"consolations" poems
". . .poverty robs individuals of the life of the mind, of spiritual comfort and of the consolations of intimacy and emotional bonds."
-Maura Spiegel,
Introduction to 'The Jungle' 2003 edition, Barnes and Noble Classics
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
Their togetherness had become an island,
surrounded by strange waters .She contributes
to its noise unendingly.He often makes grand,
defiant gestures withering away like luckless roots.
Only a ruthless need survives.Years
have turned dreams into plain consolations.
Even hope is a necessary drudgery.Fears
grow like parasites on their passions.
Yet a reluctance persists-- reluctance to expand,
the turbulence or claim of waters does not surprise,
some playful waves struggle to the sand,
watching them, they become unconcerned, as the skies
Should they be called happy? The question
sounds hollow.They have raised walls
around their beings, a happy captivity of the sun,
while their lives dance as dolls immaculate
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
I took care of others, walked in their shoes,
got their trivial pains and forgot my loyal legs...
If I present you the baneful thorns I have trodden,
would you be ready to follow me again and barefoot?
My mind will always be bitterly cold
as an intact valley and never understood...
Though I am sure that you do not care,
I feel well, very well, except longing.
Your dreams are flying even everywhere
while I try to stop contemplating...
You know, I am a bit chatty when I am inspired
and the poet inside me never gets tired.
You can't grasp how painful it is to emanate a poem,
how you go out of your infatuated mind...
When 'clevers' seek for justice, but only for themselves,
there is nothing else purer than the tears of madmen.
So, happiness would have been an evident injustice,
if all of the people attained their desires.
I have faced many types of mental battles,
but no war is harder than the lack of love inside.
Love is living your life for another one's sake,
sacrificing everything with honor and pride...
Now I am sure that there exists no hate,
but just does the love of hatred indeed.
Before the absurdness of irrevocable fate
only love will save us in eternity...
No feeling will help you to be deeply blessed
while mass is spurious and loners are obsessed...
As you **** your hopes you gain fake freedom,
but free slavery will still be going on,
sometimes feeling oppressed, depressed, repressed...
However,
Invincible I am before such odd jobs
and I have found ways to keep myself up.
Now I live slowly till the time begins to blur,
paradoxes take place within my dark thoughts,
I divide the time to its perpetual aeons,
all the rules and limits I swear to deny
and save the endless time when we were eye to eye...
Through your looks the heavenly sky is clear
and all the possibilities are real there...
My benevolent angel,
let the eternity recur from the start,
only the eyes of blinds do not show their hearts...
I feel very sorry and deeply upset,
when the human inside silently regrets ...
Yet I am too clumsy to move mountains,
to achieve sanctity which I want to serve.
I wish I made you happy at my any chance,
But I can only make you happiness itself...
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 1:25 PM UTC
The red of cigarette ashes contrasts the white upon the snow.
The expanse is unbroken as his gaze wanders lonely plains.
He takes one puff; then another; then another one so
he can forget her face, and remember how it feels to live again.
His parka is unzipped as he breathes in air so cold,
and cigarette cherries reach his palm and burn away cold contemplations.
He smiles at the Arctic gods' cool ministrations; their fervent consolations
for the love he is smoking and forgetting in the snow.
He zips up his jacket, tosses ashes far below.
He turns away, his footsteps marking the white waste.
They are the only remnant of his remembering ablation,
and soon, they too, are absorbed by the plateau.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
no, let's not step
into the mud of labels
and stereotypes
and pronouncements and revelations
and fixed descriptions
and prescriptions
and easy categories;
let's step out of that baptism;
let's see instead
fresh and new and clear;
mostly we glide through life
lolly-coated with projections
and consolations
and mental formations
our minds programed from day one
on spinning earth;
let's, instead, if possible,
be still a moment
and see what actually is
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 10:44 AM UTC
{After James Tate's 'Consolations After an Affair'"}
My piano breathes with each of its keys:
it aspires to inspire change
in someone's watering mind.
I have paintings that I did not paint
that do more observing than the scientist.
They know nothing of evolution and it's hypothesis.
For them to see and feel
is all they need to express.
I've discovered that I don't need
to prove myself for my own approval.
A jellyfish escapes and dances behind me
as swift as the flame of a fire.
Now I can taste the truth,
a place filled with disgust and desire.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 8:30 PM UTC
I seem to think of nothing
I don't understand anything
without you letting
me, to pursue it
meeting you has completely
changed the way I see issues
that confronts my life
you are my last resort
solution of the issues
that borders my life
I seem to think of nothing
only you I can imagine
when I am seated focusing
how to approach events of life
meeting you is a blessing
when nature calls or sings
I hear your name in the air
Birds are not exempted
from singing
your beautiful personality
to the natural air
I seem to feel nothing
only what you told me
guides my feeling
and actions to the right step
though we've not met in person
you are always
in me as a person
who gives me alternative ways
of becoming a good person
I thank God for what I feel within me
and appreciate your effort for me
helping me to reason like a human
not just childish I use to have in me
like a pet living as a human
You are a great person I can ever
think to have in my life
jump I jump
smile I smile
frown I console you
because I owe you
happiness and consolations
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 6:45 AM UTC
Lively silvery torments,
mere golden tingles,
hours never gone off.
I keep watching over you,
poetic genius,
****** genuine,
learned rebel,
sensitive archetype.
Could I forget your voice
and the thousands fascinations of yours?
Utopia, my pirate….
It’s only my foolish desire
a dense kaleidoscope
of languid coincidences,
all vain,… but certainly
mystic consolations.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
When the time comes
I will leave you
locked in the closets
of your heart
There will be no words
of consolations
No letters left upon the desk
inked with my explanations
I am sure it will be the dark of night
when whippoorwills do call
For they cry into the dark
but nothing replies at all
By the time the sun stumbles in
And you reach for the sky and yawn
The dew will cover the grass but there will be no footsteps left upon the lawn
What happens after that I really
don't want to know
I will be hitchhiking down the road
keeping it on the low
Don't blame yourself for my failures
It was just that I ran out of time
And my feet were really telling me
they were sick of all my lying
So goodbye , farewell , Godspeed ,
live long and I hope that you prosper
It's time to end the intimations
and all the pain I cause her
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC
Death
is
subjective.
Harvests
of
thought
which
stir the
midnight
consolations
churn
and
turn
empty
capacities.
Emotions
which
awaken
yet
cease
all
in
the
space
of
30
spent
seconds,
little
slaughter.
Equinoxes
sprung
and
autumnal
spines
break
flooding
in
a whispered
annihilation.
Expiration
morphs
wasteland
into
sentience
as
Darkness
of
a post
apocalypse
draws
and
sketches
on
a
spent
sheet of
paper.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 5:52 AM UTC
“We make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits in slithered and too ample pockets.”
Hart Crane, “Chaplinesque”
A footstool in the desert.
A napkin in the netherworld.
A coffee stain in the margin.
Perfumed remains.
Systematic garnish.
Dorothy Stratten climbing Mt. Suribachi.
My late father’s toenail clippers.
Pale clouds over Slauson Avenue on the day after the L.A. riots.
A rhetoric of purpose.
A philosophy of decay.
A poem written to an audience of one.
©David Adamson 2015
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
An empire built on enslavement
conquering and plunder
striving to maintain order
via censorship in a modern milieu
the irony isn't lost on me
watched the news today
a self declared expert
cited a rather lengthy inventory of mass murders
a veritable host of troubled people
he seemed well informed
but half dead inside
as if something was internally devouring him
an expert in stolid stage craft
oblivious to his self inflicted harm
until he watched the playbacks that evening
pretending, posturing, play-acting, contrived concerns
now collapsed in a fit on the floor
groveling pitiful fragment
vomiting bourbon tears
out of sight, above detection
by them
the watchers
tomorrow, a different city
another "shooting spree"
another interview
another barren bereft onslaught of absurd rhetorical questions
hand ringing, and staged pandering consolations
another pallid parroting reporter who thanks you for "tuning in."
"next up, Sports!"
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
I miss you my dear
forgive the desecration
couldn't help myself
you left me so suddenly
leaving a hole in my heart
I couldn't let go
just had to keep you near me
I dug up your bones
on our anniversary
it would have been our 13th
beautiful in life
a beautiful skeleton
I took your femur
then reburied your remains
I hope you don't mind, my dear
I cut off both ends
burning them down to ashes
ceremonial
rubbing them into my skin
wailing and wearing sackcloth
hollowing the rest
burning holes in their places
forming a new flute
haunting, soulful melodies
bittersweet consolations
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 9:30 PM UTC
I love your intentions
They are my deepest consolations
When all I see is dark
You caress my heart
And the shadows on the walls
Are dancing, surpassing
I love your affections
They soothe my afflictions
When day turns into night
You are the solace I seek
The find restful sleep
And quiet bad dreams
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
another night’s ocean liner passage, now
sunrise bookmarked, by prayer hailed,
when wet cheeks express emotional
humanity and a tissue better be handy
too many times this is how the day
greets me, and I, it, wetted and vetted
to have made it as far as one more,
having lived you in me, me in you,
an exchange of tonguing word
kisses,
that break me into pieces of
consolations
it’s embarrassing an elder man
weeps for no reason other than
words have swept him overboard,
crazy love this fascinating addiction
to a new morning’s addition composition
incision on a plain soul indistinguishable
amidst the mist of millions of others
who rise up beside, aside, reside within
and his breached heart, even strangers,
complete the neuronal connection
that demands his years of years upon
awaking to the grinning fawning dawn
mooning him with pure white light that
wrecks him open, rents his disposition,
an inquisition of words intrusively intruding
causing wept tears fully formed energizing
emerging, songs of words that you give
him as a question to be loved, for finding
the answers multiple is a penultimate thrill,
confirming this wetness that he lives to
be loved, give love, and breaks h a p p i l y
into pieces of/if contented peace
and thus summed, the day’s obligations
seem less daunting, and with some
luck and bulk coffee ingestion, there
will be solutions to anything
and then
he types,
**and this one,
done!**
<>
6:49am
march 2 Sun Day
two zero two 5
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 2:31 PM UTC
1.20.
I wrote my
own artist
agreement
Blending the
four primal
colours of war
I’m rewriting
the treaties
Remixes of
aphrodisiacs
My remedies
for life keep
giving me
success
Call me Aphrodite chain smoking
cigarettes
The Lone Orchid of frost bitten
sunsets
I’m the only
one in
one of
a kind
A one hit
wonder that
echos forever
with time
Mesmerizing
Gods and
consolations
I am the
Divine
inspiration
This weak
ecosystem has
made me
vicious again
I wanna see
people get
a bit more
independent
Remove their
denial
See the truth
in the ways
of survival
This is next
level chest
and I’m always
six steps
ahead
When I’m behind
that’s when I
attack at
my best
My bullet proof
**** rate
I’ll take you
out by the neck
Call me up
Say what?
I’ll always be
that crazy
****
saying whatever
it is I want
Ring.Ring.
My telephone
never stops
And I’m never
picking it up
Later I might
hit you
back up
Right now
I’m busy
getting
unplugged
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
To all bone fragments of Galeria Del Osario
1.
I want to place you in the depths of forgetting.
Place you like a butterfly in a frame, looking alive but dead of course. Place you like how numbers are arranged from 1 to infinity (but who cares to count?) Place you like how chaos displaced darkness. Place you in the tip of a glacier knowing that the entire block will just disappear in a decade or two.
Like how climate tries to displace us. Our trace will soon be forgotten.
2.
Surely, the climate is too rigid between us; two beings who found separation in all degrees of telekinetic attractions. For two beings who found shelter in the anonymity of chance. Chance to meet. Chance to declare once and for all the unfolding of luck.
Did luck really unfold or it was just me who hoped?
3.
Time is the bare witness to all tragedies, say two lovers who never found the consolations of fate. Time is the curse of the flesh, the rotting wisdom of conscience.
Time flees. Time forgets. Time remembers.
4.
By all means, the world is too small. Sometimes we wage war to small dimensions seemingly large. Where are we by the time that the world collapses into a small room? Where are we when the room pretended to be small but the gap between us is a year, light years perhaps.
Nomads, we are not. We cannot call any cave a home.
After all, what sort of space would cater us?
5.
A massacre happened 43,000 years ago. No one cares to remember. Nine of them were killed by new comers. El Sidron witnessed the coldest crime. If only tears can shed their fate, can we cry for them?
Who cares to write their memories? Who cares to paint their thoughts? Who cares to count their broken bone fragments in the caves?
I want to place you in the depths of forgetting.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 3:29 AM UTC
"Please , Tell Me Your Name"
....A real life story..many many years ago...
Softly sighed the evening breeze
to stir the curtains
Its shadows circled and swayed
Mixed with the star-burst
creating the illusion
of a grand ballroom
I was in your arms on that moonlight night
Softly caressing, holding, melting
It was hard to breathe looking into your eyes.
just loving you without doubt was my heaven-sent comfort.
Time was our enemy
Losing my grip in your embrace
I had to say goodbye in haste to run away
from your forbidden sight..
Yet you held me tightly
and your curious mouth whispered..
“please, tell me your name...”
Sadly, it was our last meeting
And after that not even the shadow of his sweet smile
touched my presence ever again…
Thoughts and dreams are now the only consolations
to answer my name...
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
I do not want to be calmed.
I want the storm to continue surging in my head,
spilling surf from my eyes while tremors shake my shoulders.
I crave a continuation of this pure energy, more than I’ve experienced in months.
Let me pulse with the fury and despair simultaneously,
allow this tempestuous tantrum to expand infinitely into the night and beyond,
where rosy fingers announce the dreaded dawn.
But all too soon the quaking subsides and the sobs give way to gaping silence,
leaving behind an emptied crater too deep to fill with equally empty consolations.
So the chasm compounds.
The body submits at last to exhaustion,
and the mind is temporarily muted.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC
Every once in awhile I would see
Her façade weaken to a breaking point
She would shut down and cry in front of me
She’d let me comfort her
Run my fingers through her hair
Touch the planes of her skin in soothing ways
Listening as I whispered consolations
Completely unaware or perhaps just
Too exhausted to even care
That I was relishing her failure and the
Intimate opportunity it gave me
To touch and try to win her over
Till she reset her mask of power
Forcing her to put me back in place as her
Devoted best friend and hapless desirer
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 11:04 AM UTC
Whose mouth do I speak with
When my anxious thoughts multiply within me
from my heart or from somewhere deep within
Should I bridle my tongue?
Or should I allow it to ride the wind
Until it lessen with time
It’s tempting: to give away my thoughts
I hate the sound of other poet’s pens
Should I freeze their ink cartridge
and spare the world the pain
from their internal and external mishaps
Should I close my eyes, and say
All's well with the world
The things we must do: not to offend
However, we have to endure many things
to conquer and to win bits at a time
“Comrade-in-arms to my old friends”
all isn’t well within our world.
Because I am a sonnet
In search of a poet
I am imaginative, forceful, and compelling
And sometimes disciplined
But today, who mouth must I speak with?
Anonymous
Your consolations delight my soul.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
Nearly 2 am and im up taking shots of wiskey using the sweet words you wispered into my ear as a chaser
I just realized that the stars spell out your name perfectly on my left arm
Thats when I threw my half empty bottle at this desk where ive spent so many drunken nights writing about you and I used a peice of the broken glass to scratch out the beautiful consolations.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
again and again we copy and imitate
and crave to be shaped
or we create ideas and cherished notions
and we cling to traditions and hopes and inspirations;
and we run to this and then to that
and we say this is revelation, this is the Divine
and this is the path
and we have solutions and formulas
and plans and consolations
and we say this is the truth and that is the truth
and this is the leader
and we crave for stimulants
we eat cliches
we bow to consuming and demanding Revelations
that eat minds;
and we crave for things that offer solutions
that offer certainty
and so we believe, we rather believe
and this the Blessed
and that one the Chosen
and this the Ultimate True Guide:
always chasing, always wanting to be led
always wanting to be burdened
like trained donkeys, with heavy loads;
always wanting Super Powers, Omnipotence
always the leverage of a Supreme Being
always division: the All Powerful and the Weakling;
always believing, always believing
in such complexities, such mysteries
but it is simple;
drop everything
and see what is left...
but one will not do it
for one would rather cling to something and notions
and authority
and wait for someone else to describe it
rather than seeing it oneself;
one would rather revere
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 1:55 AM UTC