"commensurable" poems - Hello Poetry

When we began to love each other, in my mind, I saw a room. The bedroom of an old farm house; windows open, and soft, pale, green curtains moved lazily about the sills. Light of late afternoon slipped in, whilst a faint, blue summer sky waited outside. The door to the hallway is open; the rest of the house - still. A bed is the only piece furniture in a room with wood floors and white walls. There are only sheets on the bed, old cotton sheets, heavy, limp, and cool. This room was our togetherness. Since he died, I am not in the room, and light in it is cooler. It is evening and no one is home. I am waiting at the door of the story with peaches in my hands. The door is shut, and the peaches are unripe. None of their warmth and sweetness can be smelled, their fuzz clings to them like tight new skin. When we wait patiently for things to open, we stay with them and be, and they ripen, and the door opens. I wait for the peaches and the door as they wait for me. A story through that door will show me and harm me, it is with peaches I may come through. I was a small child when my mother told me a story of peaches. When I remember it, I remember the peach tree across from our old house. Short and squat, with shining, skinny leaves; the tree crouched in the rose garden. My mother told me about the peace and bliss of heaven, and that when we went there we became angels. She told me that angels longed for the earth sometimes, and have bodies, because angels cannot taste peaches. When I taste and smell peaches now, I try to give myself over to them, to live and feel the taste of them, to not take them lightly, to not keep them foreign. The day that he died, I found a nectarine in the kitchen, and carried it with me, praying to it to keep me in the world of life, to remind me that moments of peaches are worth the pain of aliveness. Every story starts with the breaking off an indefinite number of things that have come before. To try and tell the story of Lucien from the beginning, means I will omit the stories of before, the peripheral stories which came before and bled into his, like color on wet paper. I suppose there are so many ways of telling a story. Not one will be perfect, but each is a prayer. Can you feel this? Can I make something? Are our lives commensurable? Do my words mean what your words mean? We shall see. This story, too, is a prayer. A prayer for a new house, a new tree, and a new beginning.

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May 16, 2016

May 16, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC

Ambi

The Day Lucien Died

When we began to love each other, in my mind, I saw a room. The bedroom of an old farm house; windows open, and soft, pale, green curtains moved lazily about the sills. Light of late afternoon slipped in, whilst a faint, blue summer sky waited outside. The door to the hallway is open; the rest of the house - still. A bed is the only piece furniture in a room with wood floors and white walls. There are only sheets on the bed, old cotton sheets, heavy, limp, and cool. This room was our togetherness. Since he died, I am not in the room, and light in it is cooler. It is evening and no one is home. I am waiting at the door of the story with peaches in my hands. The door is shut, and the peaches are unripe. None of their warmth and sweetness can be smelled, their fuzz clings to them like tight new skin. When we wait patiently for things to open, we stay with them and be, and they ripen, and the door opens. I wait for the peaches and the door as they wait for me. A story through that door will show me and harm me, it is with peaches I may come through. I was a small child when my mother told me a story of peaches. When I remember it, I remember the peach tree across from our old house. Short and squat, with shining, skinny leaves; the tree crouched in the rose garden. My mother told me about the peace and bliss of heaven, and that when we went there we became angels. She told me that angels longed for the earth sometimes, and have bodies, because angels cannot taste peaches. When I taste and smell peaches now, I try to give myself over to them, to live and feel the taste of them, to not take them lightly, to not keep them foreign. The day that he died, I found a nectarine in the kitchen, and carried it with me, praying to it to keep me in the world of life, to remind me that moments of peaches are worth the pain of aliveness. Every story starts with the breaking off an indefinite number of things that have come before. To try and tell the story of Lucien from the beginning, means I will omit the stories of before, the peripheral stories which came before and bled into his, like color on wet paper. I suppose there are so many ways of telling a story. Not one will be perfect, but each is a prayer. Can you feel this? Can I make something? Are our lives commensurable? Do my words mean what your words mean? We shall see. This story, too, is a prayer. A prayer for a new house, a new tree, and a new beginning.

8

love's apostate a former demise I bloom a fervid admiration a hatred never heard commensurable to my own a soul never alone

0

Sep 23, 2012

Sep 23, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC

briana-hailey-ferenczy-1

adject

love's apostate a former demise I bloom a fervid admiration a hatred never heard commensurable to my own a soul never alone

6

I've seen you before On the same streets I no longer take I've never seen you since then Always I wondered if I would ever see you again One with the rain Drenched in apathy Entangled in pain I confess to you bashfully Lost within myself Seems like forever I think I may need your help Yearning to be together If you ever find these words Please know that they were written true They were only meant for you Cody Shull, 2017

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Jan 22, 2017

Jan 22, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC

cody-shull

Commensurable Bond

I've seen you before On the same streets I no longer take I've never seen you since then Always I wondered if I would ever see you again One with the rain Drenched in apathy Entangled in pain I confess to you bashfully Lost within myself Seems like forever I think I may need your help Yearning to be together If you ever find these words Please know that they were written true They were only meant for you Cody Shull, 2017

16

"By this all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love among yourselves.” (John 13:35) This commandment is The Messianic Dictum. Sometimes I wonder upon how far aloft my flight my zenith may lie. What dost the apex of my pilgrimage bear? We all have a future. Love is the ultimate religion. Why? Because “It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.” (1st Corinthians 13: 7, 8) When we love, we taste eternity upon our palates. Love is the elixir of the soul. When my life is over, I hope to gaze upon the visage of those who I hold dear. I want to know that I’ve made a difference in the lives of those encompassing me. We all carry subjective burdens, subjective blights. This suffering is the commonality of all creation. Whence we ail together, The Catholicon of Ancients exalts us as one. The Faith of Dreams is a worldwide denomination, within which we need fellowship. The Universe is our temple, our Cathedral of Dreams. Beneath the firmaments, we all have an abode. We are all Sparks of the Divine. Fulgurant lovelight glistens in each one of us. The most bedarkened soul can house a diaphanous blaze of light. In light, there is darkness; moreover, in the night, there can reside light. Dreams can still serve a purpose to the entity inhibited by a worldly lusting. Ultimately, desirelessness is catalyzed by cathexis to the Deifically Divine. We must cleanse ourselves of corporeal desires until we wax holy. “I dream; therefore, I am,” said the sage. If this is true, the substance, the essence, the elixir of life is in upon the Dreamscape. In truth, any temporal expanse spent in The Chrysalis of the Astral is commensurable with augury. A dream is celestial summoning. Therefore, persevere amidst hardship, borne of tribulation is prophetic fulfillment. (Se' lah)

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May 16, 2020

May 16, 2020 at 10:57 AM UTC

sandersmauricefoulkeiii

The Cathedral of Dreams (Originally penned on Wednesday, April 1st, 2020)

"By this all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love among yourselves.” (John 13:35) This commandment is The Messianic Dictum. Sometimes I wonder upon how far aloft my flight my zenith may lie. What dost the apex of my pilgrimage bear? We all have a future. Love is the ultimate religion. Why? Because “It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.” (1st Corinthians 13: 7, 8) When we love, we taste eternity upon our palates. Love is the elixir of the soul. When my life is over, I hope to gaze upon the visage of those who I hold dear. I want to know that I’ve made a difference in the lives of those encompassing me. We all carry subjective burdens, subjective blights. This suffering is the commonality of all creation. Whence we ail together, The Catholicon of Ancients exalts us as one. The Faith of Dreams is a worldwide denomination, within which we need fellowship. The Universe is our temple, our Cathedral of Dreams. Beneath the firmaments, we all have an abode. We are all Sparks of the Divine. Fulgurant lovelight glistens in each one of us. The most bedarkened soul can house a diaphanous blaze of light. In light, there is darkness; moreover, in the night, there can reside light. Dreams can still serve a purpose to the entity inhibited by a worldly lusting. Ultimately, desirelessness is catalyzed by cathexis to the Deifically Divine. We must cleanse ourselves of corporeal desires until we wax holy. “I dream; therefore, I am,” said the sage. If this is true, the substance, the essence, the elixir of life is in upon the Dreamscape. In truth, any temporal expanse spent in The Chrysalis of the Astral is commensurable with augury. A dream is celestial summoning. Therefore, persevere amidst hardship, borne of tribulation is prophetic fulfillment. (Se' lah)

8

Wrapped in a pair of in-commensurable clothing covered under this thick layers of condemn frigid thoughts: they crack ! zoom ! soon shalt it be whacked ? cleaved ? possessed by these insecurities.. these dilemmas.. grinning! grinding! " you dont have sufficient defenses to avoid me " " you dont have enough exit to ******* escape me " just because i dont own some 3.5 inches hanging between my thighs just to extend itself to some 6.5 inches when it needs to be.. feeded ! shaked ! yes i have been concealed.. enslaved by this hypotrical rapid advanced state of moral decay not to ever break the treaty.. the treaty ..they chocked me with all long the genesis when the sawbones miserably proclaimed " oh its a girl " but never did she declared how many . now: trip over each hold onto the other between the mania and back i am left with a zilch hollow ! sunken ! nothing but these several Me's. nothing but these fabricated decorum. nothing.. but these everything : I SHRUG!!

0

Jun 8, 2017

Jun 8, 2017 at 2:24 AM UTC

vikshipta

The Strenuous juncture

Wrapped in a pair of in-commensurable clothing covered under this thick layers of condemn frigid thoughts: they crack ! zoom ! soon shalt it be whacked ? cleaved ? possessed by these insecurities.. these dilemmas.. grinning! grinding! " you dont have sufficient defenses to avoid me " " you dont have enough exit to ******* escape me " just because i dont own some 3.5 inches hanging between my thighs just to extend itself to some 6.5 inches when it needs to be.. feeded ! shaked ! yes i have been concealed.. enslaved by this hypotrical rapid advanced state of moral decay not to ever break the treaty.. the treaty ..they chocked me with all long the genesis when the sawbones miserably proclaimed " oh its a girl " but never did she declared how many . now: trip over each hold onto the other between the mania and back i am left with a zilch hollow ! sunken ! nothing but these several Me's. nothing but these fabricated decorum. nothing.. but these everything : I SHRUG!!

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