They, too, from themselves their selves do balk.
Circumnavigate the lily pond,
Iron Lady in the swaddling baking egg pies, with spited
Curlers in our fronds and — equanimity's edict — forest green-eyed addict — is
A plumbed plum; a dendritic denizen for the cypress,
Willow that 's hung! Willow that sung! Soothing it hugs
the sights — such sour honors — so smooth-over the boy's club, so you can get in or out whichever youregoingfor;
bring them their rose water which drips next to the
chiffon and the lubricated sewing table — the grape to-
mato-mottled lunar ligament: by dew of the top lip, do lay —
go gray in taut winter
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 6:42 PM UTC
Resurrection
When the seas, all seven, align and combine,
To form one tide, do you believe we have a selection, to
Reside, hide and remain alive?
Or is that our mind tryna confide,
In our own made lie, afraid to die?
If the angels rein down a path to heaven,
I wish to accept, find, listen and abide,
Until I arrive.
Once I’ve arrived at my final destination,
Only then will I quit the investigation,
Quit the pacing,
Where thoughts are constantly racing.
End of days where I communicate,
Debate and question every nation.
An owl of silent observation,
Mixed with a perfection I can imagination,
To relate,
To create,
And modulate,
An exhilarating answer to the allegation,
Fact or fiction,
Which is resurrection?
Such unbelievers, who claim afterlife is an illusion,
Unaware that they are too, just bait,
Heading straight,
Into the great,
Hands of fate.
The weight of the truth,
And proof,
In representation of resurrection,
Cannot be ignored, just like an antique china plate,
Or a mate,
Who’s at times, difficult to tolerate.
It’s inevitable,
So renumerate,
Your pure self, and reinstate,
Circumnavigate,
To the Golden Slate Gate.
Enter your new estate,
Where you are enchanted with the power of illumination.
Before you can await,
The glorious one who turns death into rebirth,
Giving your soul a chance to resurrect,
Recreate, and once again illuminate.
Natasha .K. Bailey
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
Because faulty showers left you still soiled.
A million parts of water to one part salt.
Heretofore,
no more to be spoiled by the appetites of those too hungry for
beach burgers.
Sandy fingers curled 'round chicken tenders drenched in
ranch.
Circumnavigate the globe just to circle back around to the same *******
circumstance.
Looking forward to a summer of love:
Drugs, freak outs; doomed
romance.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 3:40 AM UTC
16 Psyche
Astroid king
Gravid with iron
Nimble in flight
Circumnavigate
The stars
They revere you so
Your steely frown
Rigid and dense
Elegance
Oh, Astroid King
Your story retold
Is a tragedy
Trajectory
Unknown and alone
Nebulas, they glow
For you
Satellites, they shine
For you
But I, I cry for you
Astroid King
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 10:16 AM UTC