"communicative" poems
Hunting has a noble heritage, for sure
Bringing us together, it forged a species
Keen-eyed, communicative, feared by the fierce
So who am I to begrudge you your sport?
I, too, love wide open skies, tramping over bog and fen,
I even quite like dogs!
I imagine nature might reveal herself to you
In signs jealously guarded from the armchair carnivore.
I can almost reconcile your harsh percussion
With the croak of the raven, the sloshing tide
And the chewing and mooing of cattle.
But the pheasant! For the love of God, the pheasant?
It can hardly be a battle of wits!
I've seen him as he sits, a big, red bullseye
On fences and *****
Startled by every day he survives.
How stirring can it be,
Picking off the ones the cars and lorries never got?
When you carry him home,
Better off dead,
Hang him in your garage for a week
Feeling like Henry VIII,
Cut him down, slit him open and find the crop
Stuffed not with heather shoots and beetles
But with half a pound of store-bought grain
(Generously laced with antibiotics) -
I hope the realisation creeps up
That you may as well have asserted yourself
In the hen coop,
Blasting away at befuddled poultry
And saving yourself a walk.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 1:33 AM UTC
Bilingüismo
Intercultural, Communicative
Aprendiendo, Escuchando, Hablando
Forgetting my native tongue
Bye-lingual
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 11:42 AM UTC
lennon gazed upon the mound, forming an epiphany.
the beady brutes worked in perfect unison:
a communicative, coordinate artistry.
his foot reigned down, crushed and maimed.
while in his mind, the thought became:
i am these ants as they are me as our pain is all the same.
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 7:42 AM UTC
This path on which I've come so far,
It has neglected my condition and left me tired.
The fire within is fleeting like a dim star
As these legs move like thinned wires.
Premonitions of the precognitive sort
Project into my dearest slumbers
To lend a communicative report
Concerning the sweetest of encounters.
But that future seems so far away
And my will to move forward
May waver towards the end of days.
Yet happenstance will show me my way,
She hardly leads the lost astray.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 4:25 PM UTC
Stroking
<6:56 Am>
*this petite gesture, glorious in effect,
impervious to aging, speaks volumes
of storied nuance and sun powerful to believers,
inherent messages much refined by its singularity
all that can be, will be, transporting the living,
calming effervescence by simplest of motion implanted,
its sensory powers long lingering, instantly, uncovers
the furtive child in us all, tho well we hide it
stroking my woman’s body when errant dreams,
disturb the early morning scheming, returning a placid,
to her steady breathing, exhaling the disturbing,
erasing the fearful that wanders inside our night boundaries
stroking the cheek, of my six year old granddaughter,
pulling back the hair locks that impede her vision,
the whirlwind passes, her body sedates, and her
totality merges into mine, born, borning a Godlike oneness
these fingers air the words that my chest pervade,
there is power galore in their communicative physicality,
but nothing more powerful than skin upon skin, in motion,
continuous, circular soothing the giver and the receiver equally*
<7:09 AM>
Jun 9, 2023
Jun 9, 2023 at 7:19 AM UTC
He has the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. The biggest heart or so it seemed. He is an amazing father, a strong man, domineering but communicative, he is everything I've ever wanted. The most shocking thing I could not conquer is the fact that he's also a womanizer
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
GOING TASADAY
The Tasadays
(remnants of a Stone Age culture)
recently discovered in the Philippines
have no words
for war, hate or weapons
but favour
the communicative power
of skin
indulging in constant
warm enfolding embraces
loving touches.
So, this Tuesday
let's be Tasadays
hark back
to Stone Age practice
and indulge in
the process of osmosis
soaking each other up
skin to skin.
*******
Oh how I yearn for...hunger for this woman's skin...a touch mutating into a caresse...transforming into a kiss...a kiss becoming...!
We spend hours just holding each other...the skin of the other offering love comfort and security and sensuality. Ever since we met in Stratford and inadvertently our thighs touched when seated together...that one touch conveyed all that could be said for now and forever. In that one touch we had everything we needed to know about each other and the rest of our bodies just had to catch up!
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
it’s a communicative glass
that we back and forth pass.
hollowed lips to hollowed lips
in an indirect kiss.
i knew i loved you then,
when your marble cat eyes
gave me a glance that i couldn’t deny —
i laughed so hard that i cried.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 4:25 AM UTC
Dreamed about for centuries,
humanity finally now knew they were not alone in the universe.
They had arrived in such a manner that our instruments detected them only three days before their arrival.
Some believed it was an attack, or a mere scouting party for a larger force, others believing the ship was actually derelict, operating on autopilot long after its occupants perished.
Soon, both those theories were put to rest as the ship landed and indeed life forms emerged from it.
But there was no diplomacy with them, no greeting of peace or aggression.
They exited their craft, the hulking oblong thing that it was and merely wandered.
For weeks and months, a half dozen of them crossed fields, climbed hills, sat in the woods, splashed in streams and just generally meandered.
They had no weapons, no advanced tools to aid in their travels, they had what appeared simple fibrous blankets, a large metallic *** dulled by age and a single instrument with which to light fires.
Any attempt by political, military or media figures to approach them and engage with them in any communicative way failed as they showed no interest.
No one dared to try and corral them anywhere, for fear yet that it was some kind of strange survey party, one that would report back to a much large fleet or home world.
Yet after a time of a little less than a year they had returned to their ship. there was no message, no waving goodbye. They simply closed the door and after a few minutes of undoubtedly preparing their instruments they left.
The world then waited. Years, decades and centuries for another visit.
Searching, determining, where the ship had gone and from where it came.
But it's origin or destination were never located.
No subsequent visit came.
Aug 16, 2024
Aug 16, 2024 at 8:26 AM UTC
good-luck with marriage!
well, i won't be the one,
a conformist,
can't be bothered,
well no, i can't be bothered,
m.t.v. turned into
16 year old pregnancies,
**** **** a closer inspection
of queen,
that won't happen...
there's no utopia here,
but what comes from being unloved -
'good-luck with marriage!'
i asked i got a reply with arsenic...
well, if a diet is a diet,
we might as well be hopeful...
jealous lovers and the incomprehensibility
of certain people not ever having
engaged in a life that might provide them...
tonne of **** with a touché!
as a vet a rubber gloved hand up to the elbow
to check a bull's prostate via his **** hole...
i'd quote feminism, but i might as well
quote Ezra's lunatic judgement correct
against Churchill in defence of Mussolini...
western democracy's narcissism hit me too...
the constant need to export and never import...
the constant need for traitors to upkeep
a contestant populace rather than a populace
of worthy voters... it was always there...
so many sacrifices attached to a political
movement were never worth it,
the least sacrificial politics always produced
the most successful endeavours with china
and india... just those economic gluttons
and continual iconoclasm with dyslexia as proof...
how hope of heaven was never encoded in
images of sounds and kept therein -
i stead dyslexia, laziness of the communicative
angle, to keep heaven forlorn with stressed
images as a laziness to forget the aesthetic of spelling
a wording... oh well...
good luck with marriage!
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
Words
are composed of letters
and pronounced with mouths
and tongues of purpose
but in practice
words
cut deep like the sharpest blades
and convey concern like the softest hands
in sequential breaths
from the same sighing lungs.
some words sound like gunshots
and others like birdsongs.
some words feel like sunshine
and others like summer breezes.
these
criss
crossing
communicative
constructs
drive our wars
and soothe our hearts.
abstract, yet almost tangible
Words.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
what, merchant of Mecca
and the bride of Dubai?
how's that going to work
with ibn Saud?
oh right... sting's desert rose single
will claim the camels were
all sing-along singing with excess
phlegm cursing god for the sandstorm
which man defined to exist glorifying
the variations of the communicative
spirit... make democracy by creating
symbols to silence the numbers by creating
phonetic encoding...
so that muscles turn to fat.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
Of acoustic sunsets
And quiet nights.
Of the wintery sun
And the guiding starlight.
Of the communicative silence,
And redundant words.
Of the inborn poetry
In ruins and love.
Of the serene sea,
And wailing moon.
Of the sorrowful storms,
And smirking chaos.
Of the blank pages
And the blue-inked heart.
Of the ever flowing poetry
Rejected by my stuttering tongue.
Of the submissive heart,
And a resilient brain.
Of the flighty melancholia
And staying farewells.
Of the paradoxical life,
Run by both, fate and free will.
Of the endless possibilities,
But not a single on of them for you and me.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 10:28 AM UTC
Speaking silence/
dead silence/
broken silence/
my silence/
singing silence/
bleeding silence/
lost silence/
Silence the mother tongue/
the primordial silence/
Her eyes flash, her words lead, her face flashed with life.
But sometimes she is taken over by something that have no lasting sound.
Sometimes there are pressures,
that is, that is poison.
Restlessness and impatience.
My censoring ego wishes to forget, it ever saw the room/ever saw the corpses.
I have been trying all I know.
I shine light so I can see the shadows.
But the shadows grow even darker.
And bones, those represent that which can never be destroyed.
Silence is mystery
not telling or not knowing?
Silence involves resistance, tension and opposition.
Silence is a right
a strategic exercise of power, or a resistance to it/
The protest is the first art,
is the twin sister of its twin sister dance.
Silence is a common experience.
a closed door carefully locked
a communicative act in a threatening situation.
silence is
a haven
enjoy it
build it
insulate it
secure it
yearn for it
fall asleep with it
fear it
abolish it
exist for it
confront it
silence is.
silence is not
absence or void/
is not
absence of speech
silence is
a part of it.
silence is a problem.
Silence is not.
Silence is gold
or so I was told when I was young
Silence equals death
Silence is the ocean of the unsaid
the unspeakable
the repressed
the erased
the unheard
a sea of unspoken words
But if you have seen time
accelerate or fold
in a way that distorts the spatial-temporal order altogether,
then well that is a start.
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 10:03 AM UTC
I am sitting here with you
sipping a cup of coffee alone
how interesting to save energy and space like that
using one body what used to be just mine.
how contemplative peaceful aware and full of wisdom we are together
as I could be on my own before my fall
a fall - a period
equivalent to intervals of states of innocence
after the fetal and before the restored one.
communicative is the body in creative balance
walking on a line of harmony
beyond a metropolitan valley
because it can afford derived fun
so to create surroundings by dance
so to create matter.
speaking under the dimness of a warm bright yellow kitchen light
its morning with you now alone
I made a thyme bread for us not to eat if you don't want to but to awaken divination
the suggestion of taste by smell
the act of cooking
to trigger a required natural physical reaction
imagine.
I serve it beside the coffee as dry bread
maybe not for us but for the birds outside
as if it matters: the I - the you or the birds
one sips - the other beaks
and the rays of universe weave
that's all about it I guess
this way we broadcast our mute to us- never heard by us - laughter through a November mist towards a galaxy where families live and can receive ours' as a synaesthesized pulse and can learn from - the way to become happy not like us but as a cause of ours'
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
*In the name of remarkable stories revealed with each precious leaf , brush stroked layered , hallowed Marigold evenings .. Every ambient , salutatory stand of communicative , native tree ... To the toasty breeze spurring the music of Mother Earth within the guarded canopy
The preordained navigation of Warbler , Grasshopper and Bumblebee
For every cloud seeking finality guised in plummeting rain
The call of Pheasant across the chilled late October plain* ....
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
———
“called alveoli, where blood and air are separated by such thin membranes that oxygen and carbon dioxide can pass into and out of the bloodstream, respectively. Between them, the lungs have somewhere in the neighborhood of six hundred million alveoli.
Severe COVID-19 causes many of them to either collapse or fill with fluid. The virus attacks the cells lining the alveoli; our overactive immune systems, in trying to fight the virus, may be damaging them as well.
The result is that not enough oxygen gets into the blood.”
§§§
we forget to marvel at the finery of our bodies,
the microscopic interactions, the minute particulates intersecting,
the multiplicity of languages of each limb, each system, multilingual,
the beauty of all this communicative combinatory,
that enables the gossamer threads
that make the ordinary a repetitive miracle, understanding both the
wonder of our instinctual, our five senses, and their finite limitations
we tendency focus on the visible,
the skin, our excretions,,
accepting even normative, please go away, periodic pain,
but the exceptional,
that states loudly,
what you cannot see can ****
we ignore until the last minute
hopeful that the clues that are maybe contained,
re the tearing of the fabric of six hundred million
sacs you were unaware you possessed,
can be rewoven, the palpitations your fear be calmed,
the chest muscles quaking, the gasping for molecules
of oxygen can be ventilated, just like the truth that too,
needs a good and a proper airing, without the artifices tubular
now that you are fully conscious of the unseen beauty upon
which each depends, and the masks we wear proudly lest others
we infect, greater irony that we mustn’t pollute our atmosphere,
perhaps, will it make you question the supposed certainties
we sarcastically,
say we know for sure
and respect the uncertainties by which we live and breathe,
the poetry of the body internal,
every second an exercise in risk taking, the miracle of each moment
a blessed privilege, not being conscious that our physical subsistence
is a near thing, depending on thinnest membranes unseen,
not fooling ourselves that we are each a human god,
an Oz, great and powerful,
who hides behind a curtain.
§§§§
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 5:49 PM UTC
Teasing, playful teasing.
That’s how it began.
I laid my eyes on you, and thought you were the one.
You thought I was too; well that’s what you said.
We sat by the river, minds aching from words unsaid.
How was I to tell you how I truly felt?
Lost. Continually lost. Unable to speak.
Numbness was always your chosen communicative style.
Tell her nothing, maybe she will understand.
You had me on a short lead for extreme lengths of time.
At first this lead was coated in sugar, it had me putting it on myself.
The lead started to lose its sweet, sensual, sugar coating.
Eventually the lead was no longer a lead, but an unbreakable noose.
You tried to let go of the connection, yet the end of the noose was tied to your wrist.
You had complete control, this you knew.
While holding me by my throat, you dragged me to places I never, ever wanted to go.
You made me fight for your love.
I thought I was in control.
Remember I felt as though I had put the lead on myself?
Well there came a time where this noose had to be removed.
It was weighing me down.
It had caused me to make decisions which you led me to believe would make you want me.
It took my innocence.
It led me to the hands of another, in the hopes you would want me then.
That is what you told me.
You didn’t want to hurt me.
If that were the truth, why were you holding the rope?
Did you ever want me?
Or did you just want to lead me astray and watch me suffer along the way.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 3:11 AM UTC
*Is it by chance that Da Vinci's "La Gioconda"
is named as such?
All propaganda, speculations and theories all based
on a smile.
Etymology of the name Gioconda is such:
"Friendly and communicative, Gioconda has plenty of charm and magnetism. A sociable extrovert, she is pleasant, cheerful and very likeable. She was born to express herself, interact with others and have a good time. In effect, she can sometimes appear rather disconcerting."
"Rather disconcerting", now that's an understatement of the enigmatic
Mona Lisa's smile!
A beguiling smile, what are you thinking whilst sat for the maestro?
Is it an affair of the heart?
Is it a smirk? A smirk of knowing.
Are you even real?
A woman or as some suggest, a beautiful boy, Da Vinci's muse/lover?
Does your beauty mask a hidden triumph, your magnetism over time?
You, have become immortal, looked upon and gazed at, where Gods have not.
Did you know as you sat amongst the smell of paint,
that your fate was sealed not with a kiss but a smile?*
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
Vulnerable years gave me sound advice
and I turn it over in my mind.
The advantage of sadness took my voice,
crumbled it,
sealed away my words
and left me to become unusually communicative
in my own reserved ways.
I understand that I maintain habits of a curious nature,
that I make you the victim
of sleep, preoccupation, hostility.
I know the secret griefs of your wild, unknown hands.
The way you love me
is laced with plagiarism and gesture,
filled with opposite alphabets and slurred speech.
I may be destitute and old
but my skin will weep for you,
my body will be soft,
my words will linger like syrup
in the cracks of your palms.
After an unknown point,
I won’t care what I’m made of.
Judging you is constant waiting and infinite hope.
I am certain that my decency will become snobbery,
that my tolerance will fade
and I will become impatient.
East from here, west from here,
is the sun – uniform, under intricate attention.
If I am the unbroken chain
of successful gestures,
my body is but betrayal
waiting to be unearthed.
Will my repulsive nature
disturb your peace,
the way you rest so unattainable, so beautiful?
What foul dust floats in the wake of your limbs,
so close to the useless sorrows of younger men?
It was a prominent, descending tradition
of pride and fault.
You were supposed to look like him,
a delayed man from long ago,
the centre of the world.
You bubble and boil and brood
and I make you restless
in a warm, wide season.
Too warm, too wide.
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 8:13 AM UTC
Last night I got lost
in the vast expanses of myself.
Who knew there was so much of me?
While the shifting realities
churned before my black eyes,
changing just after I named them,
I drifted, eyes closed, on an unrestful sea
made of the most chilling noises.
Thrilling voices
soaring from the television,
as I light another cigarette.
My friend, Nicotine, seems colder
tonight.
Unreasonably less vital,
woefully less communicative.
The couch refuses to speak with me as well,
and the only voices are those of the television,
masked and muffled by the dense,
strangely spinning, parallel homes
of the dead, of the living,
of everything but me,
for I am become POET
the describer of worlds!
Laugh now, kid. It's okay.
Blame it on the television, or the acid, or a joke you could swear someone made.
But laugh, because I never knew there was this much of you,
and the things coming out of the deeper waters
are beginning to make me uncomfortable.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
Been dimming.
Swimming in the brimming I don't mean.
When ways of convenience and routine fall prey to entropy
communicative moralities convey what will convene
to birth an expectation.
from misinformed and ill-preperation
after crossing over seeking pastures green,
to find im swimming somewhere sneaking in between.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Not all things are perfect,
I am aware of that,
But there are days where I cannot seem to get by
Without soft-breathing in exhaustion
An “Oh ****
Or giving a ******
A talking volume
When few or none are around
To scold me with their ears.
What, haven’t you heard *** outside
Of TV sitcoms before?
Or **** aside from around a college campus?
I still get reactions when these words are overheard
From my lips,
Though it’s my life,
And these words have a recurring frequency.
These words are not only a stress-reliever
For someone like me,
But simultaneously a linguistic culture,
A communicative temptation,
Yet also having a dominating expression,
Commanding no only attention
But seriousness.
Fine, do what you want,
Hurl my soul to eternal shame and torture,
But a “curse-ed” day is like a chimney,
Letting out the smoke
Of energy that powers my motivation and forwardness.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 12:02 PM UTC
Muteness creates sounds, warning perils
as hyenas shrewdly approach shelters,
expressing needs of thirst and hunger
when lands run dry and fruits perish,
chanting instincts sparked by seasons
eliciting mating overtures inspired,
drawing pictures on cave walls
to indelibly report, leave a legacy
of human exploits, enduring struggles,
nascent cultures and traditions,
storytelling striving to be faithful
to a truth the only known, evolving
to engender words made of letters
placed in devised orders to confess
thoughts and feelings, exchange concepts
and ideas, bring minds closer to reflect
upon the myriad marvels of a world yet
to be discovered. Eclipses. Crafting caravels
designing maps, recording wonders
encountered in search of an end, a limit
where it all began, keeping Captain’s log
fearing the monsters of the unknown,
tornados and typhoons a presage
of death inducing mortals to call
for mercy upon immortal gods,
fantastically explaining what reason is unable
to decipher. Singing songs to raise moral
until bashing locutions begin to bless
far more than slaps and blades, hanging ropes,
lightning and storms, using them to hurt
with intentions turned malicious, ingenious
communicative talents drowning
in oceans of wickedness and shame, leading
man to regret to have ever invented words
in the first place, leaving me with just one
sound of indwelling grief, a sigh, succumbing
tuning back to muteness.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC