"conversant" poems
What a joy
What a joy
My little nephew,
Two decades back
Born abroad,
When a guest here
A ride on
A piggy shoulder
Who used to enjoy,
To whom I bought
A motley toy
Out of himself
Made a brilliant boy.
“As per my choice
Could you buy me a donkey
Or a could you allow me
A tortoise
To touch
When we go to
The squalid market square
Or the nearby church?”
Double mind
Is his nick name
Now crafting
Software is his game.
A small boy
Inquisitive
He used to ask
“Tell me why
Flowers don't grow
On the sky?”
“Tell me quick
Why animals
Don't speak?
Also stars
Don't grow
On the meadow?”
“Why is the sky high
To touch?”
Such questions helped him
Racking his brain
To come up with
Academic research,
That troubleshoot
Societal challenge
And afford
A nation a turnaround
Or for the better a change!
Now, conversant in IT
It is no wonder
To observe
Binary operation,flowcharts
Subroutines,syntax...
Programming languages
Are at the tip of his finger.
His study at
George Mason University
Has turned out a hit
Getting himself
In the Dean's List.
A boy that lends
To parents, relatives
And teachers
A heeding ear
Is really dear.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
She had a tongue that could open a wine bottle.
Razor-sharp articulation.
A fine art, some might say.
Living sentences on a knifes-edge.
It started in a unblunted manner,
The force hit smacked splintered minds like a hammer.
Honed in cuspate motions,
Incisively smashing the nail on the head.
She wasn’t wrong often.
Vivacious wit vivid oscillating witch,
some might say.
Not I.
I followed in the downstream of her resonance.
A quivering wreck,
soaked from head to toe in her libretto.
She marched in stilettos,
locomotive tip-toe motion,
devotion to the traverse.
Deviating as s he ambulated across lurid cobbled paths.
How she manages, alas.
Evades my comprehension.
She had this brunt agitation,
as if,
she couldn’t hear the words you say to her.
Maybe it was her nescient nature.
A think naive conversant,
If only it was that simple.
Those dimples on her cheeks were like craters in the moon.
That cheesy laugh fractures.
She escaped from Alcatraz,
Caught only by the dereliction,
of her minds conviction.
Infamy lapsed,
as she collapsed in a pretzel of marvellous contortion.
She radiantly turned to stone,
a statuesque stanza.
Cloned in allure,
that never found answers she was looking for.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
your blood's almost conjurable,
a bath this heart draws...and
soaks in.
you're such a woman.
seated with the ***** posture
of apprehension--combing
through the shadowy tangles
of your sensual demise.
taken and taken by how life
happens...like a perfect stranger
you feel you've known forever.
utterly conversant on deeper and
deeper meanings of the unsaid--
time flying by till it's wings can
no longer be seen.
Now is the samadhi we die into...
pure connection, establishing
itself by the moment.
our tantra will be fulfilled at eyeshot~
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
Your tears,
those pieces of your melting soul
leak through those holes in your face
& slither down your cheeks like two
serpentine snow flakes.
As if
bearing the legendary trickery
of the devil himself,
lead me to that forbidden fruit that seductively
halos your dimpled chin.
But I will not give in!...
No, not again.
Not like my forefathers
as they sought false wisdom.
The only wisdom
that really matters to me right now...
will be to kiss your scars & not judge their depth,
they are testimonies of your existence,
beacons...
of your swan-like grace,
& I know its pretty much irrelevant
to tell you that you occupy
the empty space in the back of my mind,
& yet transcend the cracks
between my thoughts at the same time,
Girl...you're divine.
But even divine doesn't really define
that Heavenly Vine
from which you were so masterfully clipped,
clipped...
just like those wings
that no longer sandwich your spine,
girl,
you're divine.
But...
that's besides the point,
parallel pins,
back to your scars...
My foolish flesh questions what earthly thing would
dare
leave it's tainted fingerprints
on the skin of my beloved,
but my Spirit,
conversant with these otherworldly things
calmly states that it's the mark of Life,
God's Tattoo Parlor,
they are simply the traces of the darkened ink
He has purposefully penned your porcelain skin with.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
transcendent it was the first time
when it was of faint memory to touch
but voluminously told, exacting itself
like the pretense of the heaviest pages
the curve of your face the entry of light
through momentary indulgence
nerves their city buoys and the pedestrians
salt of skin in intense heat begging for details,
ways to sewerage of mind and previous blunders
and the purest landscapes of feeling,
the underpasses of eyelids where glances hit
first, stalk swiftly – to wait underneath their
shade in the fleeting Maytime sun
coming back with renewed fervor, remembering
that from there, waiting in that margin,
there are things that may only strike a potential
but never learned, memorized, collapsed into
the absolute, and that lostness is imperative
to the finding –
the river of eyes where pilgrims are in transit,
well-constructed like the mausoleum that
keeps its secret of hills and cathedrals
kept unmarred in the silence of your refusal,
pulled out to be nailed taut into origin
the blankness of your face taken as mechanism
of marvel – to whoever god drew lines on your face
and to whoever foolish wanderer would dare traverse
your collapsible bridges, the sonorous depth
of your being when back against the dash
of beating back to senseless origins,
your name similar to the prepared countenance
of Manila, passers-by in awe of your slow Moon
unraveling behind curtains for showerheads,
humming behind, a conversant tune
where not one being ignored and it was true
to the form of first whispers
this whole new world mapped out
made naked to the twisted augur of shadow
reared by light through innocence,
a whole city I know but cannot touch.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
#*There is a light of a different kind
In darkness, lit blue lights
A vision it takes to see
The visible through fleeting lights
Alone in groups they stay
Calm and conversant
Ever chanting, rhythmic voices low
Reverberant and slow
Breathless under the unrelenting sea
Through darkness one sees
The pathways in twilight
To Allay and alleviate
Woke to the crimson sky*#
Sep 18, 2022
Sep 18, 2022 at 1:47 PM UTC
some time ago,
the chilly blue air
watched the taming
of a red day
purging
persistent memories
of
patina on walls
and conversant tokens
of
sepia on pages
and incessant prints
such, was this long time ago—
story of losing control
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC
*the quiet whispers aroused a gnawing doubt
that was insidious, surreptitious and incessant
and spoke to him well above a timid shout
that said verbal power lay in being conversant
with what the heart is and just how brittle it is
when callous heartbreakers are abroad at ease
he pleaded himself vanquished and broken
and said he needed no eleventh hour token
to tease a compliant smile out of the shreds
of self-belief that willy-nilly everyone sheds
when belittled by the mule kicks of misfortune
from belated action when no longer opportune
thus he told his heart to be still and his mind to rest
life and experience had shown him what was best
when the world became a bitter and mazy wilderness
and that, in truth, was his unending epiphany, with
naked truths and outright lies in the dusk that had to come*
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
I have to ***** out
My darkness
Like a candle
Or it’s wax drips from
My lips and tongue
And scalds those close to me
I let it burn
Long enough to
Let you know of it’s
Presence
It’s scent filling the room
with hints of
Warm Hazelnut,
Pumpkin Spice,
Clean Cotton
Giving that conversant,
Almost-friendly,
atmosphere
Familiar.
Bringing you in
For more,
Because, hey,
Everyone’s a little bruised,
A little vacant
and dim, Right?
And Nobody,
not one single person
wants to be
Alone in that until
We realize our darkness
Shuts out everything else
That adding another
Person’s shadow to our own,
Is what everyone means when
They talk of
The blind leading the blind.
- S.G.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 4:54 AM UTC
Don’t coddle me.
I don’t like to be coddled.
In fact, I don’t like to be held.
I don’t like to be touched.
In fact, don’t breathe my air.
I’m coming down with something, it must be from here or there.
And please don’t try to conversant about the news like its traverse
You cannot sit at the table without a place to put it first.
Don’t coddle me like a child.
We both know we lost our way
Don’t speak to me in such numbers
Where it seems I’m not okay
Don’t twist my words or quarry
About my younger days
As if I don’t quite ponder what will become of my wicked ways
Don’t coddle if I’m so intolerable
Don’t call if the time is not just right
Don’t feed me to the world
Just to hide me from viewers sight
And grace reflects my mere impeachment
Lets not forget about my lucky stars
Don’t count them in their glory,
Then question where they are
Don’t nurture me into success just to strip it all away
Don’t treat me like a doll
Then give me of which no house to play-
In fact, you shouldn’t coddle; when heavied from all of which I’ve weeped
What use is it to coddle- when the wicked get no sleep.
-Bre Womble
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 4:35 AM UTC
Baby I hit you with that pure magic
Show its just not in movie I produce miracles
Question 1
When you gonna stop messing with them **** fools under rating yourself
They can't amount to me
Them dudes some Str8 clowns
Sitting back laughing at them
I keep it real day in
day out
sun up to sun down
Style so dope like that Potent cocaine
That fake **** I'm not with
Was raised to be real
So that's how I'm going stay baby
If you would just open up show me your true colors maybe you would see the man I am
why you fronting acting like you don't wanna conversant lady
Not scared of you
Just don't want everybody all in our mix they gonna **** up the flavor making our chemistry all bitter
It's none of they business so I keep them out
Eyes on you
Aiming for you
Gossip that's for kids
Not what that
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC
milk thick
with clotted cream
not conversant
with homogenization
sat it a sqaut blue
earthenware jug
in the coolness
of the foodsafe
with the pan of water
cold from being ice
below, the soothing drip
part of the melody
of the old kitchen
along with the slap of dough
on the slice of marble
cut from mountainside
in a counrty old and
across a sea of troubles
tibits of sweetness
handed down
for consumption
dough and flour dusted hands
leave imprints on cheeks
and warmth in hearts
in the oven thick ginger bread
rises bringing hunger
to stomachs already full
as women talkand bake
and solve the problems
of the world, banished now
we sit on the step, out the back,
the sun warm on our faces
waiting, waiting, waiting
for a slice of gingerbread
hot from the oven
and a glass of
cold, fresh, creamy milk
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 4:13 AM UTC
I have to ***** out
My darkness
Like a candle
Or it’s wax drips from
My lips and tongue
And scalds those close to me
I let it burn
Long enough to
Let you know of it’s
Presence
It’s scent filling the room
with hints of
Warm Hazelnut,
Pumpkin Spice,
Clean Cotton
Giving that conversant,
Almost-friendly,
atmosphere
Familiar.
Bringing you in
For more,
Because, hey,
Everyone’s a little bruised,
A little vacant
and dim, Right?
And Nobody,
not one single person
wants to be
Alone in that until
We realize our darkness
Shuts out everything else
That adding another
Person’s shadow to our own,
Is what everyone means when
They talk of
The blind leading the blind.
- S.G.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
he's got sharpened nerves, although
he says he doesn't care much for logic.
his eyes distant and gazing and passing but whole-
similar color to the beer bottle he grasps in his left hand.
tighter than his grasp on the past, tighter than he remembered
says "God drives a dodge ram
he's the one who winks precariously when you walk by,
most days you pay little attention to, most days
you have little intention of meeting"
his veins real, they were the rivers studied and memorized
in geography in years past
he says "there's no use in loving shattered glass and broken memories and melted down candles."
"she said she loved me."
his knuckles fade to pale and white, bartender looks at me,
i look at him, quick exchange of glances as he mutters "Sir...."
his eyes a little more distant and detached than before,
he apologizes for his varying volume levels,
says "liquor used to subdue the pain. not intensify it"
tells me i'm interesting, tells me no one sticks around this long, why listen to the ashes of other hearts in the room?
tells me his wife used to have hair long like mine
his eyes fixed on the alcohol he's holding
swirls it around- looking for the answer somewhere
in the depths of his conversant bottle,
drinks it like water, creases and crinkles between the skin around his eyes tell me how long he's really been here
tells the bartender he's been alcoholic for twenty-some-odd years,
but he's never known what a happy hour felt like, says he never will.
tells me to stay in school, says he extinguished his potential like the fire did his home, crushed his future like his last five beer cans, couldn't care less
but he does.
there's wires under his skin and he's all broken radios,
says he meant to fix it a few years ago, says he never did
tells me she had a voice like a bar fight, like an open window during
the storm-
nothing was quite the same afterwards
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
Between the lychgate and narthex lay
a limbo approaching communion,
where one can linger at the border, sitting in the margin
with enough of a toe hold on tentative worship,
while insulated from the assembled fervour.
And Arthur prayed alone:
conversant with his God,
but wary of the draw of the warmth within
and the risks associated with human contact.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 12:44 PM UTC
a green dot is ever present
on my Facebook
the chap whose name is beside
is endlessly having look
yet he's not communicated
or had a wee chat
he may well prefer
his non conversant hat
others with green dots
are seeking to speak to me
they seem to hanker
for my verbal spree
that fellow can talk to me
whenever he doth wish
he's most welcome
to give his tongue a swish
I'll be online for an hour
or maybe five
so my time will be available
to chat with him live
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Through dereliction
of logic, the hemispheres
of the brain wash each
other as hands.
Thereby openly conversant
with the heart, as of any
matter.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
Why?
Why leave me left alone in the dark?
Why ignore me like my life has dispersed from your hands?
Why use me as your own?
Why conversant then devastate me?
You left the world for another
Your lips tasted like nicotine
And tobacco that night,
And I remember the
Way your skin was hot enough
To light a cigarette on
A winter day,
I should have seen the
Birth of my addiction
When your hot breath
Touched my neck, and
All I could think was
“Please, please,
Set me on fire.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
your tee shirt is limited
its message conversant with its area
(a skinny teenager generally wears little)
but some kid wearing his tee-shirt
was bloodied with a point blank bullet
(a tee shirt red with anger)
in up town Hong Kong
the other day
(many tee shirts were on show)
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 7:18 AM UTC
The art of Conversation = a source of emancipation,
and oral gratification per integration of knowledge
manifesting opportunity qua
sharing unconscious workings
Vis a Vis windows to the soul
whereby a quickened pace arises to latch onto this role
i.e. as a conversant fellow, who at LVII years old does poll
the fleeting decades of his existence
manning reminiscence for ole
flashing back to days of mine childhood's end -
When last verse of noel
will be writ when father time
dost take me underground akin to a mole
or perhaps cremation will deliver
mine ashes along a rib-rocked knoll
of this then once living garden-variety hominid -
whose mindfulness endowed
Introspection, his biological ticket tape
eventual fated halt to life
taken far from the madding crowd
whereby cosmic consciousness reigns supreme
lording eminence grise of this beetle browed
chap. hoop fully countless decades still abound
for me to relish what would be legally allowed
reaching out to family since no value found as de cries
the ever rapid stealth of living, yet before my demise
this sensate being, with these ears and eyes
reckons he cannot halt like greased lightening
how tempus fugit with lord of the flies
tempting to whisk me away while mortality
donned in get up as go tell a watchman guise
whence a half-century prior to **** a mockingbird
deigned as main entree, now i got a bone to pick and pries
as much longevity and stave off grim reaper
before permanent slumber doth ah rise!
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 1:24 AM UTC
O, love of the mighty power
By hatred, perpetually,
Thou art defeated,
Then thou cower
Naturally,
In thy cocooned safety,
humbly satiated,
Thou never strive
To divulge schemes to survive,
Or there none of them to try
Conversant with God's will
Thy secrets linger tacit and still
Yielding with wordless skill
Ready to die;
Evil which may satisfy,
Thou resurrect a comely butterfly
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC