"confounds" poems
who knew that in about
4 years time,
or maybe
10,000 years lost in
10,000 multi hued tears,
id be on the same trip-
dancing to the same
shimmering inner grove as before-
braiding fresh cut
flowers-
delicate genital-hands, unfolding in prayer
into my subconscious mind
or perhaps into my hair-
saving colored prism fragments
of knowledge or nonsense-
digesting intoxicating
incense smoke into the
deep throated green streaked
laughter chasms
that are my lungs-
spinning vinyl, spun mind
unwinding, undulating
through string music-
contemplating the sunset's sweet
immaculate form, reoccuring
and balancing itself right outside my window-
dressing in shells, bones,
and beads; kaleidoscope fabric dripping from
the ******* like mother Kali in a Fellini
flick-
peeping out at heads slinking down
the ****** pavement streets-
my hairy angelic form grooving
intensely, spastic-
body flung, strung out in
hot patterns of
mirrored arms and legs-
brain brew bubbling; wicked, fantastic-
limbs waving and grabbing at
tangible tasty morsels,
smelling strongly of indigo
and patchouli-
the East smiling on me and
my intrepid journey to the ocean city-
head thrown back in
tranquil madness-
pipe smoke curling like
ancient hound howls from the corners
of my lips-
smiles spread like insanity, a wicked disease
lost in the forgotten finger painted
confounds of creamy
****** milk consciousness-
basking in lamplight
of the golden glistening
Now.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
Some people have faith…
In a God that they can’t see.
They pray and beckon to this being.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people seek out love…
They say it’s all they need.
A notion that can’t be defined.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people seek the truth.
They claim it will set them free.
All too often it brings only pain.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people claim to care.
And they do so unconditionally.
Expecting absolutely nothing in return.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people refute predestination.
Yet believe in destiny.
Fate and free will intertwined.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people outstretch their hands.
When the world leaves them to bleed.
Giving to a world that doesn’t care.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people follow only logic.
Decisions made to a tolerable degree.
Yet logic turns our hearts so cold.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people look for life’s purpose.
Proposing doctrines and various decrees.
That purpose varies from one to the next.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
The world is full of confounds and query.
And in that, I rarely find the answers I seek.
But still, I wonder every day.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Perhaps we need not find an answer.
Perhaps, by nature, we are curious beings.
We need faith, wisdom, truth, and love.
At least, that much, I can see.
But I invite you to justify this world.
Elaborate on the answers I need.
Or maybe life just doesn’t make sense.
I invite you to enlighten me.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 1:12 AM UTC
Ophelia...smote egress, you are Rimbaud's:
"Drunken Boat".
The river you fell asleep upon found you a sea.
Your bones knew no seabed--poppies, marigolds,
orchids, black roses fill your eye sockets, mouth and rib cage.
You substantiate what color the sea may give your lay.
Its foamy waddle has signaled you to one too many
climes...an orison broke open.
What strain of tragedy now holds you, spine on depth,
eye sockets on sky?
You dove headlong into the Shakespearean maelstrom--
where mortal coil confounds, chin-up darling.
Great winds fish-scale your waters, only to invert their maw.
There are lines daily of sea's breadth, whereupon its
creatures come single file to kiss your bone.
Ophelia...wrested from river to sanguine sea, shedding trails
of flesh.
If bones were the eye of a needle...you've pulled through,
heir to tragedy--circumnavigating your infamy.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
Humility is a thorned crown.
If you allow it to it'll break you down.
Confound your ego
And spur it into the ground.
Its a mindset shift through and through.
When it hits you genuinely humility will help bring about a new you.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
Lines of life through gene transmission
When handed down through *****
Tho’ rugged, sound or sickly matched,
Are caste about like coins.
Luck ensures a robust chance
Of longevity and health
With intelligence or dolt hood
As a final gauge to wealth.
Traits of blue eyed, fair haired lovelies
Brown eyed, freckled, long of limb,
Temperaments across the spectrum
Placid fat to fiery slim.
Aptitude to run the long race
Good endurance, depth of heart,
Lady luck decrees their worth
Tho' the Priesthood may depart.
Frontal lobes of clear retention
Heightened rationale of thought,
Reasons through the problematic,
Resolutions made as ought.
Capacity to empathise
In tears of joy and sorrow spent,
Capacity for true belief
When wrong is righted with repent.
Goodness and black evil
Are caste about like chaff,
Depends upon the show of cards
Who laughs the final laugh.
Conscience can be virtuous
But then, so can be greed,
Depends upon the circumstance
And if approached at speed.
And finally indulgence
Plays a massive hand in this,
For love and lust determine
If a union is remiss.
And should that union founder,
Should Lady Luck throw in her hand
...You can blame it on the chromosomes
Which confounds the Makers stand!
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
14 June 2011
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
I have never been without it
The scent of regret surrounds me
Every mistake I ever made
Is the stench that so confounds me
Soaring heights of anxiety
I have never been without it
Not your garden variety
Plaguing much of society
How I long to be free of it
Unrelenting regret believed
I have never been without it
Dry heaving nightmares unrelieved
Trichinosis, lockjaw strangles
My regret knows all about it
Like Joe Btfsplk’s* cloud dangles
I have never been without it
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
Sinuses, you have won today,
but the night shall be mine,
for down my throat
I have poured the elixir of wonder
and shoved the grenade
of mucus dismemberment
and I have aerated my nostrils
with the flow of nase.
I may be pass through the night unknowingly,
but at least I know that you will not hinder me any longer.
No more will my brain try to escape its confounds,
no more shall my glasses feel like they are crushing my nose as a grape.
I shall sleep as you are conquered.
Yes, you may have won the day,
but I, I will have the night.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
Truth enamored of itself...based upon
the forever following.
Flow's entrails--the
seven circuit labyrinth pends the
recollection that yielded it.
Thus, the unsound voice pouring
voicelessness.
Minotaur's digestive sound bite.
Where Once, as only Once allotted
the victor of Truth.
As told, as held...now confounds
with a self-fabricating prophesier,
profaning all telling.
Disconsolate swipes of emotion
make and remake the barren.
Pray tell the lessening visage of thee,
where by and by shall deem thee
bygone.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
Into his heart she wished to peer
To glimpse a shade of his crippling fear.
These feelings she claimed as just a murmur to sense
Of deep loss, unknown sadness, and loneliness.
From where he came baggage weighed him down
To where she found him toiling around.
Listing and rolling on an open sea
A broken man he was, so sure was she.
A place to pile pity, sadness, and sorrow high
To fill a hole in her own mind's eye.
A project, a task, a falcon with clipped wing;
Perfect - for a broken man can only be a summer fling.
A date written in sand to bring the curtain down
Leaves nothing to invest; nothing to lose in a waning town.
Help she will not, 'tis not her place
For when summer sets - off to another race.
What does one do when magnificent marble cracks to its core?
Take on the mantle of repair as their chivalrous chore?
For when one finds a thing more broken than they
Pious self-righteousness illuminates their way.
Always the better a thing that is broken
For it leaves that which lies beneath always unknown.
Talents and treasures in a life yet to live
Are the things that a broken man has yet to give.
For broken is mended through time and reflection
And then is when she might make a connection.
Yet a connect is impossible when hubris abounds
For painted already is a picture that confounds.
Perception turns to reality as mud turns to stone;
A broken man always is as she chooses to be shone.
Just as a broken plate, glass, or jar are easily discarded
A broken man is one who is also easily departed.
As fracture turns to crack and crack turns to decay
That which is broken knows only one of two ways.
To stay broken forever discarded as dust
Or to mend, heal, and repair the broken man must.
As the swift needle of time sews shut his ripped heart
The broken man realizes in this play he still has a part.
Realization that his role does not intertwine with her
Sets the broken man looking for what can only be a cure.
With grout, cement, and epoxy he sets to piece himself together
The broken man works diligently to fill in each fissure.
And as his new form takes shape he can confidently say
A broken man is not forever - only a detour off life's highway.
Lost in that summer was opportunity for more.
Voices and laughter fading with no encore.
A sadness swells in the throat behind the tongue
A song left to sing, but no song is sung.
The broken man mended whole once again,
He'll always look fondly where whence he has been.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 1:36 PM UTC
The Kristeille Bra :
And Other Pathways To - ( Disaster ! )
Polarities : so smartly empowdered
And, petitely enslaved -
Potentialities ?
- In extremis, I'm afraid.
But if thus were so, then ...
(Even thinly veilled) ;
Let us duly consider :
Are our appetites (fe\male)
In actuality and fact umm,
Needlessly Manichean;
The torments of
noisy Siblings ?
Why, after all I ask,
only two -
Don't
You ?
Alas,
To the Medici
Roundly go the
Battle and the day !
(And sublimity)
(Or so the legend
goes ...... )
For those who favour
such Palantines,
(and gravity)
a throne.
For :
Pure symetry confounds my interest -
hnn.us/articles/7202.html
James R. Morse NYC 2012.
All Rights Reserved.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 2:32 PM UTC
How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st,
Upon that blessèd wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips
O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
1.9k
I come before you Yehoshua
with my hands lifted up in holiness.
All I ever have is my faith in you.
You know my heart,
and my emptiness you know.
You understand my feelings,
and my follies you forgive.
I am renewed and recreated daily,
transmogrified into a new creation
like I've never existed before
because of you Yehoshua.
My weakness are before you,
my past you erased and forget.
I am nothing without you because
you are my strength Yehoshua.
Your presence is comforting
and reassuring for you are
my glory and my salvation.
All power belongs to you.
Everything fails when you
are not with me.
You are the breathe within breathe
for your Spirit dwells in me.
There's no joy within without
your presence.
Your touch restores all things,
and cause everything to heal.
We cannot fully worship you
when health fails,
restore our brokenness Yehoshua.
Your supremacy confounds the heart
of man for no one can challenge you.
You reign as King in the castle of
my heart where you dwell in Majesty.
The glorious beauty of your existence
transcend and pervades all things.
You transmute the gross material
from nothing into gold.
Every created things ever made
resonates to you.
All creatures above the earth,
in the earth and,
beneath the earth adores you
and sing of your glory.
Your awesomeness is a wonderful wonder.
Thank you for everything that you do.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 6:14 AM UTC
“I'm sorry if you miss me”
was the response, as I noted her growing distance.
I replied that she had warned me of this,
when it had begun in its first instance.
I'd like to think that I'd helped her along
from someplace dark and cold.
I enjoyed our chats, camaraderie, and banter …
it never seemed to get old.
I brought this up again as the distance grew wider
each and every day.
I told her that I was happy for her
and that she'd finally found her way.
I'd be there again, without a thought,
it was never something I'd minded.
She'd told me earlier that she was now “less needy” …
So, it's not like I was blindsided.
I know sometimes that its tough …
tough through fog to see.
I guess the thing that certainly confounds me is …
Why doesn't she miss me?
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,
Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tunèd sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing;
Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: “Thou single wilt prove none.”
1.8k
I hang on his every word
Like a wriggling worm From the beak of lovely bird
He's the safe I'll never crack
The elusive dancer covered in black
He terrifies and confounds me
And I don't even think he see's
He is the closed book that I can never open
All the words I wish to say but can't be spoken
He's the poem, that I can never write
For me, he's the moon glowing at night
My closed book, who's stories I'll never know
Because I'm the desert, and he's the snow
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting Time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there,
Sap checked with frost and ***** leaves quite gone,
Beauty o’ersnowed and bareness everywhere.
Then, were not summer’s distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
1.5k
The size, do you see it?
That nefarious beast overwhelming
But suddenly the beast is overwhelmingly gone
It's absence, it confounds me to the very bitter end
I search and I search
Till my fingers fall away
Then inside of me, the final searching place
And there, as I peer inside, lurks the hideous beast intrinsic
Desecrating the make-shift temple of my unclean heart
But then, a fulminating voice from above:
Reach inside and pluck him out from your unclean heart
Snarling, the beast lands on the leaves, and cries out as he falls
Through the earth and through the fire as he is finally ruined
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
You always transcend my sadness
with your hypnotic stillness,
your entrancing symphonies.
My thoughts go back to the banks of Langat*,
where one day a little boy sat alone,
just only five,
bewildered, in a canoe.
From the sea,
from the streams,
from the rain,
you chanted a calming mantra to soothe him,
calling him to dissolve
in your awe-inspiring presence.
Your aquamarine sheen paints
the intricacies of all that I'm.
In the cool blue depth of your stillness,
I long to create the tabernacle of my being.
Never I thought
your melodies could become
the war cry of a devilish psyche!
Today I'm perplexed,
when I hear the anguished human cries
from the twirls of your turbid anger.
I realise
you’ve become an enigma
that pulls me to the depths of a
crazy conundrum.
How many more shades of anger you hide
in the burning red heart of the mantra you chant
to give me a heavenly bliss, Oh Water?
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 4:41 AM UTC
I find the charging sky lights to be
disorienting and pure.
Black and white at same time.
It’s a rainbow in the clouds after the rain
and succeeding the dark clouds which make me sane.
I am aware that rain will come again,
yet I don’t know when I will be rain-bound.
Each turn is a change in the circle of pain.
When the lightning strikes,
we look at the bright, white flash of light.
White pierces through the dark,
and confounds us and leaves us looking at the stars.
We wait for it to strike,
only for it to come at the most unexpected of times.
We must not be confused, or surprised.
We should rejoice when things go awry.
For it will too pass, and change will evade.
The earned hope will remain.
For chaos and the unexpected are change,
and change is the inevitable truth which cannot be tamed.
We’re celebrating the chaos and celebrating change.
We’re celebrating the inevitable when we dance in the rain.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 12:06 AM UTC
♠ ♠ ♠
Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…
Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,
Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,
Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,
Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric, semi-formal,
matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),
coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.
Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,
Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.
Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring – formulaic)
confounds – yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.
Lists like this are perhaps the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
You make me feel vulnerable
Don’t know if I can trust myself with you
But I want to be there for you
So I will bring down my guard
Just hope you don’t break me from within
We’re both alone and we need someone
Life is not certain and I may not be for you
But I need to put myself out there for you
Feelings are not always well defined
More often their blurry and hard to find
But maybe with you they will become clear
The world is waiting for me to fight
And I need someone to help me try
Maybe you can help me through it
If life takes us different ways
It’s quite alright
But I can’t live with myself
If I don’t try this once with you
My heart is guarded by politics of the mind
My feelings struggle with rational thoughts
I should portray a certain image to everyone
So I can’t really show you how I feel
Though when around you I feel like holding you close
And not let time pass because I feel at ease
I feel you need someone
To be there to catch you
When you fall down hard
I want to be that person
A pillar that holds you
And builds you up
I feel that yearning in your soul
You think you’re self sufficient
But why don’t you rely on me
I want you to know
I want to be there for you
It’s okay to let yourself go
The world is not perfect
And some say you may fall
If you don’t prepare yourself
But there is beauty
In seeing the good of mankind
If your heart really seeks it
Then you will find someone
Whom you can rely on
It may not be me, but it could be me
My heart yearns to fill your void
I come without hidden agendas
And I want you to be complete within
I don’t know what you want
If you want me at all
I offer you a fort of solitude in my heart
And even if we stay only friends
I want to be there for you
And I cannot articulate a perfect way how to say
You inspire me and you empower me
I feel inadequate in your eyes
And I want to be so much better for you
Just being next to you I feel can bring about growth
I don’t know if our futures intertwine
But you are one special person that confounds me
Jun 14, 2011
Jun 14, 2011 at 5:38 AM UTC
I’ve been,
Crawling,
Under the dirt,
Upon my abdomen.
Searching,
For the tree,
That I will hang from
And be set free.
This skin I wear
Encases me.
When I’ve moulted.
I will be free.
I will wiggle off the confounds
Of bone and flesh
Of space and time
And of birth and death.
I was once
A nymph.
Living on the roots,
Of the tree above me.
I was so small and hungry then,
But I have eaten enough now.
It is time to harden,
This old soft skin.
I’m passing through,
This knot,
In the infinite,
Line of life.
Aligning myself with the inner body.
Squirming out of this old biology.
Going beyond our senses,
And beyond our imaginations.
Cicada.
That inner beauty is shining through,
Becoming the apparatus that moves you.
Cicada.
Listen to the rhythm of your beating wings,
In tune to when the mother sings.
Cicada.
Break this skin,
Seventeen,
In the making.
Am I,
An island encased in a bag of skin?
Or am I,
The entirety of the ocean?
Am I,
An isolated ray of sunshine?
Or am I,
The source of the sun?
Am I,
An insignificant speck on a spinning ball?
Or am I,
Something a whole lot more?
I am, I am.
I am all that I am.
Tricked yourself long ago,
The joke of the speck
Stuck to a sphere,
Spinning out to nowhere.
This body is an egg,
That encapsulates me,
Soon it will hatch,
And set me free.
We are all nymphs,
Seventeen in the making.
Come and crawl with me,
Get down on your abdomen.
We are all going to climb the tree,
And disappear into seventeen again.
Mar 14, 2020
Mar 14, 2020 at 7:11 PM UTC
Heed this poem of darkest days
Hide yourself when Nightmare plays
When you know, those shadows wait
Time runs out, and it is too late
Tears of fire are burning your cheeks
Forbidden secrets that grimly seeks
Draining your life, leaving you dry
Where there is no sound to cry
When blackened terror comes knocking your door
Leaving you empty, and pleading for more
But this emptiness surrounds you
This desperation confounds you
The icy touch of fear in your head
You listen to voices of lingering dead
Haunting you now, in so many ways
Heed this poem of darkest days
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 7:53 PM UTC
The one thing that I can never have
Is the only thing I seem to want
Never can I eradicate it from my mind
The thought that will punish me
Do I try too hard to make them smile?
Do I try too hard to seem like I belong?
Is that all there is,
Am I too far gone?
The thought that punishes me
Is that I will never be good enough
I can’t change the judgmental ways of the world
The thought that punishes me
Is that I will never be what you need
I can’t change all of the imperfections in my life
Despite everything I am the owner of my mind
I control these thoughts of mine
I have such power over myself
I let that power slip through my fingers
I let it become tainted
Consumed by my self loathing
My thoughts are furious and vast
Yet no matter what my desires may be they disobey
Tenebrous corners of which I cannot escape surround me
Suffocate me
As I am caged in the cursed darkness of my brain
I reach out as far as I can manage
I reach out knowing that no one will see me drowning here
In the ocean of my mind
No one will grab onto me and save me
From these thoughts of mine which punish me
Im spinning out of control
Twirling and leaping further and further away
From everything that seems to say
“Let me save you”
I run as far as I can whilst screaming
“Please someone save me”
But such a selfish thought will only lead me further astray
These are the thoughts that punish me
A feeling
A sinking feeling
Hits me out of nowhere
Its painful, I can’t deny
Why do my thoughts invade
Corner me in my own mind?
I can’t escape this pain
Where can I run when the perpetrator
Is my own conscience?
Where can I hide when i’m my own worst enemy?
How can I find a moment alone from my fear
When I am constantly there to remind myself
How terrified I am?
This fear is a prison in my mind
The insecurities toss me into a cell
They call it a moment of self doubt
A wave of depression
I am trapped here
They tell me that it’s my own fault
My own doing, a hazard to myself
I cry out over and over again
This is not me
Yet they don’t hear me from within
The confounds of my cell
Within the prison of my mind
Like sudden rainfall on a sunny day
The happiness fades away
Like water inside a drain
These thoughts are torture
These thoughts are pain
These thoughts punish me
Day after day
These thoughts destroy me
These thoughts control me
These are the thoughts that punish me
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 1:39 AM UTC
*One by one we feel the breezes
that soothe us musically
like a breath of silver wings.
Rivers fade into themselves
leaving expressions we understand
yet do not quite notice.
We chase shadows into hidden corners
when night falls;
lie them close
just to hear them ring.
We desire to touch another’s name
but when we close our eyes
we are carried away.
The answers we find are reflected
on our fingertips as scars
returning to show more of us
that our time has come.
So we bend like weeping willows
again inspired
by come what may.
Wisdom spirals breathtakingly,
rains down
divided by our faith.
The hand of fortune confounds us,
deafens our ears
to what we believe.
Dawn breaks and we yearn
for what is impossible
to live over again.
Yet, one by one we feel the breezes
that soothe us
musically.*
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 8:40 AM UTC