"countable" poems
With mechanical portals known to be doors
That either lead to different worlds or take you home,
These cabled vehicles like tunnels on wheels fastened on a railroad track
Stretch to both ends of the universe under a single route.
And as you get in for closure,
You put your trust on the obscure.
Just say the magic words;
It will take you anywhere you wish to be.
Even though magic always comes with a price,
The only cost are countable units of your time
And also a few dimes,
In return for the travel of your life.
Across the carpeted walkway of reaching out,
Through the glass windows of visible silver lining,
Behind the blank and arid faces that lure the soul to sink in deep wonder,
The lights and skyscrapers, and mist silhouetting the scenery,
All appear in bokeh, all blend in your eyes;
Your eyes that glow brighter than fire on ice.
The coldness lashing perennially on your skin
And shaking your bones to its final breakage,
Couldn't beat the absolute zero amity between these strangers.
But your fascination has enough radiation
To melt the tip of the iceberg
And shine over what's behind their opaque walls.
Settled on the plastic seats that serve as time machines,
They nestle between unfamiliar bodies;
Static, in a state of inertia.
Blocking out force, resisting change;
Like cars stuck on parking mode,
Couldn't bring themselves to unload.
Grasping on loose handles
With a grip more secure than seat-belts,
Some tend to pull away despite of the constant push.
Like engines on reverse, they take time to backtrack.
For all we know, for every action,
Is an equal and opposite reaction.
The brakes hit; there goes a screeching sound.
But when it comes to a break, we don't really hang back
Or fall to a complete stop;
We only slide forward.
For we must keep moving ahead,
In order to keep our balance.
The portals once again unlock to let you out to the open galaxy
And let in another for the same adventure.
You've reached the end of the trip,
But not the end of the road; nor the destination.
For the journey is infinite; you know you are going to ride again and again,
Until you've run out of wishes of where you want to be where.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
And now emerges white bits of sunshine;
Eyes urged to wake, and tongues to pray;
To Lord of the worlds and of nights and days;
That we be pure in the heart and mind;
Feet saileth lower amongst one another;
With such admiration that lasts forever;
Faithful heads bow and touch the pious floor;
Pearls of rewards doubling behind the door.
And His beauty is deeper than solace;
More luminous than desire and grace;
He asks for love, chastity, and firm abstinence;
He longs for faith, modesty, and true penitence.
Praises and glory are floated to Allah;
Mouths recite and phrase la ilaha illallah.
And claim their very peace upon beloved Muhammad;
With dear respect from the deepest roots of hearts.
Winds might blow and grass might be green;
But we fear still, the restless Might of the Unseen;
He who watches and renders all our affairs;
He who breathes our blood and strands of our hair;
And do fear Him and seek His Abode;
For we shall cease and retreat to our Lord;
As this earth fades, where His end starts therefrom;
And sees our deeds since we dwelled in mothers' wombs;
But Allah is ever fair, filial, and loving;
He is the Keenest, and the Most Heroic king;
He rules perfectly the East and the West;
He listens to what flows within every chest;
And He is All-Forgiving and ever Merciful;
He is swift to both the living and the dead;
He relieves tears of the believing souls;
He lives and sparks, within our very breath.
And He is but ecstatic like the rainbow;
Nothing is more countable than His tomorrow;
His Warm Hands are what we all rush for;
His Words are a poem, like never before.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
Fill in the blanks with those vocabularies never ever found in usual discussion, daily comes and goes, never existed even on imaginary world of movies or books.
Fill in the blanks with noise.
Tumult of hallucination whizzing the sound of ambiguity through the sound of the gait of a man galloping smoothly in the long yellow brick route surrounds with fences never expose the way of redemption.
Fill in the blanks with choice.
The last track of nightingale, maybe, dwells on the far branches of novel blossom tree of best spring with no worrisome regards countable, uncountable, passives, actives, adjectives or nouns.
Fill in the blanks with skylarks of no boast.
It is causative by its own, Imagery flying over the untrodden lands inspires the eyes overview the long hair singers hadn’t been observed before. Access is denied!
Fill in the blanks with liberty of boost.
Aurora …aurora…. Some body calls. Pretending to be wise whole life, how nonsense it was. Being lunatic is secret of joy.
Fill in the blanks with wandering ghosts!
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 7:29 AM UTC
Through sleepless night my demon plays
A discreet prelude soundless and damp
Only to show the song it never able to sing
For its voice was tombstone as heavy as life
They said, find a demon who walks with yours
And since we can neither walk nor sing a song
We shall exchange letters in various forms
I will write my blood into words and yours into notes
And in the letters you sent to me at night
Are countable melodies that turn into bats
Which morph my nocturnal agony into dreamless ballad
With uncertainty of a sincerity I can never pay back
We are in different worlds but our demons are in the same
It was your countless letters of wordless phrases
Which keep us sane in a dying perfumed universe
Of self-abhorrence and longing never attained
And in my contemplation towards my ancient lover still
I came to reek that immortality and eternity
Are just unrequited sorrow for stories and blatant history
Of unfathomed longing never has been fulfilled
In a sorority painted by degraded hopes
Nothing mattered anymore as long as we walk
Upon the different dreams and on the same pavements
Caged by cracking skin and melted bones
And when we meet again in the letters
Or in outnumbered dreams
I hope it would be a blessed hell
Instead of broken old tales
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 5:44 AM UTC
She differentiated herself from society, thinking that her life would never intersect with another's.
Her irrational thinking was harmful, she called herself odd.
"Think positively" they said, "the outcomes are countless.
Life is nonlinear, it's not as simple as x=y.
It may not always make sense but you will make it add up."
She had no proof.
She hated the sine wave of life, her countable infinity that she wanted to stop.
The probability of her meeting her congruent mate was 7,000,000,000:1
Until the day her life was bisected by a girl.
The girl was her complimentary angle, her stationery point, her happy infinity.
She was integrated.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
i have seen scarred wrists and burns and bruises marring the bodies of beautiful girls, countable ribs and thigh gaps and jutting hip bones.
boys destroying themselves in puffs of smoke and empty pill bottles, dry coughs coming from ruined lungs.
but nothing triggers me like you do.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
the fear beats
concrete pillows and
cold alleyways
though
as white lines go by
I wish that they
would continue
interrupted but
focused enough to
lead me there
inferior, but
motivated regardless
such is such
and life is life
lead me to pillows fluffed
in understanding, a bed fit for
a delusional king,
grounded in the caress
of intrigue, with the
spirit of the dreamer
dangling up overhead
take me to where I
can dare to indulge in
the freedom of waking
with the sun, the right
and reason to chase it
to its ends, the need to
be where it finds its
refuge in the dark,
the moon resonating
slight, slipping memory
of since passed splendor
allow me to love,
whatever that means
paper thin walls,
foolish dreams, countless
meaningless things
that bring meaning
to those things
countable and concrete
and in no discreet way
I long for life
for despair
for humanistic helplessness
subject to all things beautiful
and eternal
the fear is in fact the pillow,
the comfort, the shelter
the reminder-
and yet the distraction
*one must, one must
turn gold to dust*
take the place of
random space,
and fill it with the
tarnished grace
the flaws, the tragedy
the confusing beauty
of it all
I want it to disappear
into my heart
mind
and soul
stardust and delusions,
my being
my mystery
that is what all
is and must be
and I will see this through
I will be consumed
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
The sun rose sideways over
Trees so full of birds I'd thought they'd
Taken the place of any
Real branches. The song came quiet,
Making conquest of our opened ears,
And ****** if it all wasn't gorgeous.
The Jazz in it hummed loudly,
Asking whence the shakes began.
She screamed in an ear to
Inquire about the fun she's having.
Stuck staring in a rear view,
With hope they're unaware of
Locked doors.
Green-garnished, gold-rimmed eyes, and a
Brandished black mask, blocking the brightness,
But also the bad intentions.
Let 'em know where you come from,
And they'll use it against you.
Let them see where you're going: then,
They run for the hills.
"What's a vice worth, if you
Don't nourish it?"
*What's a number, but an
Excuse, or a limit?*
"See, there's a countable
Amount of stuff, in this universe, but we're
Still unsure of what we're
Doing in life."
Gasping at the light's
Bounce off foreign plants.
Recollections of strengthened bonds,
Pressing heavy, into wet dirt
Of a previous day's rain. Fearing
Faith in what you can't understand.
Working for the worst people in the world.
But because, you must
Help, to exist.
But break the bubble,
Roll back those shoulders, tuck those wings
**Maybe get the **** out of the car?**
"I'm getting there, ******
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
You're not even gone
But I miss you so much.
Only countable days away
But I can't help it.. I feel so blue.
I think this time is the hardest
Even still I act the strongest.
The distance is far
And the time away is long.
I will feel helpless
Knowing I am away from you.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC
I am envisioning a world of bots,
pulling us into the black hole
of innovation and technology,
with no trees, no schools, no collages,
nothing that is bricks and mortar.
Can you envisage a life on man-made oxygen?
Can you imagine the fantasy world
in movies becoming our real world?
I'm being ingenuously curious,
how long before
a plethora of machines and bots,
a metallic universe created by man,
replaces everything we have lived for?
A few more countable years perhaps.
Just the thought sets me off in trepidation.
I wish to somehow freeze and slowdown
the evolving era so the living flesh and blood
could be prepared for what they are about to face.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
One of the resourceful books unbeatable;
Children’s love, care and comfort biddable
Is none better than Reader’s Digest – capable.
Articles, reports, jokes and anecdotes audible;
All are present in it; all are undoubtable.
Changing the mindset of students capable
Is a new, systematic thing coachable.
Changing the world and its cannibal
Into the virtues and values bindable.
Explaining itself if anytime culpable;
And so is famous for being countable.
Teachers, parents, students ennoble
Reader’s Digest for not being enfeeble.
Leaders or followers who are like a crucible
Change their minds and be bendable.
Behaviour and conduct – key undoubtable
Will keep you atop, elevated, lofty and able.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
It’s been ten years, long but short nonetheless,
But these last few weeks seem most valuable:
With the many tears, shed but shown much less,
With what was and still isn’t; days, countable,
Unwind the deep depths of my mind, as I press
And **** what memories I have left, unable
To realize, much more see, how near sunset’s
Come. For me, it might be time to buy a shave.
I’ve got a lot to look back to, much more to look at:
Those days I cried because I couldn’t fight and
The days I’ll fight because I wouldn’t cry… That,
That and why things are the way they are without
Having to ask “why?” are the things my mind can’t
Help but think of. It’s my time to wake up now.
Sunset nears, but there is no need to fear the night.
All nights pass as if there is none; hence, sleep is time
Travel. Sunrise will come just as soon as sunset; right
After the sun waves goodbye it greets us with light
So brilliant. Indeed, it is time to wake up… Tomorrow
Is just like any other day, just that it starts another
Ten years… of pain and joy, of sorrow and laughter,
Of new things and old habits… I’m not even halfway there!
Jul 6, 2020
Jul 6, 2020 at 9:44 AM UTC
Possessing these few
On my fingers and My Toes
not much but e-nough
Sunken loyalty
surged into the abyss of
synthetic shrug off .
******* in-to voids
I: enigma machine
-- A Confusion cirque.
enmity vents
propagating soothsayer---
Such A paranoid
frailty to indulge
Even with the countable
Please no more strangers
For throng furnishes
Nothing but suffocation_
vague sanctuary
So rather eye lurk
Within the truest fondness : My :
_______ imagination !
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 2:38 AM UTC
There is a countable
distance between
the silence
where I sit
and the street
where I see
a mobile cacophony
of pedestrians
of various speeds
and multiple gaits.
From singular
to numerous bodies
together and apart.
A part of me wants
to join them
apart needs
to avoid them.
So I count the distance
between voices
and my thoughts
silently
hush now
urging them all to stop
and embrace the nearest one
and say without words
life can be beautiful
if we allow.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
I spent my life as a ghost
drifting lost through the halls
knocking on the closed doors
immaterial against their charm
a mere shadow by life’s gauge
with a past the most can’t see
while I dread the future times
existing longer than I dare
in response I mark my time
exploring themes most avoid
by this measure I am lost
a phantom seeking what most avoid
moaning poems to be heard
these enchantments from the muse
delivered a mantra daily shared
asking a world to bear witness
the themes of life are countable
on one hand or maybe two
knowing others also struggle
also shades to my form
only a spectre, nothing more
I’ll end my time with a verse
asking for an equal ear
to listen through the keyhole’s width.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180807
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 7:08 PM UTC
reflect the sky at the dividing line
thousands, pilgrims, acrobatic flight
cautionary signals, holy outline
carry the form of grace and light.
countable and uncountable, alight
coastal meadows of purple aster
neon sun behind the fog, fading night
winged silhouettes settling at Big Sur.
aerial blueprints, circling wet fir,
time resolved into opaque brushstroke,
compass lines, body before mind, umber
cliffs springing off a morning flock, awoke.
red on red ridden their wild throats, pigment
of deepest origin, indifferent.
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 4:58 AM UTC
for many ran on fumes,
these few years,
living daily on hope,
and nothing else;
a great number wanted,
but the heavens never granted,
the privilege to see aturn in the tide,
to the dearly departed, sleep on;
and for the quick,
welcome to making history,
a rare opportunity to be amongst,
the countable, the reachable, the available;
whatever it is worth,
the next four can never be as darkly,
as the eight spent in vast backwardness,
time truly deserving to be forgotten;
but for the lessons learnt ,
nothing nostalgic of the cowtostrophic era,
every single element will get what is deserving,
karma always finds a way;
and for the hopeful many,
may your aspirations meet rapid improvements,
because today marks a departure from irreverence,
into days and nights of renewed hope.
May 29, 2023
May 29, 2023 at 1:27 AM UTC
now that I am in my seventh or eight decade,
(not particularly sure when you start counting)
memories bust out like the flashbulbs on olden cameras,
briefly bright as hell, illuminating and annoying as hell,
this flash came to me this morning and don’t know why,
but it was worthy of writing down for no particular reason.
when I was a child in one of those indistinguishable early grades,
my teacher informed my father at an annual parent teacher partee,,
that I was “not particularly smart,” which angered him greatly.
He went home undecided whom to hide (1) p,
the teacher or hide me.
unsure, he was, which was the smarter course of action
(for my mother had passed and he without a consultant),
but informed me, who promptly hid (as in escaped)
in the only place suitable in our tiny house, behind the couch,
that was my mother’s pride an joy.
more tired than angry, he reflected while sitting on said couch,
listening to my breathing/panting, he decided that perhaps
the teacher was kerrect, and furthermore, I was not to blame,
(told to me years later by his serious drinking buddies)
“given the stock he came from, it was less my fault, and more his.”
this too, is only a love poem…
(1) hide as hiding, a countable noun, if you give someone a hiding, you punish them by hitting them many times).
Mar 25, 2023
Mar 25, 2023 at 3:38 PM UTC
life is an improbable nothing
it is a muscle
it is *******
it makes hands with hands
and speaks not a word
nor is a number
nor is countable
it is a whole and it is a moment
beyond heat, it burns
and say i (life little; life improbable)
speak not a word
be uncountable
be not a number
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
Memoirs in Diaspora…..
The Egypt I miss;
Had bread basket filled, bottled butter
Mouth watering sliced salted spiced snacks,
Vast garlic gotten from government grocers,
Onions, olives and countable orphans,
Gracious graduates donned in fitting gowns.
No pick-pocketing pirate police……
Even though we wailed upon Pharaohs’ whips
Stomachs were stuck with solid meals.
Is Moses’ Canaan carrying a curse?
I can’t help wondering.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 3:48 AM UTC
A tale of love
Brian Odongo.
Countable times in history
Two separate lives become one story
Such as was between Jacob and Rachel
A tale more beautiful than a fable
A tale not as a result of fate
But a plan in divine date
A tale of two hearts
That cannot be torn to parts
Even by ink it can only be faintly described
But in their hearts it is masterfully inscribed
A tale that lives for generations
And defies all common expectations
Such is my tale with this fair Lady
Fairest than the beautiful daisy
The only beloved daughter of her father
And the joy of the family when they gather
She is of rare charm and mind
“A virtuous woman who can find? "
Her heart is most pure
Her smile every pain cure
Seasons before us seem so long
But each day will be filled with a love song
Then all the rounds and bends of time
Will be far much worth than countless dimes
Not every step forward will be simple
But happenstances will not our love dwindle
For our tale of love is not just a normal ritual
But this tale that we coauthor is forever habitual
And if life be long and youth turn to old age
We will make more beautiful every page
And this by divine grace shall be our tale
That even time will not turn stale
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 3:36 AM UTC
When I was nine years old
The stars were countable,
I kissed each one with the
tip of my finger, not for long,
but just enough to know
they were still there.
By thirteen my cheeks turned
red everytime she held
my hand like it was something
worthy of possessing.
Somedays I still remember
the pain of her letting go.
At sixteen, I found God in the
very same place I left him,
somewhere between the place
I was going, to the place
I already been, maybe that
was enough to save me.
I am now almost twenty years old
and my fingers no longer count stars
and my hands have forgotten
how to hold another and
on the good days, God is still here,
on the bad I listen quietly.
For the most part, though,
I have left those things behind,
not because I no longer want them,
but because right now I am trying
to stay alive and I am afraid
I can no longer do both.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
“Countable nouns can be counted, e.g. an apple, two apples, three apples, etc. Uncountable nouns cannot be counted, e.g. air, rice, water, etc. When you learn a new noun, you should check if it is countable or uncountable and note how it is used in a sentence.”
“countable nouns” goes ding ding in the left-side-brain receptors,
where the write side is humbly aboded, unbounded, and well-recv’d,
countable nouns not simplistic apples, the mundane, not sweet, crisp,
important stuff like sins and dreams, lies and schemes: life alterations!
a single sin, two sins, then three, soon you’re another noun, a sinner,
a dream, two dreams, three, teach labels you a serial day-dreamer,
it takes just one little lie, be well on your way to a pants-on-fire-liar,
a get-rich-quick-scheme forms a life long persona, dastard schemer!
methinks these self-adjectives deserve a special denomination, for my
sins, lies, dreams and schemes are uncountable countable nouns!
they are a class of biological, taxonomic things, living and breathing,
a singular genus, many species, like slime molds of human characteristics
you don’t believe I’m a scoundrel, here is not the place to list,
each action/no action curse-courses animating suppressed brain cells,
when the lids close, the enumeration of sins & deeds, all sheep,
vivid colored, injured pointed hooves, silent screamed reslaughtered,
confession offers no solace, until someday the sticking point of the right brain actually resolve the misdeeds, undoing stabbings, healing
time to quit the confessional, no beads or Hail Marys will ever suffice, elides the wrong religion and mine done don’t lets you off so easy,
no siree…no siree…
even a few miscreant visions, originate from childhood indifferent…
perhaps you tire of my self-flagellate:
**these deeds, actions, some remediable, but not all, and these 50 years on, my palpitations fiercest knowing, that they are now
uncountable countable nouns!**
Apr 7, 2023
Apr 7, 2023 at 10:29 AM UTC
Its pieces lay peacefully on the ground.
Splattered across the countable infinity.
Why bother asking that question?
The mirrors speak well the language of another.
Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 4:50 PM UTC