"cryptically" poems
Nostradamus and sleeping prophet's One lost image of the singular Eye
Re(ad(d): No worry
To, Love Our Sun :).
Signs like Gemini is to air
Sagittarius is to fire a pair
in this crossing with Pisces
to water is Virgo for earth
too We are the mutable ones!!
Sunny is however we coin the calling spiraling too
EYE of the One generation transmutable souls of soil ARE
to earth; 'hues EYED like a butterfly, here to sample many flowers
connected within a Great Spirit invoked as in wilds if peopled or things'!!!
We do feel it within or without the actual considerations of the ultimate doings;
'letting go and taking the risk of trusting and depending on another'!!! One by one!!! :)
EYE of humus hued in spirit and love fused to the stone's twirling and of the ruse's tolling
So many of paths we traverse here as on earth the singular EYE knows out on the HORIZON
The great Eye is too glued on Sunny Sun's ever evolving viewing's as hued spirits cross EYE'S
Our blinded one eye's longing to Lyra's lyre, great musician Orpheus winging, whose W
music tamed wild beasts, caused rivers to stop flowing and enchanted even gates S
to the Lord of the Dead Hades, the softly lit fire singing inside linking heaven A
to earth viewed from outsider's hues waxing and waning of sleep wakened I N
so ode to the moon in the darkness of night gives but who takes her softer F USED
delight when One day halves by sun setting all ebbs in flowing as tides B I
to Great oceans moved like hearts breathe air to presence's emoting STAR'S
from magic to tragic we long of ecliptic traces cryptically erasing W
the blindness of memory and sight' majestic beast's floundering I
a forever crisscrossed from the One Eye here now to Knight's N
dear lost forbidden inner retreats from the East to God's lost 'S
children cast out to the land from blood pooling in spoils O
as easily uncovered as readily as new western lands had ~/ E \~ N
claim maddened ravaged savagely eagerly discovered ~(:YES :)~ G
fear still rocks this boat with hope still sailing onward (:FORGIVEN:). 'S
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
.*in the end days?! you charge against the snowflakes... and make a ******* snowman! he... he! i still can't comprehend how these personalities made money from lifestyle choice... they were basically internet bums, internet "lazy people"... bums... become supporters... engrossed in the internet homeless people... bums... i ate a custard pie, and devised a poncy-scheme to become paid for an opinion without a dialectic.... homeless people, bums... seem like philosophers by comparison... and now the bewildering quest... of how / why the internet died.*
**** it, the gloves are off...
about time to punch this *****
silly-dead...
**** it... all the internet content
creators, that are women:
are giving off nervous voices...
shoe on head... whoever...
here's where said people...
start looking for, ahem....
"real" jobs... jobs plagued by
the study of psychology....
oh they're scared...
because whatever the internet
was...
from 2007 through to
2016... in the time of the zenith...
hello new t.v.,
hello internet banking...
hello internet online shopping...
what?!
you want edgy?!
come down to the forest,
or the shady back alleyway
with the new teens...
come come...
you wanted edgy...
such a shame though...
to think of your comments
becoming as redundant
as the plight of sending
off your C.V. application...
sorry....
what?
you have finally arrived
at what you wanted...
why are you looking at me for
with that dumb-"found"
look?!
do i look stupid?
or are you pretending
to not be?!
******* internet bums...
you know it was coming...
it was coming...
i never asked for money...
i'll never ask for money...
but you did...
you begged...
you dog begged...
you...
begged...
you're still going
to beg,
when the internet is reduced
to nothing more than
a 2nd t.v., internet banking,
and internet shopping...
and... that's about it;
you're joking, you think there's
more?!
ha ha... good luck.
p.s.
because, believe it or not,
look at what you gave me?
i didn't ask for money,
i didn't ask for time...
but what you gave me
is best expressed cryptically,
as both time, and money.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
***Creatively enticing,
profoundly sensual
boundlessly experienced,
cryptically presumptive
inordinately exclusive
effusively lavished,
anesthetized or blatant
allusive beyond ethereal,
metaphorically inferred
criminal insanity
disquiet midst agitation,
peaceably surrendered
illustriously polished
or indubitably raw
fruitful to a fault - -
in reciprocity's glory be
quenches thirst,
satiates a hunger
flourished midst ink's
designed grandeur,
poetry never fails to thrive,
tripping the light fantastic
in its exuberant offering***
Seize the power
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 7:22 AM UTC
I find questions to the answers damning;
They quote the darkest volumes,
And speak in whispered tones
That haunt my mind with lemmings.
Thrilling chills reverberate
Throughout my spine, intoxicating
The superfluous influx of aeon.
In Elysium I await.
Forgotten songbirds’ melodies
Are ripe within their own stages,
However, the message behind their incantations,
Mocks the frigid winds of change.
Apologetic reverences deny the peaceful hum
Of every ***** and flute of desire
And of all the lyres to be strummed.
Stumbling upon a corpse of old,
Necrosis doth eat away,
Putridity and phobia have at last been lead astray,
Maggots upon maggots, an **** of disease,
Now struggle for control here,
In the epitome of our dying age.
The eyes that once saw hope,
And the heart that once felt love,
Our absentee in place of rot,
And are swapped with rustic carrion.
The dismal breeze that flow
Swiftly under the crest of raven-wing,
Solidify bones as well as the toxins that
Cryptically burn and sting.
A creation of mass panic, euphoria
Are bound to allow riot’s treason,
A repentance of nostalgia
For uncountable reasons.
Alas, we have but come close enough to success,
To amount in a drowning of failure,
To kiss the shores of dreams come true,
And to be denied of those dreams’ savior.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
His voice echo in her mind
Words engraving her being
The dark space between them
Where they entangle cryptically
Destined to the forlorn demise
Chained and shackled with curse
A sullen face with intriguing eyes
A withered heart and bruised brain
The sonnet of melancholic mess
The story of inconsolable loss
Damaged tenuous souls in worship
Connected with waves of thoughts
She craves annihilation into him
He is distant lost in himself
Two naked souls dazed in madness
Existing in a questionable state
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
I would humbly put forth the idea, quite prostrate, that it would do us some good if we were to put aside, for a time, our epistemological certainties and archetypal savior fixations and, instead, opt for a more robust, ocher-hued ontological preeminence: putting the what before the why.
Only then can one, say, sip hot herbal tea from an old pink bone china teacup and, without thinking about all the things all the time, for once -just- feel the sun's warmth on your aged face as it begins its set over a half-eaten cotton candy sky that is epic af and reminds you of Peter Pan and then Robin Williams and then whywhywhy and then something random and weirrrd, and, in doing so, you can watch the lack of shittogetherness, of which duly occupies the very seat of your character like a bully usurper that hits you bc "he loves you," melt into a very (very) temporary oblivion and revel in what is before you without feeling paralyzing angst that is, usually, soo angst-y that you gotta pronounce that **** in German as if you were Schopenhauerly sitting at some non-descript desk in some non-descript room with your hand stroking your truly descript crazygeniusguy hair that is some kind of proto-Wolverine hairdo (and you wonder if Stan Lee was cryptically tipping his cap to S's philosophical pessimism with this peculiar gesture; consider googling it but don't because you've already googled too much sheeyt today), thinking (or brooding) about how much of a ******** Descartes is with his whole, yuhknow, theory about some ******* secret nanoputian angelic chemist that sits at the pearly gates of the Pineal Gland and performs the sacred transduction of the divine ghost, or whatever. Otherwise you are, like, consumed with analysis, which is a complete ******* bore and - let's face it - a thoroughly transparent attempt to sound smarter than you actually are.
This herbal tea I'm currently drinking has "rose hips" in it. Dear botany, that image is fun.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
Emily shmemily,
Emily Dickinson,
Recluse and poetess,
Rendered her rhyme
Idiosyncrously,
Much of her poetry
Reading most cryptically
Much of the time.
Sep 21, 2024
Sep 21, 2024 at 10:01 PM UTC
Are we stupid or what?
Who needs education
when these governments
do all of our thinking for us!
We need to dismantle
the whole apparatus,
piece by piece,
cryptically of course.
We don't want to
disturb big brother,
do we geniuses!?
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Please assume the assumption
I might possess poor word choices.
Clichés and Redundancies
A must while
Buzzing Metaphors
Echo around your head
Reverberating nouns
Excuse me
While I replay my loves
Like Romeo and Juliet,
How It Should Have Been’s,
Turned Tragic Ending.
Two cups Darjeeling
Makes a meal
With untouched coffee
The likes of which drain
My sanity at this hour
Is maybe abnormally
Low leveled or flat lined
Just below that one place,
You know the one,
On the way out of town
If you cross the Bridge of Hope
You’ve gone too far
And if and when
The memories turn
Rolling through the lost
Darkened corridors
Remember that tonight
You will not fear the dark
Or it’s all encompassing
Lack of glow
I wonder off the deep end
To lie by your smell
Swirling shower steam
Kaleidoscopes neurons
Twisting just enough to ache
In that small pocket spot
My soul saved for you
Before the time
Of any rational thought
Warping paragraphs
In a most pitiful attempt
To explain the unseen
All dances out
Across pages
Cryptically bound
By poetry
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 3:08 AM UTC
Reclining on the garden bench,
leaning on my shoulder,
your eyes intently watch
something, I notice, though,
in my book,I am engrossed.
Taking eyes off the page,
I scan the the fecund garden,
abuzz with bees, chirping birds,
all kinds of hums and songs of life,
spring brings,
and then, my eyes catch
that scene:your object of intense interest,
Two mating birds, in their frenzy of love;
two love struck mandarin ducks, very colorful.
It's in this season they find, their pair,
and give themselves to shameless lust,
gentle tune of their bodies turning,
intense, scorching their *****
You withdraw, feeling shy
on your voyeuristic streak,
which i found out, inadvertently,
*but your eyes, cryptically,
make inquiries to me,
"Interested?" I whisper"Of course'
that sounds like an evil hiss*
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 11:34 AM UTC
the atom waits, patiently
he knows no haste
has no grand plan
but when it comes to waste
he is THE proverbial man
we claim to know
his magic and his math
though when watching his show
he often takes a capricious path
dividing and multiplying
when only asked to add
grounding us when flying
replacing haughtily happy with soberly sad
we no longer hide under desks in schools***
or worry about bombs being dropped apocalyptically
but we would be even bigger fools
if we expected him to behave any less cryptically
we are still on the beach
staring at the place from whence we all came
anguished that Eden is not within reach
but can the tiny atom shoulder all the blame?
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
the intellectual and practical activity
of the systematic study of the structure &
behavior of the physical & natural world
through observation, experiment & experience
is called science generally; Pythagoras positing
the theorem that reality is composed of
interconnecting points in space & that one
could instantly travel from one point to another
in what he cryptically referred to as the
[transmigration of souls]; a concept taken by
Christians & reinterpreted to mean the soul's journey
to heaven or hell; Pythagoras meaning the physical
manipulation of dimensions but this era's
technology has yet to achieve that; Thomas Edison
& Einstein each had a part of the puzzle
but neither had the whole thing
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
Ignorant, stupid girl.
Whirl away from feeling
anything deeper than the required
formal, reaping.
Plow forward without looking back
Stack your bones into place and race
to the finish.
Diminish in the desperation that is eating away
your entire, black soul.
Woefully, yearn to be away from the destruction
of your lack of a functioning heart.
Part ways with your stray, lame days
that tear into your skin
Sin until you change your outer appearance
Fear nothing unless it begs you to use emotion
Bludgeon doubt with a mighty fist
Wistfully break through the glass that is
encasing your cryptically fluid wallows
Give the dark permission to swallow
any good, light, bubbly thoughts
Be brought back to reality
snap back to gravity and laugh at me,
at you.
Stew your lack of identity to the core
let it bore you into a skeleton of who you once were before.
Furnish that dark, deep hole that you now inhabit
Stab it away, until you begin to decay
And rejoice at your last dying day!
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
Sixty-six chapters and sixty-six books
(please, Catholic brothers – no ***** looks)
were needed for God to make known His plan:
the gift of salvation and future of Man.
Yet sometimes it seems rather cryptically stated;
poor Israel must wait and will wait (as they’ve waited).
Isaiah took sixty-six chapters to tell it;
for two-thousand years has the Church tried to sell it –
must Christ and his teaching thus languish in mystery,
waiting offstage in the wings of His history?
(Wings of the cherubim, angels, and vultures
now beat down upon us, uniting our cultures
while tech surges up in a dizzy parabola
micro in management, global in formula…)
Sixty-six chapters to say it in Greek
(Aramaic – or Latin; whatever they speak)
while the somnolent audience scrolls on their screens
in apocalypse trance over zombie machines.
The scrolls are unopened, the parchment still sealed
the slot-machine handle refuses to yield;
as the sixes line up towards the threshold of seven
the virgins sleep late in the Kingdom of Heaven.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
Denying words their right and might
this was cryptically conveyed to us:
a death plan is being perfected,
the need of the dark hour, for sure!
This extending nightmare we are in
a darkly crafted metaphor, threatening!
Never forget, one is nothing more than
an unflinching core member of the clan,
standing daggers drawn, waiting the turn
taken a blood oath of utmost submission.
A 'death plan' sounds sinister,you think?
it's intended, remember as you advance.
The piranhas are the hungriest,
at this time of the year
the climate changes sharpen their fangs,
for a killer smile, the vengeance of nature!
Beware the nature is aware of all shenanigans,
the swim against the flow can go on no more.
Looking for an omen, the dark sun rising
with an accusing finger pointing at you?
At this pirrana hour, let go such thoughts
there won't be such niceties,no embellishments.
Fight your bitter water wars, with neighbors,
in this twilight fast engulfed by a dark night.
Repent for slipping from the ladder of thought,
leading to the pinnacle of the tallest pyramid,
while the rot spreads, when y'all lie, relentlessly
steal or **** to stamp one's victory over the other.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
He's the house that could protect her
but he didn't know
that she's the wrecking ball that will destroy him
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
life is brutal, life is not about something to rest
yet the grave is not its goal
happiness is on the way at slowest
after a time it would heal your soul.
in the world's broad field of battle,
in the topsy-turvy of life
be not like dumb to down settle
be a super power in the strife
no one is perfect, no one is angelic
angels were much before turned into devils into Satan
filth of greed speaks over the truth,
hold on, the way to hell is far shorter than that of heaven.
it's not a race of being contented
but it's something that inner soul could bring up sanctity
be up and doing and stay adapted
for the sake of humanity.
sick of old memories,
grieving over that people left you away
give a shot and try some new self-developed theories
like a diamond in the rough, be at bay
from all filth, even the darkest hour has only sixty minutes
today is the day not yours
trust it, do not fix your limits
its yet to begin an era through life's hues
long for shadow in the dark
yearn for truth in the lies
hanker after love in the whirlpool of nights
all dreams are cryptically lingered in the eyes
sad for goofs resulted to what is been lost
be remembered when you passed on cloud nine
be an initiator and life is fine.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
life springs surprises at you
like a sudden rainbow magnificence
after a rain that drenched you
and made to scurry for non existent cover.
some times the glitter you firmly grip
and all the while thought was gold
turns out to be a mere carbon block.
will you cry or smile?
-I got the poetry bottle, yesterday
a long day it was,and at the end
I was hoping to get forty winks;
drooping eyes stopped expecting anything.
the setting sun was a blaze
on a dark thicket like cloud,
that reminded me of an ancient omen;
and then, the waves
washed the bottle ashore
with this piece of poetry
for me, inside
it cryptically said:
"You won,
I wish to send you
calm tides
followed by a silent night"
I smiled in the dark
did I wait
against all odds
to walk away with
this uncertain trophy
in my hands?
I turned around
and threw it back
in to the agitating waves,
that suddenly felt appeased.
on that moment sun went down
the reign now begins,
Darkness, dear darkness....
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 8:37 AM UTC
She never informed him, just moved out
He still sits and remembers the doubt
Lingering in her cascading eyes
The time comes for the many lies
To unfold like a tarnished wildflower in the limelight
He cried in disbelief, not believing the plight
Another was loved more, without a hint known
Her undying loyalty, one which he never owned
The two vanished, not one trace left behind
And the raging sorrow cryptically arrived
No more trusting in anyone’s heart
The benevolent kindness was to part
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 5:00 PM UTC
*well, death isn't going anywhere, it's there, if you think talking about it is taboo, censoring it is normal, trying to rationalise death with thoughts of suicide is morbid, you're really on your way to a neo-stalin system of censorship... what if thinking about suicide is a coping mechanism of having to rationalise death per se, to rationalise mortality... who are these secular gods hiding behind curtains of theory?! who are they? what if thinking about suicide is thinking about death itself? where is this Stalin of capitalism?! where is he?! i need a word with him - because if i can't have the freedom of thought i have no extending freedoms to participate in life - a cog in a clogged up mechanism... but let's not get all hot and bothered and frantic... no, seriously, where's this shady Stalin who doesn't have a podium but a puppet theatre? i know, words like capitalism are grandiose, almost cryptically absurd, as is the word bureaucracy... too many people depend on it... but the french absurd philosophers were given the freedom to wonder about suicide as a way of consolidating mortality... we're not immortals... why aren't the english children given that freedom of such bewilderment, instead reduced to self-harm as a way to paradoxically alleviate the contemplation of mortality, with the thought of suicide as a coping mechanism of the ****** inescapable fact?! hide the cemeteries and i'll agree.*
a funny article in all honesty,
entitled: stressed, depressed,
lonely and anxious. is your teenager ok?
i remember when i was one,
yeah, i have a life,
a bottle of whiskey to finish,
see you 70cl under the sea
of what used to be the shoreline
or a table - you can never take a medium
too seriously, i mean, what painter
would take a blank white canvas seriously?
if he did, he wouldn't have painted on it,
but writing to get +1 thousand
hits of readership? what a weird mathematical
need of voyeurism, you see no **** no ***
no shower scene... you're just addicted to
numbers, and they're not even your savings
increasing for a place in a care home...
oh pooh pooh a tear... fragile souls of
passing on resentment... hey! i'm in the queue
why you barging in? i only have
a can of sardines and a bun to buy...
you have a full trolley of goods for
a family the size of Lichtenstein!
but i get it... europe's disneyland is switzerland,
all the death rides you can imagine,
esp. with an imperial russia banknote with
tsar nicholas ii on it, i'd get a pass on every ride!
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
My heart jumped into my throat
And my stomach lurched
My lungs dissolve into dust
Cryptically typing a hurried thought
That defied every response
I look in the mirror and no one stares back
I see him in things that I do
When they see me, when they discover
I promise, I hate me too.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:00 PM UTC
The treasure chest
Her ((Piece De Resistance))
French skills of perseverance
She was a hollow crown of jewels
Not the zircon bright yellow
The darker to see you my dear
near my pillow
That death by chocolate how
she craved those sweets
Graveyard shift current events
Those men dark Batman suits
water skiing and internet surfing
That bat eye batmobile showdown
missile
Cells and locks to open the
gate and keys
A hell of a wish never on
Sunday to ring her bell the Siren
She made their hair home
Sunday dark gravy
Lips were too thin and skully
Was a cycle her lowdown
Shot glass don't touch my Philly
So gravely razor suit and a shave
Her mouth Tornado
But the vivacious Viking
Crypt look hellhole
The gathering dead again
Santa dead pole
couldn't stop bickering
No-one cared to notice her
dreadlocks
"The Cryptocurrency"
what urgency
She was drawn into the
Arsenic and Lace
Viva Las Vegas roll the dice
Cryptic engraved cellar
Like the maestro was playing
his serenade
She-devil Pillar
catching her death of cold
Feeling high winding staircase
Wearing her gown ripped lowdown
Being blown off the town lace
Oh! Fiddlestick with the
***** of light
Breaking free from husbands sight
The rise of the current storms
heads up she drinks Grand
dead Marnier
Took over such a restraint
This wasn't black and gray
spray paint
What a fiercest most recent
ancient current events
Reptilian and it was the
family of witches and covens
Words engraved so cryptically
She was wearing her
snakeskin bag signature
The body of dead sea such rapture
The fire feet stepping over seashells
Takes the hell out of Sahara snakes
She got a backdraft
Black widow of waistlines
13 inches Spyder Graphics
Those shifters and heretics
He was the Rocky face
The shorelines those laugh-lines
Sad clown dark eyes scratched
The cat feline
Her addiction was the guylines
Crypt crooked cop fines
Another startup kit
The dark edgy women her
legs just fit
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
Down island,
we disappeared
into the mix,
ate fish soup
just before the collision.
Your design arrived by dingy,
sister-like with your hips,
your curls trapped moonlight,
beautiful evidence of a greater reality.
Everybody hung out on the veranda
in various sites of excitement.
It was surreal
to see so many
burned-out bodies
save yours so tight,
so virile.
It doesn't really matter
who understands
the memories of another,
does it?
And even if I wrote it,
spelled it out cryptically,
it still wouldn't matter,
them others
reading as if they
knew us, 'cause
they weren't there,
not even in spirit.
For how can one truly relate,
describe the bubbles we made
in our own little inlet,
with the orange sun sinking
& the fifty-two footer
sharing space
with wanton
starstruck lovers,
you & me.
And just so you know
blond nanny,
(but I know you never will),
I still see pools of sweat
glistening on your Nordic skin
in the small of your back.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:23 AM UTC
Cute right,
How you would always visit me with a single red rose.
I used to add the delicate flower to the vase full from your previous visits.
Now I look to the single rose in the vase as its ghostly form dwindles.
Funny right,
How you would tell me you wanted to be better as you inhale from your cigarette.
I would always lecture you of the harm you were doing to yourself,
But now I stay silent as I twist my body away from the smoke that escapes your lips.
Ironic right,
How your lips would fill me with warmth when your finger tips felt so cold.
I used to describe you as more of a concept than a person.
Now I think of you as more of a metaphor than my boyfriend.
Peculiar right,
How you would hide your phone under your pillow as you promised transparency.
I used to toss and turn to get comfortable with that extra weight on our bed,
Now I sleep perfectly as I turn and settle facing away from you.
Bitter right,
How you’d smile as you would so cryptically point out my floors.
I used to look up at you as you critiqued me so detailedly,
Now I look to my shoes and let your words fly straight over me.
Curious right,
How you would tell me you were all mine as you moved your hands away to rest in your pockets.
I used to create intricate plans to gain your touch and affection,
Now I shift in my seat as my body instinctively flinches from your touch.
Reasonable right,
How I stood up, the chair scraping against the tiled floor as I placed my napkin on the table and turned to walk to the door.
Before you might have chased me to the door and led me back inside.
But now you remain seated as I leave and call a taxi home.
Pathetic right,
How I let one tear fall from my eyes as I watch the city pass my eyes through the window of a taxi.
Before I could never make it past the gates.
Now I inhale a deep breath and promise myself that I won’t look back as I throw the last red petal out of the car window.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC