"contiguous" poems
It's completely finished
But I started
Over again
From the top to bottom
But still,it seems
Unappreciated
Like you do to our
Relationship
Is totally you don't appriciate
So I leaving you a space
Every words that I called sentences
Like us that never
Contiguous
This is seems to be long
But you know you're always
Wrong
This is just my concise poem
That want to remind you
Remindful to you
That once in your
Life
There's one me
Who
Once was used to love you
Even you don't
Love me back as I do
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
Eroding brick wall
all that remains
refracted, fading
fishermen shadow
red dawn’s early light
brackish still water
shocked violent green
seeps from the desert
to be subsumed
by an unrelenting sea
restless dreamers rise
muscle sturdy pangas
into the churning tide
seeking quicksilver
at the continental edges
returning boats ride low
the shrinking horizon
race to safe harbor
cold beer on ice
under palm palapas
in the restaurant
a young man
shows off tuna
half as tall as he is
to admiring tourists
like me, seeking
the deep, slow burn
salt, jalapeno, lime
a fitting end to this
unraveling dream
Pueblo Mágico
of “no bad days”
walls of contention
in a fractured land
will never separate us
one margarita, two
another raised in defiance
of those who would try
to confine and define
free-range spirits
the Pacific touches
this contiguous shore
from equator to pole
we could catch
a clockwise current
follow Polaris up North
arrive transformed
magnetically charged
disparate souls fused
together bound
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
I wish to age like a wrap-around porch
In a thunder storm,
While generations tell tales,
Sipping drinks.
A porch of blinking stars,
A shelter out of rain,
With ascending and descending friends.
I will age like a tree,
Grow stronger in the wind;
Give shade and shelter to all
Beneath my ring-aged limbs.
I wish to age as a river bends,
Contiguous with all shores;
Floating everyone I know
On eternal waters,
A current winding with no rest.
I will age like a star,
Burning bright, giving light,
Something to reach for.
I wish to age like a mountain,
With secret caves and riches.
And you can rock your soul
Around, over or through,
Solid, snow-capped summit,
Beckoning you.
I will age as the moon,
In stages, full and new;
Each night different,
Unnoticeable fading,
As all who age will do.
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 7:50 AM UTC
i watched you
absorbed each gesture
those tiny and delicate branches
nearly contiguous within
your fragile frame
your bones
nearly graze one another
yet so gracefully sweep and pass
into every pose or stance
beneath such warm, inviting skin
what is blood
what are muscles
when I can follow your bones
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia)
~~~~
I am a draper,
by trade, by nature, by instinct;
a fling of one arm across her body,
while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles,
and even convulses,
to hold her tight with two, with both,
soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow,
the heat breeds unsweetened sweat,
and the snuggling impact,
is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles
numbing, deadening,
and ironical attenuation
this is my pattern,
how I address her,
how I dress her,
draping my contiguous,
drawing five fingers
upon her form,
reshaping her in her sleep,
the arm flung, there, and then
there,
to be hung,
at varied places across her body,
higher lower, above below,
but her face,
free and clear,
so not to interfere
with her sensory preceptors
and as I draw my pattern upon her skin,
her body whole,
listening her to indeterminate utterances,
to determine
which
pitter patter pattern
to which.
she feels best suited,
then,
I prepare my
invoice
for her,
for services rendered,
to present upon awakening,
demanding
in voice,
by her voice,
payment in words,
of her own chosen
amuse-bouche,
mmmm, will it be?
good morning my love?
hello you!
or just an indiscriminate
but yet,
a discriminating
sound of
having been pleasured
by unknown forces
in her deeper sleep, using her lips
to say, to hum, to sing,
a genteel unspecific
but, and yet, a
terrific,
deep from within
guttural remittance,
the sound of a delicious,
mmmmmming
greeting
a new equinoxal gale
of a refreshing fresh
birthing, fulsome
already satisfying
draping of the
day
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:01 PM UTC
I never could quite imagine the day
When a creature quite as wry and presumptuous
Would break so serendipitously.
She lay ruptured in the desultory plantation
The Stygian colour of her fur rebelled against the sage of the contiguous earth
And her eyes mimicked nothing but the pain that consumed her current thoughts.
Her body was transfixed in an inert trance
The fur on her hunched spine quavered in a subdued zephyr
Quiet insecurities were hid well in her tranquil pained state.
The moon intently watched me
Waiting for me to alleviate the agonized entity
But solicitousness was blank in my frozen psyche.
The moonlight pierced the fox with intimacy
I grimaced in the realization I had failed the universe
With my perennial void mind broken in vain.
The fox gathered some stoicism
The blessing of the moon granted requital
As the fox proceeded to maul my perception.
I accepted my retribution with ratification
As I was the soul who violated the creature
A skirmish that clung to grandeur.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
recurrent moonlit distractions
captured by words
tied down into morsels;
separated and concealed,
contiguous yet sheer greetings
of each other’s skin
had left wanton burns
and gushing streams
of a brooding lover’s propensity
for unsusceptible matters of the heart.
there, he stood,
on the precipice of tomorrows;
ruminating and scrupulous,
forlorn yet never dithering
over mundane and quintessential quandaries
of the tepid gloss of incertitude
dangling off syllables
dictated by sordid agony.
there, he stood,
in the midst of everything;
from the otiose adoration
poured out of empty caskets
to the lenitive shades of his eyes.
with the ripples of moonlight,
the gestalt of doleful flower-like hearts,
there, she stood,
and waited.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
fragments of life
scattered on the photoshop floor
discarded moments
deleted before fully developed
urgency depicted as living for today
overexposing the instantaneous
cropping a disjointed existence
from the bitmap of impatience
why the aversion to time's darkroom
where future's blur slowly comes into focus
giving clarity to the contiguous
splicing realization from potential
cut to ending...
a panoramic view of destiny's horizon
where paths converge but never vanish
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
~
Bala^ comments:
"alignment - any which way one can if possible to make
****** and *********** simultaneously happen,
without any best position plan"
~
*may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity
my own circadian rhythm masters internal,
the most reliably unreliable human container technology teachers,
semi-skilled in the entrainment arts for this impoverished body mine,
deem it appropriate that early morn messages of
propitious possibility be greeted immediately
entrapped, awaken me at four AM with great glee,
because these elusives^^ know exactly what stirs
this being's cochlear cockles into birthing a
poetic cookie ******** ***********
your message meme provoking, inducing,
be honest man - simply seducing, my within
by your teasing words from without*
"without any best position plan"
*not to confuse the mere appearance of a routine
as worthy of the entitlement of "plan,"
much as the poem's own vanity chooses it own alignment
the relationship, the relativity -
always the
flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring
when your thrusting unplanned message
****** and bests my brain,
releasing a fully formed, instantaneous parrying poem
from an aroused, passing, unsanitized, second of sanity
for no better *** than this...
as per the unplan?
this tissued life,
this in and out
of punching and counterpunching continuous,
but rarely contiguous,
for we are never aligned for more than a moment,
the moment that almost always goes unnoticed,
for the heart's ***** tissues,
are mostly torn by how life
uses us roughly
so here is an aligned confession fecundity
this poetry gig, my salve,
to tenderize the daily redness,
the irritation residual of having no plan
however these fingerprints decided for you,
to present, upon completion,
this soft-spoken loud ***********
a peaking, not a leaking,
** ** ** - a screaming
hallelujah, i'm aligned!
the man found albeit briefly
a beat, a plan and its verbal, herbal,
best solution
may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity
the man and his plan, for a mega-second
his best,
unplanned but got and given,
in poetic planetary alignment
positioned
as are you and I -
the thousands of miles of distance tween us
as you read this
collage collapse
into a singular synapse
of ****** and ***********
hallelujah, we are aligned!
~
**disclaimer:
anything you say to me, can and will be used
for a poem**
~
5:55am
April 1, 2017
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
Juxt
Easy bucks
Market flux
The democratic peace
Imperial caprice
Praise be to lord and Savior
Sacrament, scandal-flavored
Legion of dissenting voice
Treason in the use of choice
Give me your teeming tired, your huddled poor
Bones with to festoon the corporate door
And if you could turn to me, adoring
I’ll check my busted magic billiard ball
All signs point toward what I’m ignoring
Burnt the bridge to your heart, land, deed and all
When time is right, we secretly confide
What should have lain bare in our first report
Our ideal homes of mental cards collide
Seems, in comparison, we all fall short
Glory in history contiguous
Gory details, a bit ambiguous
The equality of man
******* Ku Klux ****
Only with the best intent
Rubber bullet malcontents
Perpetual motion
Toward backward notions
Money flows
Deathly throes
Oppose
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
Come lay beneath the skylight
At a time when it's calm and quiet
There's always a strangeness within the silence
It heightens as the contiguous melodies crescendo without a pilot
Thoughts embraced are pushed aside for this moment
To catch the breath in the night with rhythm as a component
Still like the stem, of a flower unveiling the crown
Deepening down as time is frozen to claim the golden exponent
Midnight brings whimsical strings plucked by the creatures that hail
Nature springs underneath man's dreams; Those clouds that we sail
Through aural communication comes the cerebral provocation
That latent faculties synchronize and incite with an inhale, then exhale
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
My Poet:
*tho evening draws nigh,
on this our wedding day,
the stars, guardians of our canopy,
reminder twinkle it can never be
fully complete, for you always make
a moment in time for me,
today we wait, synchronizing seconds
until both pronounce,
I do
let my hands,
in my tenderest embracing grasp,
perforce, when I hold you face,
still cannot hold your entirety,
for you always make and leave a space
for me to seal our universe
today, you need me to fill you,
so together, ever forward,
we will define and explore
the edges of our redrawn,
now, single unified line,
our ever expanding contiguous boundary
our blood is not commingled
but when our bodies unified,
the physics of our conjoining,
illustrates that those in our
surround of time and space,
in the aura we create,
not so very great,
and yet our oneness
'tis a shining upon the countenance of our place,
a luminous emittance upon this earth
when you write your poetry,
it always finishes with me,
I am the native child of thy words,
I am the filament webbing
illuminating the spaces between each line
but more than this,
I am your beginning,
you are my destination,
together we make,
The End
they ask me to vow,
demand I swear, make promises,
certify, preserve, record and store
the solemnity of this marriage born,
in ledgers of the city,
before an invisible god
I eschew all this
for nothing in life
ever guaranteed by words secured,
but this I know true*
My Poet:
*what I shall give to you,
and you to us,
cannot be spoke,
the words, not yet,
have we originated
for each day
will we compose anew,
each day, shall be
a new combination
under new stars,
our canopy unfolded,
our joining sanctified,
by the simple truth of us*
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
Lexical littorals illiterate foal
Talus and cirque shore and shoal
Iconoclast anarchy vortex knoll
****** matrix vertex peak
Semantic regalia flux and seek
Torrid allusions own and keep
Dichotomy paradox surge and swell
Primordial integumence purge and fell
Contiguity confluence dirge and knell
Reliquiae requiem show and tell
Accession assertion deliberative need
Transcendent ascension expiate seed
Subordinate ancillary exigency deed
Subliminal subjunctive sensorium seethe
Uxorious usury detinue blithe
Contiguous currency decimate tithe
Tractive proximity critical lithe
Delusory phantasm futurity kithe
Alacritous tactile acuity interstice
Accidence ambience resonance quipy pith
Scenario synopsis resilience gist
Endergonic protensive progressiveness rift
Prestissimo preterite retroactive gift
Poignant puissance piquant myth
Fable fantasticate legend list
Preternatural gesticulate proclivity pith
Propensity assimilate diabolical mist
********** fornicate zooidal mist
Parenthetical erudite erumpence fist
Quiescent gossamer lecherous wrist
Militant mercenary actuator aorist
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
*a day is a day is..
a day
hey?*
since the day I saw
but a mere two days
hard to believe what I
saw
but I can't say.. I just can't
I might be blinded
by the contiguous-brilliance
today
I slow-pour this wondrous-concoction
into
this
wee poem-in-granite
and wait for the right-an-timely setting
and tomowwow
we'll see..
won't we?
yesssssss...
S T - 23rd octo-octo 2013
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
While smiling , drops of water drip onto my smiling lip.
fresh honey streaming down my cheeks’
Could constantly become contiguous,
My wine crush,
The right in an error’ My fisayo.
You had a special spit in my priority list
mascara that once sting to her eyelashes,
now streams down on her face, ****
on a two way street, lol.
Now I go this way,
And I said to you am rightly wrong
Just tell me the truth for I know is not
This could be a good terrific idea’
Beware of this my dear,
Definition of weather for two
Oh weather for two,
But pregnancy for one’
After we done with all sort,
When the aftermath’s arises,
You wil abandon me and move on
I can’t have you disorganized my life with your rod for,
which you will turn me to a baby mama’ is that what you want ?
The tears that I make myself
Forfeited me’ so why should I cry again.
Am scared, my emotions, my scars,
Thunder strikes’ rain scares.
I don’t need you to understand my plight,
For ever more I will be fine’
My heartedly beauty customer’
My Honey drops from Bariga.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 1:32 AM UTC
I am the water that trickles down your throat
With each gulp you drink into me-I satiate
I am the air your lungs breathe in and out
Filling each breath only to be expelled consistently
I am the empty space between your blinks
The lacuna that widens your range of sight
I am the sun that beats down on your
coat
Nourishing your cold bones- becoming emaciate
I am the moon pulling the ocean in and out
Mystifying your unmitigated thought
persistently
I am the matter surrounding all you
think
Which must cause you quite the horrid fright
Love breathes into life;
Without life, love dies.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
Anchored at the berth
For centuries
attempting
to gracefully
Slip the mooring
A distant yesterday's whisper
Evanesced
now steadfast
As if bewitched by the galaxy
Unaware of the
contiguous
Land and liberation
Tauntingly so
rooted
Refusing to be liberated
Time and time
Unnoticed
invictus
again it slips from moon to sun
And time has stood still for so long
It has become
Interchangeable
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
Thinking of consciousness seems, oh, so cliche,
But it's something we ponder day after day.
We each think we are so much different from one another.
Perhaps asking this question together will make us feel like brothers:
Is there a reason to our lives, a general purpose?
Are we just here to enjoy the universe? One big circus?
Is there a specific goal that we should be chasing after?
Or is that goal a ghost only determined by pastors?
I search for the true definition of the term "right",
Webster's dictionary leaves me with such mental fight.
It reads: "That which is morally correct, just, or honorable",
This vague syntactical predicate will only cause trouble.
Stand alongside each other and maybe we'll end this discomfort;
War, discrimination, and other human faults must divert.
We have the answer on the tips of all our tongues.
The answer that will make billions of people, one.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 11:04 PM UTC
The darkened corners of forgotten yesterdays clouded the view as the gaping maw of need stared across the chasm at necessity . Almost as if there was a reason for it’s contiguous constituency it reflected the myriad animations of it’s creator . Crystalline forms in infinite diversity beyond the subjective sublimations of mass crowded the integral forms of it’s subjugated spontaneities perversions as the well of it’s unity sang of the cause for it’s being .
The single-mindedness of it’s recumbent beginnings were all but lost to the ramifications of itself as the children of it’s repulsion waxed and waned .
The twinkling of an eye , the integration of ages , countless extrapolations of it’s *********** vanished into the nature of their being as the tainted refuse of their wanton progressions began their mutual processions back to the source , or wandered through the surrealistic ethereum of their eternally predestined nothingness .
Causalities purity reigned as all became the reason for it’s own creation , and vanished into the implosion of it’s own ***********
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
crystal clear water
brimful with tides,
rising high
because of stranger moon in the night sky
unbridled waves crash
foaming about the shore,
and shells contiguous between sea and the ocean floor
all is in place;
its serenity ingrained
into the depths of the earth's mantle, and peace remains
without giving a notion to the destruction
lying just beyond the sea
as if to degrade the tortuous world
that is not the recluse known as the ocean
where all is free.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
“What kind of life is this?”
Pradesh offers his hands in supplication.
“We should warn them there's nothing here.
My family sold land for the journey.”
Here in a back street
eager to disclose his inner space
Pradesh drags clear a square of chipboard
distressed corners shedding altered wood.
He breast-strokes through a gap
kicked into crumbled brick,
swims in against a thankless tide,
Imagines he's safe here in this place
veiled with yellowing plastic,
the stench of decayed waste crawling brittle walls.
“Others venture here too – in their thousands.”
“We are the Nameless Treaders of Earth.
We share the same contiguous roots,
the same seed, the same flowering.
We share the same goal – survival,
even the unscrupulous....
even you my friend.
Mindful of dissolving into prickly cynicism
he slumps onto his lath-thin mattress,
draws up his knees foetus-style....
and slips into half-sleep, submerged in dreams
of a home to which he can never return.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 10:56 AM UTC
Languid light fell eery through the fulgent fog bank.
Crows called, wheeling in the glare.
We swing on rubber and chain
taking turns calling back
the chattering challenge.
I do not falter as your fingers find mine
while we walk, shoulders brushing.
Framed momentarily
in crunching autumn leaves.
For a while, I am completely happy.
Apr 17, 2011
Apr 17, 2011 at 9:26 AM UTC
Lisa and I played a round of frisbee-disc golf today—let’s reminisce.
I love the ‘live performance’ of sports, how you must physicalise
discipline. You get this instant feedback that you have to own and
lean hard into. The being present to adjust, the internalised mechanisms of performance—the ‘liveness’—is the most exciting thing about sports. And, of course, the one who does it best wins—there’s a simplicity to it.
Being Sunday, the course was crowded with guys. Most of the groups were college teams of five or six guys. Since there were only two of us, we were playing faster.
I don’t like going up to a group of guys and asking to play through.
They always let us but we get these appraising looks—not strictly golf related—that you can feel. So we skipped around the guys and played open holes—still playing 18—they just weren't contiguous and it took a bit longer.
It was great to get out in the sun. The course was all rolling fairways, there’s no grass greener and no sky bluer. I came in 14-under (straight brag). I’m a little competitive, my ego loves to be placed in a hierarchy, and winning seems to give form to me, it’s such a pleasant and coherent narrative.
As we were leaving our escort Charles stepped away for a minute and a couple of Yale looking guys offered us a ride back to campus—which was all very innocent and chivalrous—to save us waiting for an Uber or something—I'm sure (we were all sweaty and looked like drowned rats).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘let’s run off into the sunset.. not.’
But I said, “No, thanks, anyway.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Golden Boys by Res
Fruitcake by Subsonic Eye
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 12:34 AM UTC
i should have held you just a little bit closer.
-k.v.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
A theorem:
any map of the world
contained on a plane
of contiguous regions
needs only four colors
to prevent the bleeding
of borders.
No matter the shape,
nor how many times
a nation state
splits itself up
with all the fight
of man splitting the atom,
nor how many splinter
groups stick themselves
into the skin
of the innocent. Any four
colors, take blue for the oceans
or black for the bruise,
it’s not the borders bleeding
but the insides,
you seeking refuge
in worlds that blame you
for the men that hold the atoms
that split you.
Odds are you’ve never
seen an atlas of only four colors
because Atlas picks more,
how else to contain it all,
to keep from shouting fine
and letting the whole globe
fall.
Oh, poor atlas.
Salaam, shalom,
what we want
is all the same,
but paix,
it sounds so different.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC