"contemplates" poems
He thought that he had been evicted like a raucous Irishman, late once again on the rent, his belongings and furniture strewn on the lawn
His cold, deadly stare and ruffled red, said the same, with haughty indignation written all over him
As could be expected with any eviction, belongings strewn to the street, it started to rain; large splattering drops falling from the sky with an audible impact, adding insult to the injury
But he was just a child, set free and off to learn on his own, his perch and roost along with his chair, moved to his new home
He had outgrown the large screen porch, which was such a ridiculous place for an Owl anyway
Wood and glen gone, surrounded by girder and screen, locked into the realm of old peoples coffee and cigarettes
Tucked up into the eaves ignominiously, or sitting on the lamp, grooming flesh from his over large and taloned feet
He would sit silhouetted by the dim red glow of the bulb, relaxing, until a noise would spin his head and he would become hooded and glaring death
The lamp added a glow to his eyes, which already burned with a raptors fire and he would become the personification of evil to the world of prey
Low and crouched, wings slightly spread; he would become the terrifying story that small warm animals tell their children at night to keep them in line and safe
But now he has been moved outside and all of his familiar belongings with him, or most anyways
Now he perches outside, either on the rough, twisted branches near his roost, or his favorite chair, and contemplates late into the night
But it seems that he prefers the comfort of his living room and he rests on the arm of the chair, quiet and pensive in the still and humid darkness
He stares at me while I smoke; the white plumes drifting like iridescent fog into the moonlight, while I observe him from his former home, illuminated by the dim lamp light
His saffron eyes gleam in the darkness, his dark form robed in that of the raptor, wings held down, with the tips outstretched like fingers
He stares at the lamp, standing like a pedestal against the wall and I wonder to myself
Does he want his ****** lamp moved out there too?
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
blood red diamond
tops tender green emeralds,
rose quartz and morganite
in a feast of polished deposit.
teardrop laden,
glistening against the stirring sun,
the world waits in dew.
crystal drops wink,
the blood diamond contemplates emerald tightrope,
slick escape.
with a bubble here,
a drop there,
Little Lady Beetle
attempts to dry its wings.
the flower that rests beneath
bends low,
and too shimmers
like a July sparkler.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
I'm the villain, but how was I supposed to know he had a wife and two children. Twenty-three years of marriage and she contemplates her happily ever after coming to an end……after a miscarriage, another child's death, 23 anniversaries, and 23 year old twins. My sugar daddy lead a double life, but how, how, how……was I supposed to know that he had a wife? It should've registered to me how he always wanted to skip out of town, but how could he lie to his goddess and not see her standing before him in her wedding gown. She hates me……She hates me and I don't blame her, if she decides to **** me and him both, I hope they don't tame her. When this woman walked in with her husband's **** inside of me I felt a rush of excitement, rode him harder and looked her in the eyes as I did it……painful mistakes you make when you're *** addicted. They'll think about how Dad's fake girlfriend is younger than them, but they won't understand, she'll wonder why he stepped out on her with a stripper young enough to be their resting daughter………as she thinks of a backup plan. I know this is wrong, but I might be in love, and this is strong. There's black and there's white, and grey will never be right. But this grey is my sin escalating to a whole new level, I can't leave this man alone………for I am his cruel devil.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 7:24 PM UTC
When things get tough,
She cries a little.
….
Every single time, she contemplates it,
If it’s portraying her as weak,
Or is it okay to cry a bit?
What if it’s actually making her weaker?
What if her biggest fear is creeping it’s way out of the pit?
….
She holds herself, push back the tears,
But all her efforts aren’t worth,
All it takes is two words,
From someone, her presence who seeks,
And she lets two drops roll down her cheeks.
….
When things get tough,
She cries a little,
Then,
She buckles herself up,
In the end, only she gets a little tough.
….
Love ❤️
Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 8:30 AM UTC
For lust is a tightrope,
soldering fickle hearts, sewing passion.
Fade at its end,
or tumble into love.
Some hope woos smother,
contemplates the fall
To stir a velvet landing,
and dances slow.
She in her unbidden trance,
her golden hair littered,
sits in prayer, fidgets;
snuffed from the fall.
Forlorn, for an indulgent sliver.
Now lies a cold lover,
in her morphine bedlam.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
She sees him
from afar and sighs.
He’s easy on the eyes,
this man by the sea,
as he contemplates,
who he is and who
he wants to be.
She wants to wave,
as she raises a hand,
like how the ocean
greets the land,
but then wonders if
she should turn
and walk away,
and leave him
to his day.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 9:14 AM UTC
The poet Phernazis is composing
the important part of his epic poem.
How Darius, son of Hystaspes,
assumed the kingdom of the Persians. (From him
is descended our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator). But here
philosophy is needed; he must analyze
the sentiments that Darius must have had:
maybe arrogance and drunkenness; but no -- rather
like an understanding of the vanity of grandeurs.
The poet contemplates the matter deeply.
But he is interrupted by his servant who enters
running, and announces the portendous news.
The war with the Romans has begun.
The bulk of our army has crossed the borders.
The poet is speechless. What a disaster!
No time now for our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator,
to occupy himself with greek poems.
In the midst of a war -- imagine, greek poems.
Phernazis is impatient. Misfortune!
Just when he was positive that with "Darius"
he would distinguish himself, and shut the mouths
of his critics, the envious ones, for good.
What a delay, what a delay to his plans.
And if it were only a delay, it would still be all right.
But it yet remains to be seen if we have any security
at Amisus. It is not a strongly fortified city.
The Romans are the most horrible enemies.
Can we hold against them
we Cappadocians? It is possible at all?
It is possible to pit ourselves against the legions?
Mighty Gods, protectors of Asia, help us.--
But in all his turmoil and trouble,
the poetic idea too comes and goes persistently--
the most probable, surely, is arrogance and drunkenness;
Darius must have felt arrogance and drunkenness.
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I believe in a universe where a sleepy eye opens existence...
a slowly drooping eyelid ushers it away.
I believe in a universe where Indra and the other Gods
churn the cosmic milk...
where Shiva does the eternal dance.
I believe in a universe where light is separate from darkness
and mankind is molded from a ball of divine ****
a breath, Be and it is.
I believe in a universe where Gaia watches as Cronus
devours her children until she gives him a stone...
and hides Zeus away.
I believe in a universe that expands
from a singularity of infinitely dense potentiality
less than a speck,
to our cosmos immeasurable in scale.
I believe in a universe where Lao Tuz hands a guard
a little book of wisdom
before disappearing into the mountains
where the sages go.
I believe in a universe where Siddhartha contemplates emptiness
and feels the winds of eternity
whistling through his soul.
I believe in a universe where E=Mc2.
I believe in a universe where an old man lights the first holy fire
and describes the war between light and goodness
vs darkness and evil.
I believe in a universe where the earth and moon,
and all the planets go round the sun...
in a galaxy carrying us
dancing a waltz
we can only catch glimpses of.
I believe in a universe where "Know Thyself"
is revered as a deep truth.
I believe in a universe where
an unexamined life is not worth living.
I believe in a universe where the words of a carpenter
are a true path.
I believe in a universe where an illiterate man is commanded
Read!... a burning coal upon the lips.
I believe in a universe where every God and Goddess
exist, each in their own heaven...
each in their own hell.
I believe in a universe where there are no gods or goddesses
only the relentless laws of matter, energy and gravity.
I believe in a universe where everything is mathematics.
I believe in a universe where everything is holy
I believe in a universe where everything in profane.
I believe in a universe where everything is a simulation.
I believe in a universe where everything is ****** in nature.
I believe in a universe where everything is stimulation.
I believe in a universe where the hoochie *******
is what its all about.
I believe in the universe.
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
She thinks
She feels
She ponders
She breathes
She contemplates
She lives in pieces
She wonders
She suffers torment
She remains foot-in-mouth free
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
"Red chilly and spices in excess,
would burn your sensitive taste buds, no doubt"
his tongue contemplates the warning a bit
along with the taste, and decides,
"curry in a hurry is the perfect recipe for rumpus "
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
She used to speak in shades of green…
Earthly, with undertones of gravel and dust.
She liked it that way,
Where she could feel the swell of dirt inside her,
Taste the grass, pick sand from her teeth…
Tangled midnight hair hung in transient neglect
Down the arch and curve of shoulder and back,
Finally coming to end with a whispered reminder
Of its existence against the edges of her innocence...
And, once her innocence was lost
(as all innocence must be, time and again)
She realized a certain freedom in heart and rainclouds
In claiming her Oz, in following her own golden hued path.
She lay in reckless splendour among the sun ripened poppies, dreaming
Of ***** and fingers tracing her adjectives and verbs
Sinking into her nouns with plunging clarity...
Home, she writes...is not a place to sleep,
Or a place to lay my head
And find wishes in dandelion seeds
Home is in my soul,
Buried deep in some forgotten place
Between slumber and sunrise
Where my hands grasp at golds and reds,
Gathering colours like wildflowers
So that I may inhale their scent,
Exhaling more than just green
But a wanderlust, in an effort to find
The dark silhouette of you...
A fold of parchment and a gust
Of tepid wind
She seals her fate.
She no longer contemplates
A three time click
To send her back the way she came
Instead she longs for Emerald,
And moves in pace, with the desires
Of every where, any where
This brick road
Will take her...
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
At your breast he likes to play
dive-for-the-nipple.
Like an Olympian on the high platform
he rears back,
contemplates the distance,
the object,
then lunges.
Today he grabs his own hair, pulls.
And screams.
The more he pulls, the more he screams
until I unclutch his fingers.
Don’t we all wish sometimes
a big hand would swoop down
to unclutch us
from our mistakes?
Then, oh! to rear back
and lunge
at life’s big love.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
*In mouth, put-
choo-choo kazoo chomp chomp YUM!
Mmmm MMMMMMmmm.
Whosagoodbaby!?
Whosagoodbaby!?*
The infant hears,
wondering if all adults talk this way,
chuckling to himself, the ridiculousness tickling his vibrating mind
looking on at the goofy giant babbling gibberish
who seems oddly ecstatic
to feed colorful mush.
The child contemplates the intricacies of communicating
the smelly in his shorts.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
London. January. 7:45pm
A bench possessed by a single gem
Thinking obsessing over a single thought.
Of the last argument they ever fought.
The saxophone player blowing his tune.
His only audience the shining moon.
Trying to earn some last needed dough
Wondering why he even puts on this dumb show
The other street acts already home
Now he stands, alone.
Southbank market nears to an end
Time runs out between two friends.
The spark has gone- the light is out
Now every mind is filled with doubt.
Her mind starts to wander as she contemplates
On all the things she has to complicate
A kiss, a hug, a humorous lie
Did they even try?
Her eyes start to fill with the water of a tear
She fails to keep her mind clear.
She stands up and leaves
Walks away.
She doesn’t know where she’s going
Or why. Or how. Or how long she can postpone
But she still walked. Alone.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
There is a void in me that silently shouts hello at people who claim to be in my life
It screeches at those who have hurt me but they don’t really care
It surrenders to all that was promised to me but never delivered
It contemplates freedom or silence as it is indecisive about whether it should speak out or not
It is enslaved by anger and fed by pain
This void forces itself to sleep but anxiety wakes it up with vigour each and every single time
This void reaches out to my heart but that felon turned a blind eye
My brain trades places with my soul and orders my vessels to stop trying to be the good guys
They try to fight but my brain wreaks with anger and orders silence upon them
Blades of hurt beg for redemption but this void hears nothing
Drops of internal tears touch the void’s senses but it has grown too strong for anything to change it
It has taken control over everything and my brain being the sergeant leads this void
They march together to destroy all that is worth life within me
All that is beautiful turns into grey dry petals dried up by savage terrorists
These terrorists call themselves agony and torment
They terrorise my emotions and cast discomfort upon them
They try to escape through my skin pores but chains and shackles were whipped and girdled around them
They cried for help but this void silenced them with a lash of frustration
This void cut me deep and built its own palace in my soul and spirit
Everything else was executed and my body failed to adjust to the new system hence breathe became less and less
I found myself lying on a floor full of pictures
Pictures of my childhood and family
I gazed upon them and sorrowful tears ran down my cheeks
I am donned with a void that took my life from me
Bygone I am
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
On a rickety bridge,
across roaring Rubicon,
in spate, he stands,
holding on to a
Janus faced moment,
that will decide his fate,
once and for all.
He gazes at the rushing-
red waters, from the hills,
madly impatient to reach the sea,
at the earliest,
akin the ****** frenzy at the ******
or life racing towards death, to culminate, dissolve.
Some message, he has in it.He looks on, in silence.
*Two options, his mind discerns,
cross the river and trudge
to the rendezvous, where
the union has to take place,
with his sweet heart, of long years,
or jump in to the surging waters
that tempts, from the time of birth,
and submit oneself
to the hands of nature,
and thereby forget all tribulations.*
**He shuts his eyes and contemplates,
then, his moment of truth comes.**
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 10:09 AM UTC
I was never your protector, you abused my stoic nature
Madcap ****** for days on end, and copious substances, abused
The blaring music, disturbing the peace, rattling windows
and you dismantled my structure, and yours alongside it
I am just a house
I was never the crutch you needed, nor was I a friend
Remember those long nights on the town with raving girls
and you were irate when I fell to the floor; rich man's art piece
Now you snivel and scratch because you flushed me in haste
I am just *******
Pair me up with old white friends in speedball imprudence
Meticulous measurements in early days but you grew reckless
Now your ghastly macabre silhouette on back alley walls
Is all that remains in this dead town that you still saunter in
I am just ******
You put too much emphasis on me, to defend the sentient
and you stare me down on the kitchen table, questioning
You hold me close and I feel your brow, indecisiveness
and now I'm caressing your temple; bemoaning barrel
I am just a gun
You sit and attribute voices to the voiceless and inanimate
because for years you have repressed your depression
When you should have asked for help and not escapism
and today you end it all, alone and weeping for something you know not what
I am just your psyche
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
When I hear you express an affection so warm,
Ne’er think, my belov’d, that I do not believe;
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.
Yet still, this fond ***** regrets, while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear,
That Age will come on, when Remembrance, deploring,
Contemplates the scenes of her youth, with a tear;
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.
Tis this, my belov’d, which spreads gloom o’er my features,
Though I ne’er shall presume to arraign the decree
Which God has proclaim’d as the fate of his creatures,
In the death which one day will deprive you of me.
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.
But as death, my belov’d, soon or late shall o’ertake us,
And our ******* which alive with such sympathy glow,
Will sleep in the grave, till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in Earth’s ***** laid low.
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion, like ours, must unceasingly flow;
Let us pass round the cup of Love’s bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.
1.7k
Pendulous eyes, weary and bleak
Immoveable shadows, the unseen torrents
Coyly divulge the once impetuous spirit
On his shoulders, he carries a colossal weight
For his is a cleft vessel, rudderless and floundering
The rise and fall of each swell, brings neither hope or despair
He contemplates the gilded life, an absurd apparition
And slithers back to obscurity where the worm and dreams cohabitate
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 7:18 AM UTC
I’m the sort of girl who drinks tequila out of coffee cups
and wears really skimpy dresses
and goes out partying all night
and kisses random boys in the dark
But I’m also the kind of girl who wears her hair in a messy bun
and reads Jane Austen when it rains
and enjoys watching documentaries with my cat
But I’m also the kind of girl who likes slamming beers
and putting on team colors
and cussing at the top of my lungs at sporting events
But I'm also a *** who sleeps until noon
and eats cold pizza because I don't wanna cook
and contemplates what life would be like if I were dead
But I'm not fitting in your boxes
And you hate that
And it confuses you
And I like it
Girls aren't one thing
Or another.
We're not the sun
And the stars.
And we're not the **** of the earth.
I'm not Alpha and Omega
I'm not Fire and Ice
I'm not Beauty and Grace.
I'm me
And she's her.
And we're not the same.
I can chug a beer while reading Frost
Or contemplate the meaning of life at a hockey game
I can be
Party Girl
Sloppy Drunk
Thoughtful Bookworm
*Crazy ******
All of the above.
Or none.
I'm me.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
She shot him a look of promise and passion.
That baby girls got something up her sleeve.
Pulsing with anticipation he sits like a
good man.
Politely, delicately slips off her leather jacket.
Position patient,
She
Doesn't have time for games.
Except,
The ones she plays of course.
She sits on his lap, works her magic touch.
Hold his hand to her lips, and as her tongue traces his fourth finger. What does she find but a
Ring shameless
Reaches behind him, kissing his neck.
Wallet in his back pocket.
Pulls out, to tease (he loves it) with bills in her full, glistening *******
Teasing him
Until, she finds the picture of his three kids.
She contemplates her job:
Pleasure Queen or Homewrecker
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
A dandy gentleman contemplates the human condition.
He sits alone in a french coffee shop,
poetry and philisophy his primary mission.
An awkward mind and deep pocketed heart, he bites eagerly into a freshly baked maple syrup ****
His mustache is striking, as though it has a story of its own
He wears a blue velvet coat filled with notes,
not to mention a lifes work of observations and quotes.
He checks his pocket watch from time to time
As he gathers his thoughts to write the next line.
A hint of tobacco can picked up from his vintage clothing
He's a complicated fellow, enigmatic but soothing.
His top hat well established sits on top of his head
His shoes finley polished black with stripes of red.
A long worn out coat still encapsulates his grace
He has a slight intensity reavaled in his face
For this mans work will never be done
For madness is in his nature, to him this is fun.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 5:31 AM UTC
6:30 a.m. you wake to see,
a lovely girl.
the type a girl,
who comes with the proper set of manners,
but looks like somewhere,
this girl lost her standards.
7:00 a.m. she wakes and sees you.
when you've never had the decency to point out her beauty,
you're so swell thinking about,
how you can get her for a second round,
never calling her beautiful,
or flawless during the round
you act lousy to her,
even though
you were really hoping to do more than to embrace her,
but you soon forget all this,
as you lie in bed,
at 10 a.m.
sleepy,
like the loath you were,
10:30 a.m. your fast asleep,
while she feels the ever growing solitude,
11:00 a.m. she stands in front of the window,
beams of sun on her like the angel in heaven planned it,
as she sips the coffee she made for the both of you,
11:30 a.m. the coffee is cold, and she contemplates her purpose here,
by 1:00 p.m she is wondering if this relationship,
will ever evolve into something more,
1:30 p.m. she realized he doesn't care about her presents,
and wonders if any man would.
2:00 p.m. she fears no one could ever love her,
she's found herself filling notebooks of flaws that are too great to love,
it is now 2:30 p.m. on the dot, and if someone was to walk in on her,
it would be as if she was omit from the world for years..
a minute passes and he walks in,
pours some coffee,
he drinks, and swallows the cold coffee,
puts the mug down,
he looks at her with disgrace almost,
and walks away,
to who cares where, because at 2:36 p.m.,
she wrote one more flaw,
my coffee was cold and he left me again,
and that was enough to tell her she was worthless.
and he sat in his chair,
not once getting up to say,
or tell her,
how he thought she was beautiful,
flawless,
or the fact he loved her,
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC