"commingle" poems
No, no, no, I know I was not important as I moved
Through the colourful country, I was but a single
Item in the picture, the name, not the beloved.
O tedious man with whom no gods commingle.
Beauty, who has described beauty? Once upon a time
I had a myth that was a lie but it served:
Trees walking across the crest of hills and my rhyme
Cavorting on mile-high stilts and the unnerved
Crowds looking up with terror in their rational faces.
O dance with Kitty Stobling I outrageously
Cried out-of-sense to them, while their timorous paces
Stumbled behind Jove's page boy paging me.
I had a very pleasant journey, thank you sincerely
For giving me my madness back, or nearly.
-Patrick Kavanagh
Copyright © Estate of Katherine Kavanagh
5.6k
At twilight
I walk down the path through the woods
Carpeted in autumn's nocturnal harvest.
The guiding porch light,
Feebler than the fluttering fire flies, fades.
Smell of fresh decay seduces my will.
Desires that have forever resided in the unattainable future
Now like long parted friends sit around with welcoming smiles.
Curious to commingle with Contentment
I feel the Autumn seep into the woods,
And the woods into my heart.
Never before,
A weary traveller lost upon
The tortuous timber trail
Felt more at peace.
Wishing to curl up in the cold warmth of the golden fleece.
The woods will the wind to wrap him in wool of the willow
and tuck him amongst the exposed roots.
An unmarked clock ticks somewhere.
Here the eternal present prevails,
Concealed from the eye of the arrow ,
In the stretch of this malleable moment.
I, in the knowledge that my estranged self
Rests in me, am whole again.
At twilight.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 5:59 AM UTC
We enter
this realm,
like a pebble
into a
pond.
Immediately
we leave
ripples.
As we
move along,
the ripples
grow
interacting
with other
ripples
an ocean
of ripples.
Our ripples
commingle
influence.
Cascading
influence
over time.
Positive ripples
or
negative, greedy
ripples.
Which will we
leave behind?
In the end,
will it be
about power
and money,
or,
the ripples
of kindness
that will change
it all, and
reflect
well
on our
passage.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
The source of words
is the very source
of human thought.
If we are to under-
stand one another,
we must find the source
of our words.
The sources of
our streams of consciousness
are as varied as nature;
from the highest pinnacles
to the bowels of the earth.
The nature of the sources
matters little.
The highest may be polluted;
the purest flow may come
from the deepest spring.
Recognizing our own source
is essential
when our streams merge.
Our thoughts commingle,
and still remain our own.
In the foaming tumble
over the boulders
of daily living,
it is well to remember
our innermost selves,
like the river,
need the aeration
of an outlet and a
few
deep
breaths.
Once we have come
to our under-
standing,
we need not remain
below those we now
stand under.
(the beauty of words
is the very beauty
of human thought)
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
Speak of the devil and see who appears in the mirrors
Who knows better than you all your fears and what brings you to tears?
The voice that escapes through clenched teeth, grinding like gears
Is exactly the same as the voice saying the things nobody hears
Most all of the verbal abuse does not funnel in through the ears
It stays internal, verbal and mental commingle to create brutal elixirs
Constructing, seemingly out of nothing, life altering barriers
A senseless mugging in broad daylight and no one interferes
Just like no one hears my prayers
The real me almost disappears from years of hiding behind makeshift veneers
Hanging on by a meer thread, I think the puppeteers have switched careers
©2024
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 3:31 PM UTC
I often wonder if hope still exists,
That if I prayed enough,
Good things would suffice,
And great things would abound.
I often wonder if faith was ever real,
That if I crossed my fingers 'til they cramped,
Lucky stars would count themselves,
And love would get prescription lenses.
I always think about you,
And wonder what's inside your brain:
Whether music notes have taken over,
Or rather the nicotine that you inhale.
Where you've got music notes,
I've got daisies.
Where you've got nicotine,
I've got hot air.
So let the music notes blow wind over my daisies,
And let the hot air and nicotine commingle to create smoke.
We both enjoy a good cigarette in the daisy field.
Don't we.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 10:25 AM UTC
eyeing the pilgrim road
the Master Poet ponders
all possibilities
the power of the light is always here
the wisdom to seek the light comes and goes
it is now gone
so
(upon the pilgrim road)
just a few stragglers
just a few
(but still
a few)
a few are there
-----------
the road goes on and thru the mountains
the saints are still here
the light is still here
the Master Poet sits and eyes
the pilgrim road
tears and pure strength commingle
the children of tomorrow tremble
are trembling
and await
the pilgrims on the road
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 2:15 PM UTC
Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.
The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.
With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.
Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.
Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
Disrobe the rhythm in my heart.
Let it ceremonialize its own unsympathetic departure,
in the dead of winter.
Let it yowl like a pack coyotes.
Then let the wind take the
melody to Jupiter in Capricorn.
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 10:33 AM UTC
What its like to be a segment of salacious commodity ?
OH YOU! beautiful fragment of fabricated chimera :
enclosed ! trapped !
inside these avaricious periphery of pseudo rim..
The frangible bedizen of synthetic praxises..
What is the sentiment of being a trade off legacy ?
while the legitimate corroboration of the quid pro quo cant be found:
yet to this lethal covenant of undesired commingle you are to be bound..
For have they hold the confinement
so do they decide the Nemesis:
To succumb your esse to the dread of
your ultimating youthful ****** pulp.
And just like a marionette..
there are thee:
concurring to cede for the felicity of those progenitors..
Immolating your notions and aspirations.
vanquished by the fidelity..
Just to commence the relinquish.
Just to cease the sentient.
Oh YOU!!
Just .another ...abiding flesh .
Just. Another....forlorn bride.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
the trees whisper
rustling, gilded intonations-
spilling secrets like honey
into the productive blue sky.
sunlight lurches through the trees
and cracks my foolish skull,
sending all of the thoughts
I had left alone in there
spilling over the golden
dappled forest floor.
you seep into my periphery,
delicate and half formed
amongst the moss and the earthworms.
I smile at the exoskeletons of
decaying memories;
crawl, crustacean-like,
sifting for something more tender-
dredging up phantom images
that flutter lazily across my eyelashes
and come to rest in greedy palms.
breathless mirth
and incorrigible melancholy
commingle in your shadow
and hold me fast.
you and I live and breathe
in the same stratosphere
and I don't quite know how
to let it go.
I miss you, and the words
twist around my fingers
like a rosary, pausing
at the accidental stutter
of my naked heart.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
How do you balance
the kind and the cruel
The good and the bad
of life’s golden rule
As reason pulls tightly,
treason pulls back
Living in conflict,
together intact
Tragic, comedic,
while often as both
Angels and Demons
commingle betrothed
A savior, destroyer,
calling our name
A garden of riches
—caught in the flames
(Haverford College: February, 2021)
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 12:02 PM UTC
Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.
The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.
With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.
Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.
Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
I am losing my mind, I slowly go insane.
I think to little, I think to big, but never enough.
I feel as if it is the source of my bane.
It is not known the way I act is a bluff
I am hiding how I feel, I don’t want others to think me enamored or even mad!
I imagine vivid colors and sounds, that makes the senses tingle!
Is it all real or am I suffering something like gad?
It is grand, as if my dreams and reality were to commingle!
How can it be that seeing these things is nuts?!
Is it possible that I am the normal one here!?
In space and beyond reality has my mind jut?!
I shall never act different! My mind will not clear!
I very much like my abstract thought
for society my mind will never be wrought
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 3:09 PM UTC
Pure as snow
or
a unpainted rose
but
colors that commingle within
like
anything else
because
nothing is just as it seems.
No
not just white
look
with open eyes
look
on the edge
and
in the middle
see
the warm Easter yellow
that
draws blind eyes in
look
towards the end
or
bottom of
see
the light inviting gray
that
brings outs the depth, definition, and shape.
Pieces of art
hung above
in a gallery
titled
Troposphere.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
Hold your palm to my *****
warmth of the stars
concealed under the tresses
this vast night, where my heart
will beat with yours;
In the stillness of the desert
lone song of the dune,
an arrow shot in the sky,
Here we erase the imprints
of jagged paths that led
us far from this haven;
Your dimpled smile,
ripples that rise slow
and commingle end to end
will settle - placid this
lake on the scale of love
that transcends time
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 11:11 PM UTC
What is it with coffee?
It’s found in all areas of trauma.
The hospital, AA meetings, rehab centers, and police stations.
I suppose the black familiar taste is meant to numb the tongue and mind.
Sleepy eyes blink slowly over rising steam.
The dark puddles beneath their eyes
drips and drops into the black coffee.
The two elements commingle and understand the other.
Red rimmed and swearing irises glare hopelessly at plain Jane walls.
The waiting game is played in those spaces.
Why offer a stimulant to the wound gears of anxious relations then?
Coffee is a fix-it-all in these areas of trauma.
It’s the unspoken comfort everyone clings to
with slick palms and quivering fingers.
When the sinking suspicions of doubt drops people go for coffee.
What exactly is it with coffee?
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
You loved me once
But I buried that in the dirt
In the junk yard behind my fence
Where forgotten things commingle with hurt
It's a perfect image of us
All along, this has been our apparent fate
You'll forever be the junk in that yard
But I refuse to be another girl living with your pain.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
paned
curved
waves
crack and smash
foaming
frothing
smeared about
water blues and greens commingle
savouring
basking
in
littoral
shingle
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 5:23 AM UTC
Fields are sown with muckle corn,
And ruby roots, and dust of bread,
And tended by a buxom girl
With plaits wound round her golden head.
Her womb a dripping, ripened fruit,
Eaten by a sleeping babe,
A product of her fervent lust,
Seduced amongst the summer hay.
A flashing smile, and muscled thigh,
And hand gripped round her slimmer curves,
The smoke and ale upon his breath
commingle with her urgent love.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
White trapezoid streetlights spill
amber blotches on the avenue of walls behind them
on the wonky bench
she leans on him
their coats and their bodies
warm them this cool evening.
The rectangle of light he holds grips them
their intense focus on a video, oblivious of all else.
Does he even feel her hair on his cheek
or her hand on his inner thigh
or care that her knee touches his.
At least they are present together
their bodies touch.
Their warm breaths commingle
but do they even notice?
Is this a non-cyber moment
an intentional prelude to intimacy
or merely two atoms about to make a molecule?
I cannot know the worlds two people are entering
or divine the wispy cloud of their intentions
but I can ****** my imaginings into their night
and wish for them the warm might of love.
Nov 10, 2022
Nov 10, 2022 at 2:15 AM UTC
Branch after branch after branch commingle in harmony,
the percussive scraping, snapping, creaking, and cracking is soothing.
An organic wooden rhythm emerges as the wind plays its song;
leaves rustle and shimmer a final cadenza before taking flight.
When did the first branches touch? No one can say now.
Where one begins and one ends is not only impossible to see, but now unimportant.
Geometric intricacies that could never be imagined alone, now exist.
There is unselfish sharing of sky-space and infinite room to grow forever.
Squirrels in transit have no awareness of the two entities entwined together.
Birds flutter in and out, from twig to twig, their melodies mingle:
And she looks up to see pure joy.
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC