"contingent" poems
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds
Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual
My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary
Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments
I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path
The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux
As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate
Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift
Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary
Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode
And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
1405
Bees are Black, with Gilt Surcingles—
Buccaneers of Buzz.
Ride abroad in ostentation
And subsist on Fuzz.
Fuzz ordained—not Fuzz contingent—
Marrows of the Hill.
Jugs—a Universe’s fracture
Could not jar or spill.
5.1k
1.I love my scars, they tell stories of survival, give life to my soul, remind me I am here for a reason, they tell me everything other people let me forget
2.I love my curves, each mountain and valley residing on my sides take pains to protrude and remind me I am soft, delicate, I deserve to be handled with care, I am a woman.
3.I love my taste buds. So what if a steak has 3 million more calories than skinny girl’s bite of lettuce. I am going to eat it anyways and I will be proud, and yes, I will moan, because why, my self worth is not contingent on my jean size
4.I love my laugh. There’s something liberating about your belly shaking until it hurts, your body exploding with joy, giving another human being pleasure with just the touch of your voice.
5.I love that I’m beautiful, something you can’t touch, my glamour goes beyond my blemished skin. I am more than the curves surrounding my center, I am **** I am brave; I am smart. I am fearless wrapped up into 5 feet of glee. You. Cannot. Touch. Me,
6.I love that I’m honest. There’s something refreshing in saying, **** off, you weren’t good for me anyways
7.I love that I’m faithful. Faithful to myself, my dreams, my ambitions. I am more than a man’s lover, I will live my life worthy to the calling I have received, regardless of what price you have placed on me
8.I love that I believe, trust in first loves, don’t doubt passion; it was sincere in the moment, but as that moment collapsed, outstayed its welcome, I believed I was more, and I will be ok, and one day, 10 years down the line, that same moment will come tapping on my door, requesting to visit an old friend
9.I guess in all I love myself, each and every blemish and bruise, every scar I’ve been given. I was not created for your pleasure, but for His glory, I only require myself to wear that badge proudly
10.I love that I am who I am. loud, flamboyant, I am not afraid to speak my mind, which is why, I’m standing here, calling you to action. Take a chance: love yourself.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
We are all mere dots in this vast mural:
too fickle and futile
to comprehend the complexities
of existing
where
everything is part of
a design so grand
that it stretches
before and beyond eternity,
a design so intricate
that it weaves together
strangers' destinies
and where
nothing is
contingent and coincidental
nothing is
random and accidental
nothing is
ever
too early or too late.
But
don't just use this as an excuse
to settle in your unfortunate state
because though everything is part
of this grand plan ordained,
our ultimate destiny
is to be something great.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC
he demanded attention
i craved validation
a time and a place that's all we would need
to seal our fate
with a kiss, oh so sweet
i lie.
first kisses are messy
there's always some drool
memorable and bad
leave you smiling like a fool
but i'll tell you a truth
its something i hide
i'm glad that you took it
sorry i lied.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 3:40 AM UTC
Fred occupies his chair, innocently enough.
Occupying his time by
Solving the crossword puzzle, racking his brain
for the answers.
So all of the letters fit together.
So every space is filled. The beauty of solved Enigmas.
Ten across. Opposite of faithfulness.
The fire consumes the logs. Contained Chaos.
The room is illuminated in frantic light
Emanating from the fireplace.
Flames prevented from yielding to their Natural
Yearning to Disseminate to whatever matter
Will accept them. Fred sits on his chair,
Innocently enough,
But if you look in those
Eyes of his, you will witness the Beauty of
Pain, la Douleur exquise d'amour.
Loving Someone he will, invariably, love and forgive.
A woman
Whose love has changed patterns. Changed
Directions. Altered. There is a string
That hitches his heart to that of his infidel.
His wife. He feels foreign blood impairing
Them. He knows her. Without her telling
Him anything, he knows the Lies in those
Eyes of her. Confirming his knowledge.
Ten across. Infidelity. Means unfaithful.
She walked in moments ago, sat on the
Usual chair in front of him. Fred’s
Heart aches now with the immensity of the
Heartache within his wife.
He feels her heart has been broken
By the same man who usurped her from
Him every Thursday. She would return
[not quite yet]
Home on those days, Disjointed, Distracted. He
Knew this was what Falling in
Love looked like. But today, his wife's
Heart feels different. Her Lover is
Absent from their blood. Fred no
Longer is
Obligated to pump the blood of his
Wife’s flame throughout his own body.
and yet, he feels sorry for her.
feels her suffering.
feels her pain more than his own.
He watches her face, the Sorrow in
Her eyes drinks the flames of the
Fire. Fred can tell she wishes she were
In the flames. Better yet, the
Blaze itself, free from her despondency,
The places her mind must be traveling to.
Fred is fully aware that she is contemplating
Unloading her triste to him. Not for
His own Benefit, to be Honest with him.
Only to assuage her Guilt, to
empty her conscience of
Bad Blood.
She is a sinner. She will sin
Again. No doubt about that. But.
His Infidel.
He cannot stand to see her...
His love...his life...
If someone is spread out before you
Seeking to surrender to Death,
You do not Simply let them die.
Especially if they share half your blood.
Especially if your Happiness is
Contingent upon their survival.
Fred’s wife has a ghostly look on her
Face and he cannot help but save her from
Her caustic thoughts, from the
Consuming pain in her very
Core.
and so he guides
her back to him.
just her wide eyes.
he knows all.
And He forgives her.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
energy surging,
heat begetting heat
expands to dark expanse to cool and brew what slow restocking weight
with white supernal flare between
around an equipoise of center you imagined as you write
and what non-being-being residing in beneath the deep?
inspired by the question-thought embracing
death beyond what death to value life a blissful state
in even darkest reaches found
the pain a sundered gate of joy you capture with poetic greeting ploy,
that coin is split to join opposing worlds
as when blind Shiva blinded world
unbridled lust arrayed from hut to hut
obliging them his ***** to rip
but then extinguishing their rant
to foster pleading for the dance again
collecting yoga as viyoga
in samanvaya chiaroscuro maya-vidya
or adept on cosmic player focus
hate-trancendent into vast eternal love
which even Luke (14:26) dropped lovely clue to
un conditioned by contingent fondness
for what myth of real play
we stage together evermore
to frolic in the uncut hair of graves
(greenest grass to know what past)
whose leavings are for future sunrise lush to celebrate another self envisioned
in another set of singing eyes
the literal, empty, formless mien
a synthesized good-bye recursion rush
.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:23 PM UTC
What I am, I don’t know.
What I do know, however, is what you are.
My eyes have traveled over your person for hours, and I have studied your intellect.
I observe, I don’t make conclusions –
for that would be a sabotaged investigation of the potentiality of your existence.
The ‘you’ I speak of is nobody at all really,
it is the world around me in all of its embodiment.
I soak in the culture as I live amidst the chaos,
and my mind becomes oversaturated with sensation.
In San Francisco, yes, San Francisco, the sweet smell of diversity,
the push of movement walking up Powell Street and the creak
of the old elevator in Rasputin Music.
On top of a hill in Indian valley, a moment of freedom –
the air and I, we hold hands.
The wind and I, we run along picking daisies off their stems
until only the unwanted ones are left standing.
In the middle of a crowd in Golden Gate Park, waiting for the band to appear onstage;
I don’t know his name or hers, but they are very close to me.
Sitting here, on my bed,
flipping pages and pages as books progress;
if only my own storyline were half as intriguing.
Way up here in the air, this plane’s motion makes me tremble.
Occasionally I am distracted by the beauty of what’s outside the tiny window,
and the feeling of omnipresence I attain pushes past my anxiety;
the world is below me and I am defying its weight.
In precalculus class, I reach a strange state of tranquility;
I can finally revert to the robotic motion of pencil and calculator,
a momentary lapse from the stress of the day, and the world.
All in all and end in end,
poems are poems but it mostly depends,
everything is contingent,
and it’s all ambiguous of course.
That may be description of the world – or rather, one of myself.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
Dread, is when I took step after endless step on the staircase of death.
No. ‘Death’ is too extreme - ‘staircase of scattered limbs and self-esteems.’
The summit wasn’t far now yet it wasn’t getting any closer.
My cousin Keya was behind me; her breath cooled
my sun-blistered calves and I looked back at her.
Her almond eyes and her thin lips came together
in that customary way that moved anyone to her command.
I turned back and took the steps two at a time, too quickly to think.
Was the sky really this blue?
When it isn’t crowded out by buildings, planes and industry
it could be mistaken for the smiling reflection of an unbroken ocean.
It was a strange feeling, to be so tall and no taller. I thought:
‘if I were to live here,
I’d forever be looking down at the rest of the world.’
Keya’s little head scans the ground at my feet before she joins me.
I grit my teeth and
ignore my knocking knees.
The clouds had stood still as if they had stopped to watch and right then, it was hard to see
how this moment could possibly end.
Braying, restless braying shook me out of my reverie.
The clamour of the fiendish contingent below us clashed violently
against each other. Some
were new challengers.
Others hoped to reclaim the dignities they had lost up here.
I raised my foot; ‘I am ready’.
A hand gently pushes the small of my back.
‘No’ I thought. ‘I’m not ready at all.’
My bony bottom bounces off the sides of the slide to cheers from below. Keya laughs, and follows.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
A famous "Barry Hodges" poem!
I was strolling along the Normandy beaches
In the close vicinity of Caen one day
With a very tasty piece of arm-candy to hand
When I found a bleached human femur on the beach.
Oh dear me, what thoughts this conjured up in my brain
As I imagined whose bone it might have been!
Perhaps some pathetic soldier boy landing in forty-four
Who got slotted by a gallant German gunner,
His eyes feasting on the sacrificial cannon fodder
So foolishly supplied for his target practice.
Then, as I grabbed my lady friend's juicy ****
Causing her to turn and sink her tongue into my earhole,
We sank onto the sands in order to sate our lusts,
(enflamed by a very delicious meal of moules marinières
and a bucket or two of well-chilled Muscadet sur Lie)
I thought, what the **** does it all matter?
This is now, and that was then, and this old world
Has become a much nicer place nowadays;
But how mistaken I was in that fond thought;
Oh what an idealist I am in a world of woe.
For, all of a sudden, a contingent of fat dwarfs appeared,
Totally naked apart from their luminous Uncle Sam hats
And the Stars and Stripes hanging from their arseholes;
How I marvelled at their disgusting shapes
(and how surprised was I to find their genitals
were of normal measurements and thus
rather intrusively large by comparison
with the rest of their miniature bodies).
O dear Lord and alleged Father of Mankind
Forgive their horrid ways verily and forsooth.
With a whoop, those demented military retards, [see note below]
The famous 118th battalion ****** Marine veterans,
A contingent of whom emerged from a portable toilet
(which must have been a bit of a tight squeeze),
Chopped my girl-friend up with their bayonets,
Whereupon I crapped myself in terror and pity,
Before retrieving the purse from the eviscerated corpse,
Realizing that her PIN number was still useable
Until 'les flics' discovered her unfortunate remains
After the shore ***** had partaken thereof.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
50:53
Strobe
when revealing a smile variegated
your polychrome
soul within sight
does not know where to go but to pine away
from the single light to touch
the innards of your button-down
making intimate the body contorts dancing with another
a minute past a gyratory
if belief is a grave: let stasis be metamorphosis.
this rained-on house will not give way any minute
else there is the wreckage springing from a singular
hiding behind the music ballasting ground
and from a convinced consequence of being
became fracture as if salacious to withdraw nothing but noise
from the quiet or vice versa. If when breaths were postponed, inert – they will
start estimates from outside
the neon sign that says Pulse and reimagine the lives when divorced
from the daily, and is then summarized
in a fusillade. When on the ground
they must have been dreaming of wings, or falling asleep
constantly with a warm body stranger tomorrow in that evening
a contingent
this place they have not reached yet against their head
said it was the most sincere of blankness at any given rate,
when movements statistical, numbered, unwarranted like a metaphor
or a glib downpour – the aftermath
becomes sleep so tender with a dream which resonates
They must have been dreaming of wings but by the time when someone
waiting for them
inside homes, they have already flown into days.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
Or afterlife I can't remember
*Let's take a trip
Just go for a stroll
Down this hellhole
Old ravaged soul
Fear not my friend,
For lo and behold
You've been here before
Time after time,
Spent breaking the mold
Value of life cajoled
Blindfolded by fool's gold
Then a jolt
of electricity
jots down your spinal chord
Now you're on the threshold
About to enter a portal of some sorts,
No?
Only to discover
You're living the life of another
And the sum of every misgiving
makes you suffer in discomfort
Living the dream
To wake and repeat
Routinely existing
One day at a time
Feel it yes shudder
Over your head pull the covers
Dream of a place elsewhere
But beware your worst nightmares
As a slaughter is awakening
Pharm entrapment for mass brainwashing
It's one global chess-game
While pawns are laid to waste
Archons duplicate an assumed fate
Deception whispers into the hearts of the wicked
For certain they're rendered
by men lurking
shadily behind curtains unspoken of
I'm ashamed
Prayers fall on deaf ears
when a reckoning is ravenous
Assuredly glimmering in extravagance
Whilst you traipse about like savages
Poisoning our brains
Tainting the terrain
Reign supreme putrid filth
For bloodstained money &
Squandered wealth
Lengthening our debts
Molesting children
Who'd like to place their highest bet?
Just stay conditioned
For the daily grind
The hustle and bustle
Stick with consistence
And reminisce of better times
You're dead inside
Is the end just contingent?
Why won't society just crumble
Keep living the lie
Greener pastures
lay just beyond the hillside
Am I right?*
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
When they greet her each morning
The clouds will always kiss the sky,
softly taint her with their love
grooming her for a beautiful day
But do they know that nothing they do
will ever hinder her from hiding her truth?
She can beckon the rain to pour gently,
even descend fiercely as a wild shower
release a luminous shock of white,
striking against her nakedness
accompanied by the bellowing thunders
the ones that cause even the strongest
to tremble as trepidation hugs their bones
-- when she finds it necessary--
Her actions are not contingent
upon the desires of those who
only want the easier side of her
To love her is to accept her wholly
and truthfully for everything she is
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
follow the yellow brick road...
The terrible freedom unleashed by typewriters.
Condition of complexity judged without criteria.
Radical provocations. Urinals and prams. Contingent.
Anarchist aesthetic. Not truth nor beauty but freedom.
Materiality of language. Multi-hued wheel barrows.
A cuttlefish. A crate. A cassowary. A cigarette. A ******
Paratactic order. Particular phrasing. Pulsing pastiche.
An infinite conversation without resolution
as with the stupid friend who won’t shut up. Ever.
A transcendent dialectic based solely on proximity.
Ineluctable modality of the near. Only that. Buck it.
An unquiet ghost endlessly self-questioning. No answers.
Moaning in the meaning. A simple stuttering. Sibilant.
Turbulent and unpredictable as waddling wolverines.
Words that only mean whatever is seen. Juxtaposition.
Dissolving into desired dissonance. The magic chord.
Absolute verity in the experience of the fraudulent
for the same reason as the ubiquity of toothpaste.
The poem as its own universe, complete and whole,
fodder for the mind, not balm for the soul.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
How many days left in my body?
How many poems left in my body?
One and the same, one and the sane.
My body is my poems.
You cannot distinguish me
in any other way.
eye-scans, fingerprints, belly buttons,
areolae.
all possess, all differentiate, none suffice,
I say it thrice, still you do not understand,
none not a marker singular,
they are not me,
nor are they you.
so if you read but one of my poems,
my body,
you do not know.
but when I find you perusing, exhuming,
the-ones-that-went-before
then you will, can know as well
as I know myself.
each poem a pore,
each pore a poem.
**How many days left in my body?
How many poems left in my body?
one and the same, one and the sane.
my body, my poems.**
my body is not episodic.
turn on the tv, no imagination leaps needed,
but each and every contingent on the prior,
each poem a stepping stone to the in side,
insight to the story of the body.
more story than poems,
I began in the beginning,
believe me there are thousands
of writs that lie about, lay about,
that sunshine has n'ere exposed.
but enough survived
enough shared, enough spent,
You have never seen my face,
what matters that,
when you have seen my poems,
my body, more than windows into,
they are the very pores of me.
Jan. 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
hours have been spent
hours of me, staring at myself
not in a mirror, not at a picture
but of my words
and,
i've come to realize that i have been wrong
and i have been wronged
emotion and pain are understandable but,
how can these words possibly explain how i feel
i've been thinking of someone else for too long
my problems aren't contingent on our relationship at the moment...
because that's pathetic and weak and it's not me
nor will i let it become me
i've been wrong
i cant blame you for not loving me
i cant blame the world for believing that my feelings toward you...
are unrequited
and i wont blame myself either
as a writer...
as a person...
the type of person i am...
it's difficult to call my previous prose and poems
"works of self victimization"
even if they are,
they're still art
**** what everyone else thinks
**** the world
**** everyone
but i will never say **** you" to myself
and that is where i have been wrong
it's going to take more than this
one, long, grievance
to mitigate...
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
I changed my mind
I have the right to be angry and the right to be hurt
You hurt me and I won't let that go until you say "I'm sorry"
And I take back that comment about "self victimization"
**** that entire concept
If I am a victim of someone else's careless actions, I remain sane in writing it down
I can think of myself however I want to
I was NOT wrong
I was right in every sense of the word because I conveyed the emotion that will never slip through my mouth
It's the emotion that will only pour out of my eyes
and out of my heart
It;s the emotion that is surreal, yet my reality
NO
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
the acceptance
of her capacity
to love you
cannot be contingent
upon her desire
to spit or swallow
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 6:15 PM UTC
To be necessary is
to have purpose in essence.
Disavowed from senses
of contingent dependence.
Disallowed from connection
in simplest of form,
the necessary are
to be dead and too born.
Existing in realm
of support for all else,
with no reason at all
in helping themselves.
To be necessary is
to have purpose in essence;
contingency aiding
with iris virescent.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
I thought guilt was the most unsettling emotion
Saturated in all of my wrongdoings
Crying because there was no way to mitigate my mistakes
But I was wrong in every sense of the word
A clear conscious and 100 enemies is worse than being guilty
Because right now, I know that I did nothing wrong
I am the victim of malice and injustice
Not even fighting the cruelty bestowed upon me
I came forward because they tell me truth outweighs everything
They were wrong
I'm alone with my thoughts
Independent of my best friend and other friend
All because I made an effort to preserve one's life that I couldn't give a **** about
She hurt me
She made false allegations and nasty rumors
She was the one who deserves to be punished by the world
All I did was tell a higher authority that she was insane
And with an investigation comes evidence
So I provided the evidence that I'm morally obligated to give
And it ****** me over
Because the evidence was contingent on a friendship
The evidence was about two of us
Not one
I don't care how many times they tell me I was right
Because it feels wrong
I'm all alone
And I did nothing wrong
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
Is sacrifice contingent with results or effort?
Is a man judged on his intentions or his actions?
Can one man alleviate the duties of a entire team?
Does age really come with wisdom?
Should you take food away from one mouth to put into another?
Should unconditional help have a manual or a dollar amount?
No need to buy seeds for ground that won't yield any results
Nor is there any need to stargaze in the sky when there is rain coming down
A chameleon has no advantage to someone who can't see colors
Neither is bestowing rags on a king.
Is forgiveness accepted only when the victim is in need?
or is it trash for a overflowing dump of emotions?
- jamesdavis
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
good god a gaggle of girls
read the dispatch thrice; the hierarchical lines some straight and some dotted but all I know they got a genealogical baseball team femi-nine
and maybe an NFL eleven when the twins get older
(husbands and sons ride the motorcycle bench and
back up if necessary, and good for musical accompaniment)
~oh yeah,
for Medusa~
this megillah message team meant for me to assauge my
mother hubbard accusations only partial reveals the player’s names:
but if you google a
gaggle of strong women you become informed there is a:
Queens Esther, Miriam, an Eve, four matriarchal outfielders, Batsheva pitching and only Ruth, can catch her **** curveball
in between an occasional poem gig whose costs are covered
under the mental health clause of a health care plan
but only in
California
too cavalier, get it, you prefer this perhaps
sinewed strength in arms that can
carry three children at once,
age is not a factual issue,
for there is an army of
women soldiers who are a troop contingent,
everyone’s back is covered always-full stop-
they curve like the Earth’s crust,
magma formed strong and mineral rich,
curved to better resist
the comets the heavens cannot resist
to send & test the mettle
of a gaggle of stronger women sinewy arms entwined
reenforced
alas
the grandpa must here resist and rest,
lunch prep before Sgt. Stubby movie at noon,
in reclining chairs they ride like wild horses
and all our shushing noisier than their giggles
just google a gaggle of strong kids,
you’ll see what I mean
in this, we do possess a giggle of expertise
sunday 10:15am
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 10:28 AM UTC
Here i hold a masquerade
A precious volatile art
Held behind the veils
An unstable lonely heart
Praying it doesn't shatter
Confused and falling apart
Here i hold a masquerade
Contingent from the start
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
Real is the empty promise.
It's the shadow of knowledge,
making contingent ideas for the nostalgic.
The intention, the purpose, the art of life..
Lost.
When you choose to settle for less than what you are.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC