"contemplative" poems
Of Adam’s first wife, Lilith, it is told
(The witch he loved before the gift of Eve,)
That, ere the snake’s, her sweet tongue could deceive,
And her enchanted hair was the first gold.
And still she sits, young while the earth is old,
And, subtly of herself contemplative,
Draws men to watch the bright web she can weave,
Till heart and body and life are in its hold.
The rose and poppy are her flowers; for where
Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent
And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare?
Lo! as that youth’s eyes burned at thine, so went
Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent
And round his heart one strangling golden hair.
17.5k
Nothing can influence
A Man
Stronger
Than a Woman
It's a difference
Through yin
That causes
Yang to become
Whole
It's like the beast
Crawling towards
The beauty
She need not
Use force
Or violence
To get the animal
To draw closer
Her prescence -
A flower
So sweet
Anything with a nose
Wants to inhale
The influence of
A woman
Is a journey inward
Where the flow
Comes in
I could show you where
You begin
Where it begins -
In the formation
Of a wave curling
To form
An infuriating
Break
Soaring through
the wind
She gets him
Contemplative
Her words
Sound like Sanskrit
She knows what he needs
Beyond what his ego
Believes
And maybe gentle
Or crying
Should not be forbidden
The influence of women
A females touch delicious
A Man's counterpart
And producer of souls
The answer to family
The true love gaze
An access to divinity
The missing ingredient
Of the recipe
A Woman's influence
On a man
Is the way the world
Transitions
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)" (1)
writ many years later...
~For MWK~
<>
A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny:
A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us.
*This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis,
my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary
each one, each is, deserves, all, one such,
a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life,
strained and trained for emission and transmission
of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of
our individualized most excellent fresh best
where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream
melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive
contrasts combative,
a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words,
yet unheard and before this very never,
went unspoken and now goes forth
svelte and unbroken
*rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls
of the here and now,
a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance,
of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed,
lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from
the stilling quiet solitude.
to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief,
how to expel and spell the words
that grant
relief
visit my sunroom, though no fiction.
the sun rays *********** create the friction
of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained,
and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered,
pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction,
with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary,
you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns,
and the process of sunrise exposition recommences,
and one revisits the elemental sequencing of
all the predecessor pain, but this time,
for gain, for gain,
<>
written this sabbath Saturday
12:38am EST
Sat Aug 2
2025
in the sunroom,
on Shelter Island
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC
Author: Kristen Stevens
Current mood: contemplative
That would be my nephew. When I came home from work the other day, I sat down in the chair and from out of nowhere Anthony pops up and yells "I'm Ironman!" complete with mask. then I hear a giggle and and he pulls the mask off and says "don't worry Nini. It's just me." (Cause you know I looked worried ;) Anyway, he started asking me what I was going to be for Halloween and could we get candy like we did last year. I assured him that yes candy would be forthcoming. As to the costume, I had no clue. Still don't. I've been thinking snowman 'cause it's bound to be cold that night. If you have any good ideas...well they are bound to be better than mine.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 8:01 AM UTC
“I want!”
Begged my heart,
As it strained against its chain,
My brain screamed
“You shunt!
“I won’t let you hurt again.”
My heart cried,
“Why not?”
And “Where is your pride?”
My brain mocked.
“You’re built to bleed, and not to think.”
My brain convicted,
“Like you where built to lead, but not to link.”
My heart contradicted.
“Love is for fools and fools alone.”
My brain predicted.
“Well then a fool I am for love of fond I’ve grown.”
My heart conflicted.
“You are nothing without me.”
My brain told,
“I beat without you, as you can see.”
My heart said growing bold,
There was a silence,
Between the muscle and the head,
My heart needed guidance,
And without my heart my brain would be dead.
“You know I wish to protect you.”
My brain whispered now,
“But I must reject what you do.”
My brains authority my heart could not allow,
“I am not so callous that I do not care at all.”
My brain explained,
“I understand that on my decisions it’s your function to implore.”
My heart disdained.
“So you can see now why I hold you back?”
My brain feebly asked,
“You are the reason freedom to love I lack!”
My heart finally did at the notion grasp.
Contemplative silence filled the air,
Until my brain did declare,
“If that’s what you want, then go now and don’t dare cry,
But don’t come back bleeding and broken,
And say I did not try”
And so my Brain had spoken.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
I've been aware
for many a year,
but cut off by him,
for crimes he accuses
for crimes undisclosed,
his silence is wider than
the great oceans,
with no means of passage.
till one day a word,
his brother uses a word
that makes no pretense,
that shocks, stuns, and
force!admits me to a reality,
I, knew but couldn't admit
schizophrenic.
here I am sundered speechless;
as a new form of sadness now
internally prevails, and I am
even more quiet than usual,
contemplative, they call it,
but
I recognize sad/mad in every one
of its manifold disguises, and wonder
just how much, own ingenious genes,
the paucityof my impoverished down~
bringing brought, bought, caught,
contributed to this loss, this onus,
this cross that has no answer to the
***only question that matters,
how much,
am I the guilty party
the disaster father***
Aug 22, 2025
Aug 22, 2025 at 4:11 PM UTC
Surrealist Cut-up
boatman Purple haze
contemplative pouring
the sky as lone
rides the horizon.
islanding
into the lake,
Cubist
Arc to the horizon
apparition, brooding figure,
a form rides in twilight haze
junction of the worlds
into a slither of light.
Literal
Purple haze islanding the sky
pouring into the lake,
as lone boatman
rides contemplative
into the horizon.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
the child of the child of my woman,
cries in the night,
rooming next door,
down the hall
and
he is
all children that cry in the night,
but he is
more mine
by right of quantity
numerous are the kisses lavished,
this biannual visit upon,
his four year old
oversized head,
(so full of 'bains')
his undersized,
protuberanced belly body,
a combo making him
no longer baby,
nor a grownup,
both states,
he denies accurately,
maturely in a wobbly voice
of utter certainty,
but lacking the adjectives
of what lies between,
he debates his state thoughtfully,
until distracted by other
more pressing matters of state
he is boy, little but vociferous,
quiet, pensive, his head a weapon
of...confusion and certainty that
being four years old,
he must perforce be
permanently
in skeptical awe of the world
this is the best position ever,
he has ascertained,
to filter and behold anything,
whatever newness arrives,
which is constant,
streaming and unending
until new is
fully digested, analyzed, and classified,
as if he were
a zoologist in
a wild and untamed land
only certain of what he knows
with perfect certainty,
he consults with me still,
"you kidding?"
such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory,
wise in the ways of grownups,
who, prone to deceive gleefully
his very
suspecting mind,
so much so,
they must be challenged and
rebuffed all too frequently
he cries in the night,
normal tears of discomfort,
physical or mental,
I cannot tell,
for his father
his parental hearing
more practiced, refined,
has preceded me,
such,
as it should be,
and I am dispatched back
to my 3:00am bed,
left only to ink
contemplative ruminations
on the state and nation
of being four...
and sixty,
and still uncertain, even more
than the little boy
of wizened age of annualized four,
the child of the child of my woman,
on
what is real, what is kidding,
in a quest unending
to better ascertain,
the state of my own being
and the transitory nature of
everything
all of what is thought certain,
falls aside,
under the withering,
unwavering,
critique of
"you kidding?"
and in this we are
more kin
than if our blood was
physically shared
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
Beneath,
I amused fear,
drowning immersed in faith.
Near my final breath I mused Latin,
the etymology of 'entertain'.
*Tormented;
by mistake.
Entertaining fear,
over entertaining faith.*
In the quiet silence of revelation,
I took stock,
&
looked up,
180° degrees,
poised
&
compassed
my flesh,
to
unbolt
the chains
of misdirection
bound to the recess of my soul.
Unleashed!
Now to hike the proverbial mountain,
cobbled
in the boots of Wisdom.
Contemplative.
Afloat,
aloft its height,
coiffured
safe
by the proverb,
transfigured,
by wisdom of consciousness.
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
Her long symbolic hair caressing her body
Her torn jeans representing her dignity
Sentimental to the teen rotted inside a lifetime ago
Tears making her smile
Her pink apple suit case was confiding
Hiding in a storm, where rocks were thrown
Bruises and scars across her knees
Killing the young girl
No longer innocent eyed
She's a a straggler
Structure tried
She runs away searching
Fresh start is an opportunity topped off with profanity
Odds pushing her down
A constant, as the sun raises its eyebrows
Her cards she never questioned there quality
As he touched her fingers
She has one chance
Contemplative perseverance
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
In a different world,
A different mind a different body
Perhaps I'd be inclined to try and find the facts behind her fiction
But for now I'll buy in
Because this is too sweet to be reality and that's not what I need
I need a sign from up high before I'll jot my name on the dotted line
I don't need to know every little detail that lies behind her eyes
So tonight I'll take it slow I'll take it steady
We can share a drink and a long and contemplative passing of eyes, sharing of the deep thoughts inside our minds
If we find what we see to be of the proper tone, the proper texture
Perhaps into the wild blue yonder I'll venture...
I'll tell her what goes on inside the deep recesses of my mind
And in those dark spots she may decide my conclusions are nothing but pure conjecture
If she can find some inner part of her that longs for adventure than maybe I'll tell her
I think she's beautiful and she makes me weak in places I wish I was strong to begin with
But she makes me think that maybe I can flip this, fix this.
Put that part of me back together again
Just enough to pass close inspection
I'm this strange mix of a anti social quiet type of romantic who can't seem to find the courage he deserves
So I'll stick my chin up and tell her "Nothing" and something like, "Everything's fine"
Because a mind is a terrible thing to lose and I can't seem to find mine when I look into her eyes
She's got every color of the rainbow and at least fifty shades more
I'm torn
I know that I'm not the best for her, and she deserves that
I know that in my head but my heart can't seem to conserve that, steady flutter it means to burst out of my chest and fly
and I can't for the life of me figure out why
In a different time
I could just bring you flower and announce that you could be mine
And that would fine
But now days we have to dance around the issue because that's the socially correct thing to do
I can't help but feel cheated
I'm an old soul inside a young mind
I feel this way about eighty-five percent of the time
On a different day
In a different way
perhaps I'd say something that could make you stay
But your future awaits
So I'll surrender the very idea of us to the fates
And hope that one day
Things will be different
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
Stochastic perfection
Staccato smoothness
Screaming comfort
Mental duress
Gutter rat beauty
Sensory control
Primal sophistication
Mutating soul
Indecipherable pitch
Blinding vision
Deafening clarity
Reckless precision
Simplistic genius
Street-wise intellect
Monosyllabic truth
Politically incorrect
Emotional apocalypse
Raging articulation
Distorted calm
Dominating freedom
Numbingly sensitive
Inappropriate dignity
Contemplative explosion
Tempestuous tranquility
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 5:20 PM UTC
On the day that I lost my name
I took a nice long walk
To the edge of infinity,
Searching for it
You know, they say the earth is round
And as I leaned to peer over the side of it
There, lay a vast blanket of outer space
No continuous ground— like they said
No path to move on from
Dead-end roads and deadened feet
Had led me to this edge, where
I cut myself on contemplative thorns
“At what point did he stop loving me?”
“My friends are gone”
“Rehab couldn’t fix me”
“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow”
No, the world isn’t round
My thoughts are round
And so are my vices
Always spinning and falling
Into a perpetual mental cycle
So when I looked beyond the cliffs of my flat Earth
Into the depths of nothingness
I pondered what it would feel like
To
tippy
toe
my way over
To lose myself forever
If I never wake up tomorrow
Would they remember my name?
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 9:19 PM UTC
***** and forgotten,
Abandoned and afraid,
time goes on,
Listless and lifeless,
Crippled and silenced,
time goes on,
Steady and patient
Hopeful, with faith,
time goes on,
Gloriously elated,
Majestic and grand,
time goes on,
Loved and accepted,
Joyous and free,
time goes on,
Quiet and contemplative,
Peaceful and still,
time goes on,
time goes on,
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Haiku Poetry is a very short poem with poetic images that can transcend the limitation imposed by the usual language and thinking. What if we took that imagery into the realm of human nature? While attempting to do this I tried to stay within the bounds of contemplative poetry that indicates a moment, sensation, impression or drama of a specific moment in nature. However, I broadened this framework to at times include moral, historical, scientific, legal, social, etc., issues as well. I believe, by doing this, we are introduced to a unique and creative imagery that paints a mental picture where you the reader can find much deeper meanings to personally relate.
**Cute little test mouse
caged for scientists to share
waits death, for health care**
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
On a school trip to a gallery,
Teachers and curators will always tell you
Look upon, examine, appreciate the art!
But they’ll never instruct you
On how to be certain
That your appreciation is acceptable and right.
Conundrum of the contemplative,
Judgement of the partisans,
Cogitation of any aware,
I’ll ponder until my encephalon
Subsides under impactful pressure
Until the logical or the just is no longer right.
Through incandesce of the morning,
In the cloak of the ever-mantling night,
Here I revel in the concept of
Eternal glee through appreciation
Of nostalgic kitsch, and graffiti—
And hyperrealism as well as photoshop
Because love isn’t just omnipotent,
It’s incomprehensible.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC
She was always a chameleon soul
Black Orchid
Eyes, shadows, vulnerabilities
Of heroine chic,
Juxtaposed with an embracing
Self
Of mutual
weirdness
Meshing voices from
The past
Nostalgic memories for
Behind the camera
A lady photographed
A younger self,
Mirrored reflections of
The lady she had graced
Into through the
Ages,
Where contemplative deliberations
Iconic wonders, flashed through
Her mind
With each click the metamorphosis
Click;
one
two
three
Twiggy, Edie, Kate
Transformations; a sorcerers magic,
Contradictions;
body
mind
soul
Mirages amidst reincarnations
Never a remnant of the same
For, the lady behind the lens
Unseen
A ghost veiled in black;
The Black Orchid.
© Sia Jane
Dedicated & written for my darling friend Cara <3
For she shall know love <3
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Echoes of living
All time inside the present
Complex and simple
Complex and simple
Novelty exponential
As it always is
As it always is
Forever swells in motion
Change is the constant
Change is the constant
Transformation's here and now
I am living death
I am living death
Death is living manifest
Born from the ceasing
Born from the ceasing
Constantly falling into
The grave of presence
The grave of presence
Is the garden evermore
A fullness profound
A fullness profound
More than can ever be known
Felt here through being
Felt here through being
All at once liberated
Freedom this moment
Freedom this moment
My breath invites exchanging
Interdependence
Interdependence
Everything's brought to life
By spirals self spun
By spirals self spun
There is nothing I am not
No one that I am
No one that I am
I am existence alone
I the paradox
I the paradox
A mirror in a mirror
Echoes of living
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
*there is a tourniquet on his tongue.
he is a risqué bloke
with alkaloid fingers,
they are wearing
yellow asylum jackets
yet he calls me
mad-
emoiselle, his, in between the lines
he cuts with razorblades and mirrors.
i find myself in between legs
of a stanza (not standing),
pale femurs and inner thighs
french-kissing into
surpine ampersands
where the first word
is a proclaimed ugly disease -- perhaps 'love.'
and the other, its escapade -- perhaps 'tuberculosis.'
but i must be the period:
oxidised bones.
within the eyes
of a stanza (still not standing)
abides no fancy lines
no avarice for contemplative meanings
there is but space and void
and i've filled his femur marrows
with metaphors
to the verge of the patella.
he writes poetry for me
with a needle
and an eight-ball.
there is a tourniquet on his tongue
and his spine fits my stocking
seamlessly.*
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
pieces of my puzzle are aligning
trauma and enlightenment go well together
it seems as though once you've hit rock bottom
the very top feels like heaven
a walking contradiction
how do you go from wanting to die
to living your life with authenticity
pieces fitting in shapes never seen before
pieces shifting sizes finishing the next assignment
a life on hold
holds very little to me
finishing my next task is today
but what is for tomorrow?
craving more isn't selfish
it's fulfilling
questions make me contemplative
unable to sleep at night
thoughts running for more
the adrenaline keeping me alive
pieces of my puzzle can break apart
pieces deceive me and don't actually fit
it is a lesson to look more closely
a piece has appeared
it's unclear where it goes
where it starts
where it ends
it will belong in due time
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 1:16 AM UTC
The young Musicians are at rehearsal...the ladies and the lords will soon gather in the music chamber...and Caravaggio's musicians will play them some music and sing them various songs...but first, they must rehearse...
The Musicians at Rehearsal
Let us continue…
Let me tune a little of this lute
while you peruse the notes
and you clear your throat
And what’s our Cupid doing?
Crushing grapes again between his teeth
Let us rehearse well
to render a song of softness
and ease and grace
A song of love
with sweet music
that will charm our guests
And we shall present it
in the private chamber
of honored lords and ladies -
and we shall sing like angels
and one of us will be as Cupid
dancing and flying as fancy takes him
Let us hurry now
though let us not forget polish
and pace and perfection…
come, let us again rehearse together
...and soon the ladies and the lords will arrive...and the musicians will perform and sing their songs of love, passion and sadness...
...and the ladies and the lords are seated in the music chamber...and Caravaggio's musicians play and they sing a song of love and passion...
Song of Love
O luscious Ladies
and brave Sirs
the clouds join
with one another
and the streams sing;
the birds sit amorous
on the branches
and the trees sway
while the flowers spread their scent
in the air
and the bees dance in a daze
ah, Ladies are made for men
and men for women
and each so shaped for perfect fits -
embrace then the lover beside you
O Sirs pick the red berries
on the lips of the luscious ladies;
and O lovely Ladies,
yield to the embrace
of the gallant beside you
and feel flowers bloom within -
for men are made for women
and women for men
and each so shaped for perfect fits
O embrace and kiss
dear luscious Ladies
and most accomplished Sirs
for Cupid seeks that you make love
and produce heavenly cherubim
who in turn, nights and days,
will make love like you do
now in this chamber of pleasures
...and so ends the first song...and the musicians prepare to sing one more for the charming ladies and the elegant lords...a song of sadness to end the night...
...the beautiful ladies and the lords want more from Caravaggio's musicians... the musicians are always glad to oblige..they sing their song of sadness, of loss and love...
O this ecstasy we call love
O this ecstasy we call love -
what is it?
why do we crave it
when there is such pain
that weighs on the body and heart?
O this joy we call love -
what is it?
why do we fall
when there is so much deceit
and betrayal?
why do we love
when there are lies
and hidden motives?
O this curse called love -
it has dried my heart out
and my being is smeared
as cloth with oil and grime;
my best times have been taken away
and there is left only
contempt and scorn
and derision…
O this darkness we call love -
what is it?
why do we still move to it
even as it teases us
and leaves us broken
and forlorn?
...and it is time to go...and the ladies and lords bow and they depart...some depart hand in hand...silent...some depart alone, sad and contemplative...
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 9:16 PM UTC
My biggest fear has nothing to do
with monsters, the dark, death,
or any of those usual frights.
No, my most intense scare comes
from the anticipation that one day
you may see me the same way
I see myself.
For you see I'm not the girl that guys
conjure up in their daydreams.
I could never hope to pass as one
of those flitty girly-girls who know
of quizzical things such as
make-up
cute hairstyles
or fashion.
My blemishes show, and honestly
I haven't a clue how to hide them
anyway.
I look at braided hair, beachy waves,
and effortless updos with envy
My hair has two styles: up or down.
I've never in my life looked casually cute,
and am obviously uncomfortable
in a dress. Please just pass me
my jeans and t-shirt back,
I'm much more myself in them.
How does one even walk in heels?
I'd like to think I'm one of those
"cool" girls that guys claim
they love, the low-maintenance
type chick, but I don't think
I'm "cool" at all, really.
When guys describe those chicks,
they do things like
play video games
quote Star Wars
read comic books
like some ideal gorgeous geek.
Well that's **** sure not me either.
I **** at video games,
love Star Wars, but
I'm terrible with movie references,
and have never read comics.
Does manga count?
I'm kind of starting to get into that...
I'm not the nerd's epitome of perfection
either, the everyman's ideal.
So what am I? I'm just boring,
little ole me.
I love to read, and would rather
spend the night reading
or watching something than go out.
I'm shy and self-conscious to a fault,
so don't try bringing me around
friends, I'll just bring you down.
Honestly, I'm basically a child. I love
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Gargoyles
Tom & Jerry
Animaniacs
and cartoons in general.
I'm quiet and contemplative, often caught
writing in my notebook,
detailing my observations
about the world around me.
I have a ***** mind and a messed-up
sense of humor, giggling
of the worst times occasionally.
But all in all, I think of myself
as pretty boring. Laidback,
but with the most capricious of moods.
I'm both low and high maintenance.
I don't know why you think positively
of me, but I anticipate the day
you realize I'm really nothing
special at all.
The day you discover the truth
I already know all too well.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
The light knocking
on my window
from the rain's tiny fist
may be the single,
most relaxing,
contemplative sound
in Mother Earth's
long and sobering life.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC