"confesses" poems
she asks at last,
is this one for me
“of course it is,
was waiting for visualizing
the Oh,
when I heard
you stumbled into it”
she then confesses,
she has
a “tendency to stumble”
without an explanation
her answer is in her manner subtle,
that instantly invigorates,
so decidedly her style,
her answer,
raising more questions,
defeating the illusion of
anybody masculine overconfidence of the challenger
she puts the ”oy” in coy,
deflating my upper-handed attitude,
with an answer tantalizing and hinting,
so simple, it explains everything
and nothing
it seems that when she stumbles,
it’s me that actually,
“all fall down”
ah woman,
when you best me,
it brings forth the best
and adds an
“a”
in this poetic beast,
two play fighting cubs nipping
each other. the in us gaming
in this wordplay game,
so exciting,
her subtle reasoning teasing
results in a man as
a happy sore loser*
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
If my daughter ever comes to me
and asks me if I think she is pretty
I will say NO
You are so much more than pretty
you are beautiful
If my daughter ever comes to me
with tears stains on her face
telling me her heart's been broken
by the boy she thought was the one
even though she may only be 14, or 16, or 21
I will not ask who it was
I will simply hold her until the pain stops
whether it be minutes or hours
or even days
and buy her some chocolate, of course
If my daughter ever comes to me
and shows me the scars on her wrists
and her legs
and her sides
I will not look away horrified
I will simply show her
how a little bit of time
and a little bit of cream
can heal all wounds
even those of the heart
If my daughter ever comes to me
and shows me her sharp hip bones jutting out
and her soft ribcage peeking out
I will not call her crazy or any awful name
I will simply hold her soft enough
that her bones may not break
and walk her along the
all too familiar path to recovery
If my daughter ever comes to me
bleeding and bruised
because he didn't know
what no meant
I will not make her feel *****
I will not make her feel worthless
I will not ask why she didn't stop him
I will simply calm her victimized heart
and show her the many ways to ****
a man or a woman
if they ever touch her without her consent again
I will not judge her
for the many nights she may fall asleep crying
Instead I will prepare her a cup of tea,
buy her some inspirational movies,
write her some poems
and give her some books
Because I know broken souls
cannot be fixed over-night
I will let her buy dresses
that make her feel beautiful
and will not laugh at her
if she chooses to wear them with tennis shoes
I will let her stay home from school
every once in a while
even if I know she is faking it
because I know we all need a break sometimes
and I know that school isn't the only place
you can learn valuable life lessons
If my daughter ever comes to me
with a small child in her arms
one whom was not exactly planned
one whom has no father
I will step in and be that father
I will be her help
But most importantly
If my daughter EVER comes to me
and confesses her mental illness
I will not doubt her
I will not mock her
I will simply smile at her
and assure her she is not alone
and will get the means for help
For I never want her to know
what lonely tastes like
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
Over the surging tides and the mountain kingdoms,
Over the pastoral valleys and the meadows,
Over the cities with their factory darkness,
Over the lands where peace is still a power,
Over all these and all this planet carries
A power broods, invisible monarch, a stranger
To some, but by many trusted. Man's a believer
Until corrupted. This huge trusted power
Is spirit. He moves in the muscle of the world,
In continual creation. He burns the tides, he shines
From the matchless skies. He is the day's surrender.
Recognize him in the eye of the angry tiger,
In the sign of a child stepping at last into sleep,
In whatever touches, graces and confesses,
In hopes fulfilled or forgotten, in promises
Kept, in the resignation of old men -
This spirit, this power, this holder together of space
Is about, is aware, is working in your breathing.
But most he is the need that shows in hunger
And in the tears shed in the lonely fastness.
And in sorrow after anger.
4.9k
WHEN cold December
Froze to grisamber
The jangling bells on the sweet rose-trees--
Then fading slow
And furred is the snow
As the almond's sweet husk--
And smelling like musk.
The snow amygdaline
Under the eglantine
Where the bristling stars shine
Like a gilt porcupine--
The snow confesses
The little Princesses
On their small chioppines
Dance under the orpines.
See the casuistries
Of their slant fluttering eyes--
Gilt as the zodiac
(Dancing Herodiac).
Only the snow slides
Like gilded myrrh--
From the rose-branches--hides
Rose-roots that stir.
4.4k
In a quiet corner of my heart, 🌹
her memory lingers, softly alive.🌹
I need not call her name in prayers,🌹
yet my soul forever pleads for her.🌹
She does not fade with passing time,🌹
like a hidden flame, she continues to glow.🌹
Even in silence, her presence speaks,
a whisper the world may never know.
🌹
What the lips refuse, the heart confesses,
what the world forgets, my spirit 🌹🌹preserves.🌹
For love is not bound by distance or voice,
it endures in a language only the soul deserves🌹🌹
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 1:50 PM UTC
the surprisingly sweetest clementine
2016
amidst
the marble and stone pillars
of the museum's fifth avenue grand hall,
a woman grows faint and woozy,
and the Egyptian artifacts five thousand years old,
re-proved as reusable, sustainable,
as leaning-against-posts
for the dizzy
the boyfriend well familiar
with dehydration side effects,
from pocket pulls a natural pill of
a sweet clementine,
restoring the well
to the good
she marvels at
how came I
to place a survival kit in my
coat pocket?
smiling, he confesses
his fondness for
providing
for all her needs,
known and unknown
even carries an inventory,
with back ups to back ups,
assorted sundries,
he calls it,
proving his point too well,
reaching into the other
pocket and offering
yet another,
a second helping
for his,
oh my darling,
sweetest clementine
she, undecided,
laugh or cry,
both equally attractive amazement solutions,
says only:
I love you for reasons,
known and unknown,
now,
take me home
for reasons
now known,
and others,
as of yet,
most happily,
unknown
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
Please, I've forgotten
how to hold a pen, she said.
Those were the words that
convinced me to write a letter
from a stranger to a stranger.
So this is a message to you
from her.
She's asking how you're doing.
She wonders if the stars are brighter where you are.
You know,
there's a meteor shower coming
in a few weeks' time, she's
she's asking if you knew, and if
you'd watch it with her at eleven in the evening the Saturday after the next
so she'd feel like you were right there beside her
pointing out which streak held the most brilliant color
and if you're asking,
she's doing fine.
She's wondering if you know
how silkworms spin silk,
because a friend asked her the other day
she didn't know how to reply except by telling herself
that you would've known, so
how do they spin silk?
Let me know as soon as possible, she says
my friend wants to know.
But I think she's asking that as an excuse to hear your voice
but also because she really wants to know
how silkworms spin silk
and if you think jade is the nicest kind of green
or if you prefer hiking or swimming
if you agree that innocence is just untested character
and if you're asking,
she's longing for answers.
She's hoping you don't think of her,
and she's hoping you do.
She wants me to tell you that
she wants you to remember
but she wants you to forget the pain,
so might as well forget everything
because hurt is the price of loving someone.
She confesses that she's tried to stop
writing about you
but every time she sits down to
write her soul into words
your memory slips in and dances off her pages
and she tries to stop it
and if you're asking,
she's trying to find ways to make thinking about you easier.
According to her,
she's quieter now
not just her mouth but her feet,
her hair
her eyes
her spirit
Look at what you've done, she says.
I
I've always been a terrible liar.
Please, I've forgotten
how to hold a pen.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
Mirrorball - “the fabrication of our performance”
a life long struggle to accept who I am,
of course, lose, and lose again, and
the fabrication of our performance now
inherent in every excuse and mirrorball
revolving asking, no, laughing, at our
vanity, as we endeavor, enabled by the
paucity of ego, the neediness of weakness’s
to catch, keep, hold each single flickering
light spot in our open, slick palms forever
we fabricate our performance of daily living,
modifying our measurements to match output,
only a human cannot wake only to fall within
each daily tabulation without thinking, once:
*I am a hero, worthy of acknowledgement, just
look at my hands! see how many spots of
light I can claim as mine! the mirrorball turns
and turns paying no mind to the worshipers
below, until some sorrowful fool confesses,
fools fail, fools fail, turning the dervish off,
the white flag of ego darkened, once more...*
we are all false poets, false prophets, occasionally confessing
7:34 AM
Sat Jul 18
The Year of the Virus, Corona
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 8:03 AM UTC
She walks away
Fast and steady
You stand there
Quickly realizing that
She's your ex now
You continue your life
Trying hard to act normal
Trying hard to forget
But you can't forget
Because she's your ex
A few months pass
You learned to fake a smile, to recover
But that effort is gone
When she starts dating her ex
Because shes your ex
You get mad, frustrated
Not understanding why
Why she caused you all this pain
Why... How
How has your ex forgotten you already
She stands there
Unaware of your presence
Her curvy body that used to make you smile
Makes you cry in your heart
In your soul
You chat every now and then
About whats going on
You bring up her relationship and bring up yours
She confesses... She never loved you
Never has, never will
She did it again
She broke your heart
You showed weakness again, and she struck
You limp on, trying to find a new light
A new love
A new love that would love you
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect
no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap
me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants
which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then
morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing
over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall
with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:
forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles
blessed and cursed I thought!
too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it
and never let go
6/23/18
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
Ingrid sports a black eye;
she looks like a panda.
She said she walked
into a door;
she doesn't lie
convincingly.
I know her old man;
I passed him
on the stairs of the flats;
his beady eyes
drinking me in,
giving me the cold glare,
the cold shoulder.
We walk through the Square,
off to the shops.
What happened to your eye?
I ask again,
studying the black
and slightly green;
walking beside her,
passing the milkman
and his horse drawn cart,
the horse wearing
a nosebag of food,
ignoring us.
I walked into
the bedroom door,
she says,
knowing I don't
believe her,
looking sheepish,
knowing
I guess the truth.
What have you got
to get at the shops?
I ask.
She shows me a list
on a scrap of paper,
pencil scribbled,
in her small right hand
a handful of coins.
I passed your old man
on the stairs yesterday,
I tell her,
gave him my
Wyatt Earp stare,
I say, he didn't care.
I note her hair
is unbrushed,
her green patterned dress
unwashed.
We cross Rockingham Street
into Harper Road.
I talked too much,
Dad said,
she confesses,
he said I yak and yak.
We pass the paper shop
and go on
to the grocer shop.
I say,
if I had your old man
in the sights
of my six-shooter gun
I'd fire a cap
up his ***
she sniggers;
people stare at us
as we pass.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
“A groan of tedium escapes me, startling the fearful
Is this a test? It has to be, otherwise I can't go on.
Haven't written a word in three and a half years.
Time to take the broom out to this shallow grave”
Middlesteps
~~~~(|)~~~~
For
deep is the fear, coated in thickening veneer
of might-be-bravery,
the weight, Oh, the weight!
of that writing utensil that both
bears and bares all,
an uncomfortable unconscious,
uncontrollable surrender
that sweeps down upon us,
when first we seek the unwieldy unwinding
of our proactive fist of a first step,
the unclenching, the open face palm,
seeing our lifeline’s revelation, the shame,
the lines we thought that faded away,
upended, open ended, that the worst
un-finishing, but here I am, my taking, the
baby steps of Middlesteps,
only looking
back to forwards for permission,
a new looking inward
forward!
we confesses, beg for our own forgiveness
for ourselves, the years of summary silence ,
at last!
unveiled and unbound, this first step stinks of
tremors, poems never writ up, but on our mouths
and fingertips yet memorized as IF they were bespoke
this return,
“startling the fearful,”
a provocation to the mirrored images
caked on my disheartened body,
goes lightly noticed, but not by me!
daily, I ask the bay and the sky, the animals,
the query lives in almost each of my scripts,
Where is Shelter?
today the answer is not an apparition,
but the question is rephrased,
not where! but when
the answer is now apparent,
for the seed planted, this is for you,
watering the seed, feeding the shoot,
that I know too well,
for asked and I answer,
everyday…
Sep 24, 2023
Sep 24, 2023 at 11:53 AM UTC
~~
Away A Spring comes
Through the windows of the old
Where yet I see the past times of gold
Though I could mention
Still takes some times to
Get out of detention
Of all those values of drowning dreams
Though everything passing with trims
Either Come back again
As any other forms
In the horizon of the Wren Drongo, Myna
In the Sparkling bright days
As if red flamboyant of lost Spring
That only Says a beautiful String
But yet the dried leaves are floating
In the water of Calm Lake
Where yet I'm passing a fake
Within the game of light and shadow
While Love wearing a mystic mask
That confesses me too many tasks
Bright and dark moving with cradle
Forbidden to go near
That I Couldn't bear
Flood tide in the river
Full moon broken with eight pieces
In the silver light her silhouette stands on the shore
Behind I see the closed door
In the known Seasons of moon
Century's sigh as if an elusive tune
If slowly lost all
Put those dreams here again
Even I couldn't leave any pain
But the rainy season can be washed
Saltwater of eyes
I try to feel the bliss
Away, will return the golden
Days of Summer
Off course there will be
Something on the bottom
Love will come on the
Cloud's raft of Autumn
Away, A Spring being a call of beckoning
~~
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
I open a
box of insecurities and
add one
more.
The sound of my voice.
The boys in their Vans
have them fully-formed by now,
chests heaving, with splotches of hair
and the usual marks of transition.
I don’t, I can’t have those
things. I meet the requirements:
I am a boy, I’ve tried it all.
But in my bed at night, sometimes,
the ocean hums its wavelength
of monsters screaming, howling
for a rise up, to see more light.
a cloud formation gargles and spits out thunders.
A shiver reaction. Muffled. Loud. The strike
cracks the lips of our skies,
and it confesses some secrets about
its own insecurities; that there is no more
wonder in silence, that there is constant
stimulation and reduced pondering,
that there is a need to get rid
of the bad feeling.
It says,
when the thunder strikes, listen
up and listen long and hard,
because there is plenty of
chaos from your own making, but I offer
you unannounced, unpredictable,
disjointed disruptions of comfort, and it is
I who make you scared of uncertainty. It is I
who make you jealous about my loud voice,
my formed voice, my raspy, powerful voice,
not the boys in their Vans.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 8:50 AM UTC
Barnaby hands me my daily
cup of coffee, but this time, it's night
time, and the coffee reminds me of the war
but not the allies annihilating the Germans or Japanese
but the war between me and him every time
he confesses his love to me, the words pierce
through my heart
I will never love him as much as he loves
me, I'm disgusting
like the taste of the coffee
just beans in water.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 5:24 PM UTC
it's not a memorisable lullaby, i don't want to write poetry that requires memorisation by school children; perhaps a riddle, perhaps a jigsaw, perhaps an awakening after the words dig in from their arrangement into your own usage, distinguished.
these days, someone on a social
strata of being absolved
might require a concerned dis-involvement
from nouns, and thus juggle
the pronouns, over-use pronouns
to remain politically accurate and sound,
for to replace nouns with pronouns
would bleach people, entrapped
in the constant affirmative of something
they once owned but were dispossessed of,
they do that, they stress the usage of pronouns
by a relief a diet of noun usage,
so that a Pakistani dare not use
the associations of the noun that might
decipher his skin as cinnamon in writing,
unless it be pronoun inclusive and noun exclusive,
so as modern society teaches:
become pronoun users with a few distinguishing
nouns congregating, don't learn carboxylic,
don't learn onomatopoeia... keep up with
the bleak egoism that states: not so much self-interest,
but over-pronoun-use and a lack of nouns,
or if used, reduced to quizzes of crosswords
with antonyms and synonyms pronounced;
he who confesses to censoring noun usage
will control the pronoun category
by usurping noun usage freely with a censored usage
that will only provoke counter-nouns / slang /
encoding / the need for surveillance.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
she wants to be a child again.
splashing in puddles with her
rain boots on.
Now he holds her hand but
stands five feet away when she sees a puddle.
jealous looks falling like Buckeyes.
Knocking her on the head
so rude – those **** squirrels.
apparently things are changing,
she’s not even aware.
splashing and laughing just as
she did yesterday,
just as she will tomorrow…
if she has the time.
she didn’t want him to
see her cry.
He has before, but
each time feels different
and each time she tries to be strong.
lips quivering, her vision becomes
blurred as she furiously bats
her lashes desperately trying
to stay strong…
but no.
a drop, two drops of weakness
fall.
she confesses everything,
more weakness exposed.
it hurts…
don’t fall…
don’t fail…
These words cannot possibly
do her passion justice.
They were made to be together.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 3:01 PM UTC
It's good to be an ugly gal.
No one man will ever hold the door,
or dare to call me a *****
Having a sober conversation,
knowing no man is never looking to score.
Having a drunk conversation ,
knowing he is ready to do me on the very same floor.
I master my detective skills,
finding out about all of his side thrills
Acquiring medical degrees,
when he confesses what those warts may be.
Becoming a priestess, through Vedic *** tricks
hoping he falls in love through his stick
Most of all a sense of humor,
because what pretty girl could write this sick?
Apr 14, 2010
Apr 14, 2010 at 11:33 PM UTC
*She has ink dripping
from her lips. He blames
that on the poetry she
drinks after each and
every kiss she gives to
him on his cheeks and
ribs. Sometimes in his
mouth as she claims that
it's her cathedral and the
only place where she
confesses all of her darkest
sins. He sends kisses down
her spine. As if it holds the
knobs to the doors of her
fragile broken soul. Hoping
that each kiss will lead him
in. This is the story of where
their new life begins. There
tangled in the sheets of his
warm cozy bed. And that was
the moment when they both
paused and said the best is yet
to come. And our young love
will live on and on* ~
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Slowly dancing
Upon the ceiling
My hopes swam into grave deception,
Erasing their colours
and embracing the lust of redemption.
With my head on the ground
and burying my feet in the sky,
I leave my conscience shatter all around,
While my sins lie in a silence so profound...
Forever, in dust they lie.
Thoughts fade my body in that lost corner,
Unto grace the prays grimy shout over
The infected ceiling, where helpless desires once became dew.
Voices write about how those opaque aspirations flew
To the coal ending called sky,
Beside a summer of memories, broke lively into a lie.
Black birds with no shape
Levitate, levitate...
On the astral hue
Where a chromate rounded eye
Cram, vanquish and deny
Icarus wings forgotten truth.
Truth confesses...
Clouds have this delussional construction.
They look heavy, but dive easily in the highest skies.
They seem consistent, but you'll find emptiness in their insides.
They shine with passion, when Sun comfort their dark sides,
but their core scream shallow vowels, when the rays candlelight dies.
They are made of marvelous shell and promises.
Now their true face ran out of disguises,
Now their lies taste like a cruel truth,
Destroying wordless ponds of my silent youth.
They are made of failed hopes,
Long invoked by a half living corpse.
They quickly vanished away, ashamed of their fail
Scattering a nest, while thoughts crave for their trail.
Once lucid and life giving,
ensuring a world painted in more than one colour.
There they stand...in that soft looking terror,
While, on a flooded carpet, a life was painfully sinking.
Where should my mind find peace?
Or..When?
When will my life start over? When?
It's too late, the rain has started now...
One hope, after another..I could feel them- they're fierce.
They've been abandoned, somehow...
They will rise again, falling on the dust's grease.
2010.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
They stand embrace in each other's arms.
The wave crashes with force against the pier.
The couple look on.
Three friends sit at a coffee table each trying trying to tell their stories.
Stories of love, fights, those whom have inspired them.
A man runs by, earphones in his ears, dodging the various walkers.
Laughter ripples through the air as the three friends find something entertaining.
A pregnant couple walk by wondering how much longer till they meet someone whom they have been growing fond of.
An older couple ride by on their bikes, probably reflecting how 20 years ago what the world was like.
A waiter deals with the various orders hoping at the end of the day to get a huge tip.
A homeless man approaches those walking by begging for food.
Who would have thought he would have ended up where he is?
The friends continue to chat boasting of their lives and accomplishments.
I am watching the lives of others and here I am... sitting alone at a table having tea.
I wonder what they think of me?
Shame poor girl has no friends for a Sunday afternoon.
Or how can she be so brave to come and have tea alone.
Or is she waiting for someone...oooh let's wait and see if someone arrives.
No one knows my life as I don't know theirs.
I don't know where they come from, whether they are here at the beach in despair.
Whether hope rings in their ears.
Or maybe someone confesses their love to one another.
Or a bright business idea is struck up.
Or someone has come down to the beach to remember a lost loved one.
We are all so different. Have different wants and needs.
Different reasons being down at the beach.
So how can I judge? How can I assume?
I have no idea why each person came down to the beach.
As for me...I came to get out the house!
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
on this paper confesses my pen
about my love for you on these hands - your protection has secured my mind,
your permanent place of bullying me
your affection has tormented me
to never escape these exit wounds
your love has boundaries
to either enter a beautiful nightmare
or arrive in a darkened reality
i hope you reach and mend my fragile heart
take my hand and i'll show you around the world
and i'm sure your beauty would
make a rush hour stand still
like the globe does
where your floral securities blend
with my lowkey subtlety
creation becomes our very own nature
infatuation is nothin' new to your flaws
radiance and ambiance
to thee verse i preach of your soul
when a goddess is walkin' down
the streets of love
allow me to be yours and yours alone.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
1
In this dark, cruel and callous world
it’s optimists ar’ always good to me -
they lend me a thousand dollars
and when I don’t return
they don’t get discouraged
they convince themselves I’ll pay up soon
“Tomorrow,” they nod sagaciously
Yeah, tomorrow
And even when they get mad and furious
all I have to do is to offer them half a glass
2
To ‘em optimists
I’m full of gratitude
cos when I ‘s a kid
and skinned their cats
and stole their lawn mowers
and silverware
and put them up for sale in the same
street
they stood agape and said:
“This kid, one day he’ll be a great entrepreneur”
3
I love optimists
cos even though my parents cursed
“We never really wanted you”;
and my wife confesses every other night:
*“I married you for all the stolen money
and will dump you
and claim half of every dollar and property”;*
and my kids keep pestering me:
*“When will you die?
Have you written your will?”* -
optimists tell me:
*“The universe loves you;
reach out, and the universe reaches out to you”*
Hey, you get more love from strangers
than from family
4
And of course
let me not forget Destiny’s plan
for optimists in my life
cos even after the fourth ******
for which I was found guilty
(never mind the six undiscovered)
the optimists in the legal system and
Friends of the Maladjusted
got me out in seven-a-weeks, with the hope:
*” This time, surely, he will change
for the better”*
Ah, what’ll I do without ‘em optimists? -
bless ‘em all, and keep ‘em alive
for I’m planning my next killing
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
1
Gardener Moe
and Fishermen Joe
are at the pub
and Moe confesses
(his eyes shallow, and moist) -
he’s just lost his woman
“What happened?” asks Joe
his eyes as deep as the ocean
2
And so Moe groans:
*“Susan just left me
It seems I whispered
in lust all night
the name of my former lover Rosie
– so Susan’s left me”*
And Fisherman Joe leans forward
so he can be heard
and he shares his wisdom:
*“Even a fish, Moe, will not
get into trouble – if it know'
when to keep its mouth shut”*
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
“*You are so kind.
Thank you with all the
resolve
in my heart.”*
J.V.
<>
A thank you note,
for a simple shining-of-light,
stuns me into inspiration,
deep chested thrombosis consternations and calculations,
palpitations of the boom-boom variety,
signaling the onset of intracranial contractions
of a new birth~poem
aborning…
who of us these days,
speaks of the resolve in our hearts?
who of us free confesses deep natured thanks,
it is almost too old fashioned.
it is powerful.
it is a thanks that
powers the wattage sufficiency
to light up a city entire,
and even though inward focused,
it yet is shedding Moses-like
light beams
heavenward,
I wrack my heart to even comprehend,
that simplest of actions reciprocal:
1/Thank You
can it, (it can!)
steel the heart,
give its truthfulness a special
power, and more than resolve,
even solves
our equation solution
so elegantly is the endless searching for the
right way to give thanks, to receive thanks,
it is a mutual gifting, for our mutuality is of
two hearts, echoing the words of
all legislative bodies:
”Be it Resolved”
what is this resolution then?
the consummate of English words
with such a variety of shadings,
requiring a declarative,
not a narrative,
consummation
be it resolved,
that two resolute hearts
shall not depart this Earth
before their arms interlocute an
embrace,
the shadows of their eyes interlock,
casting away
interfering long distances,
a single atmosphere shall
be tasted, inhaled,
by their
combinatory sensories
then and only then:
their resolve tested
and surpassed
will their poem
commencé et terminé,
begun and completed
The Emotion is Carried
<<>>
“*The gender-neutral name Jamadhi comes
from Arabic origins, meaning “beauty.”
When thinking about all the beautiful
things in the world, your little one, with
their kind demeanor and bright smile,
no doubt springs to mind! But a name
simply meaning “beauty” doesn’t only
refer to their appearance. This name
is a reflection of their beautiful little
soul, too, on a journey through this world.
Baby Jamadhi could be a gentle soul
or the fiercest of little childon the playground,
but no matter what, a name meaning
“beauty” will always ring true.”
Feb 15, 2024
Feb 15, 2024 at 3:28 AM UTC