"clepsydra" poems
My happiness ... it comes from the smallest things,
as it flows into the clepsydra the grains of sand.
My happiness ... is the thought of using my wings,
my warm soul that surrounds you with its hand.
My happiness ... is the rainbow after a big storm,
is the fragrant, beautiful scented flower, like a lip balm.
My happiness ... are your eyes as a color spell in uniform
and you embrace me all in your comforting palm.
My happiness ... is the song humming your name
under the burst of tender kisses of a guitar on fire.
My happiness ... is your vibrant glance in a frame,
your touch on a bear fur, like a hot desire.
My happiness ... is my smile in which you mirror in the night,
your face is dear heaven in my humble garden.
My happiness ... is faith in love and in what is right,
it's the flame burning, without asking for a pardon.
My happiness ... is the sleep you will watch for me
with fine caresses on my long raven hair.
My happiness ... is the starry sky where I feel free,
our bathing in the great spiritual love, like a prayer.
My happiness ... is coffee in two until we're much older,
when the sunrays brings us to life without any risk.
My happiness ... is the sea breeze on our naked shoulder,
spring suite appears, warmed by the heavenly yellow disk.
My happiness ... is to be happy even if I'm sad and on my knee,
for you have the power to raise me up and wipe my tears away.
My happiness ... is to swim against the waves of the sea,
for you are expected, loneliness has announced its delay.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 6:59 AM UTC
Innocuous wishes shape the magic of my prayer, raising hands to absolute ordeals. Flooded thirst climbs high to nirvana rattling. Cross of prayers vanish the ethereal evanescence of human comprehension. No living being can detect the nest of my secluded harmony, nor Gods of any faith can kiss with their perception the soft outrage of blooming spirits that dwell inside my treasured charm.
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 7:44 AM UTC
Be assured, the sun always rises
through out morality.
Re, nach einmal, crows caw,
and race down the valley
laughing, beating the call from the roosters.
Re joyed be,
re joyed being, noise of life in morning,
caws of crows,
calling crows.
and tweets and peeps of tiny things,
wake us all to be once more
users of light made in life,
doing duties,
crowing and cawing and
stretching and yawning and such.
oh, what a day!
Mitwoche, aber mas, mucho mas,
este dia, este dia
Vvoden's tag aqui, we rejoice
and be glad as on any given Wednesday,
as though it were like any other fine day
to begin in,
in relation to light letting
letters let the sense
of life seem true, sure things, can't loose,
choose, this day,
miércoles,
realizes its possibility… being the basis,
the one event that must occur
as in the night,
the earth must turn,
doing the actual cycle of living
in quanta mediated reality, ones in order,
this day
digital squawking alarms, flashing
red-lights and green, signifying
oomph enough, trickle
charged to aid my being connected…
to the task at hand,
this is the given
Wednesday,
I choose to pay a whole day worth
of rapt attention… drawing on
power stored in darkness,
dripping into day, clepsydra wise.
Wiping sleepy from woken eyes, to see the old new.
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 9:28 AM UTC
I would rearrange the stars in the sky if it gave me a wishful chance,
Reignite the fire in your eyes that once illuminated what I had lost,
If I dove backwards into the clepsydra of time I’d weather whatever cost,
Changes the melody of our song & prolong this Ephemeral Dance.
Sep 2, 2021
Sep 2, 2021 at 3:43 PM UTC
tame the dragon,
earn refuge
among the lions...
com si, com sa.
and there i am,
fiddling with *****
on my neck and chequers;
at least chauvinism
engages with women
and women love it,
the fascist boots stomping...
march approved:
goose stratum.
but misogyny?
they can banshee their way
into Arnold's: the ghosts
we should be afraid of...
but can't be bothered...
aren't really edible...
or marriage prone...
for that matter.
it's almost like we created a world
where Sheba was correct,
copper skinned peoples
copulate and we just watch,
revisionist re-counter with south
america... an aztec singalong...
truant peoples: scientists
**** among cyborgs.
well... if my logic of arithmetic is wrong,
then how did the umlaut not count
as two: or a prolonging?
given the grapheme was given
an antidote of grappling siamese?
Æ or aesch or ash...
gravity of the book of genesis...
the beginning was bound
to be ugly...
but it didn't take the crucifix
to shape the world,
but as the advent proved: it did.
ä equals aa - surely -
likened to the aesthetic of pull
of throttle -
unless dot dot is also hyphen
or macron for the above indicator
ā...
***** of a language, english,
english is a ***** of a language,
everyone speaks it!
cyborg mega-tech pa pa -
that's goodbye without etymological
basis worth of an investigation;
rotten core? aqua:
a- (without) -qua (as being) -
well that thing became congested
as what could be managed: a clepsydra;
originally robbed, perpetuated
robbery. translated? vater.
and then father comes along.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
I'm buried in a duck-shaped bath tub
Filled with speech bubbles and inquiries
Like how do I exit this xanthic gulf?
And how to clean this hill of ***** laundry?
I put some shampoo on my nimbus
Rinse and pour aqua on my sonnet
I breathe in valour, duck-tape my scribbles
Break the quartz, and handle the angles
With my oars, I'm rowing toward the lotus
Not missing a chapter of this meteor shower
I pass by a big tank of sapphire hums
A Christmas-tree floating on the back
It commands me like a set of green arcs
Telling me to go straight ahead, I'm a magnet
As an eddy, I enter this turquoise zone
It smells like dead fish in this strait
Water turns into a chemical substance
I recite a poesy, so as it takes a fluffy format
My racing boat is nearing the nelumbo
I let the sink drink my grey column
I swim, and my craft lands on the H
And fall from the clepsydra, with the spill
Raise my ivories to the ceiling, wear my peignoir
By looking back, I see an aquatic bridge
Vapor, creating a foggy Londonian ambiance
On the isle, spiny trees receive you with fruits
I pick a jujube and eat it, I don't remember
A new life sprouts as an ode to my lost memoir
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC