"culminating" poems
O'er the midnight moorlands crying,
Thro' the cypress forests sighing,
In the night-wind madly flying,
Hellish forms with streaming hair;
In the barren branches creaking,
By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking,
Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking,
Damn'd demons of despair.
Once, I think I half remember,
Ere the grey skies of November
Quench'd my youth's aspiring ember,
Liv'd there such a thing as bliss;
Skies that now are dark were beaming,
Bold and azure, splendid seeming
Till I learn'd it all was dreaming —
Deadly drowsiness of Dis.
But the stream of Time, swift flowing,
Brings the torment of half-knowing —
Dimly rushing, blindly going
Past the never-trodden lea;
And the voyager, repining,
Sees the wicked death-fires shining,
Hears the wicked petrel's whining
As he helpless drifts to sea.
Evil wings in ether beating;
Vultures at the spirit eating;
Things unseen forever fleeting
Black against the leering sky.
Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,
Clawing fiends of future sadness,
Mingle in a cloud of madness
Ever on the soul to lie.
Thus the living, lone and sobbing,
In the throes of anguish throbbing,
With the loathsome Furies robbing
Night and noon of peace and rest.
But beyond the groans and grating
Of abhorrent Life, is waiting
Sweet Oblivion, culminating
All the years of fruitless quest.
26k
Be my novel tonight
Allow me to navigate the depths of your thoughts
and journey through the pathways of your mind while
merging in my imagination and infusing in my wildest
poetic fantasies. Inscribing in our bedpost an
unforgettable bestseller.
Be my music tonight
Let me groove to the beat of your heart picking up pace
as I explore new ways to invoke melodious outbursts. I
want to sing a duet with you of synchronized moans and
pleasurable sighs. Culminating with you belting out my
name in one final perfect note.
Be my masterpiece tonight
Permit me to trace my fingertips across every inch of
your frame as I find your sensually stimulating spots.
Armed with new knowledge and intent, sit back as I
stroke you with my brushes of desire and take you on a
creative adventure of twists and turns as I bring to life my finest
work of art and watch with all anticipation your love erupt.
© Tina Thompson
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
If I sung you to sleep,
what would you dream?
of mystery and madness?
of love and revenge?
of spiralling staircases, culminating
swiftly in a pool
of swirling fear?
Starfish –
sleep slowly,
sleep soundly.
Stretch bubbly limbs that
are kissed by the shore,
hugged by the sea.
This cove
of creeping creatures,
they slip and slime
like a plastic bag
of goldfish.
What will you dream?
of memories:
when you were swept
away from the sea
to dry on the sand
like a limpet?
Bubbling, giggling,
blobbing starfish:
sleeping, sliding,
slipping out of place,
slipping out
of starfish dreams.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
' make haste' she urges,
as they clamber to the peak.
an orange sun violently explodes,
** culminating in mindblowing fire works.**
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
Her beautiful fleece
Glistened like gold
Woven in silk
Like the finest of tapestries
Her open ready smile
Pursed ruby red lips
Lying betwixt two
Soft white ivory pillars
The honey that lay within
Succulent, and exquisite
Freely flowing
Upon my gorging tongue
This well of pleasure
Sated my pulsing tongue
My own lips moistened
At this taste of delight
My hands gently caressed
Two soft buds
That soon flowered
As my lips brushed over them
We were soon
Face to face
As our tongues danced
In harmonies of desire
Like the waves of a rolling ocean
She was like the ebb tide
That washed over me
Echoing my own dance of seduction
I could sense my head
Begin to explode
As her tongue
Created my own delicious eruptions
Tsunamis of pleasure
Ebbed, and flowed
Culminating in a silent scream
Of exquisite ecstasy
Revealing a unique desire
The butterflies of our souls
Our gentle wing beat
Had discovered the nectar, of our deepest desires
by Jemia
Jan 17, 2021
Jan 17, 2021 at 3:31 PM UTC
*stellar direction in undulating terrain
punctuated by meteoric columns of infinite light
imparting a clutching embrace to the face of now
lunar reflections form a fluid nocturnal path
to an osculated gateway of fertile encompassment
culminating in breathless pillows of untabled silence
stars without fault grace the expressive heavens
while muted words gaze out through rooftop eyes
cascading over living stone in waterfalls of emotional geodes*
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
A letter of intent, so clear, addressing me
written in exquisite feminine form,
in the script of love, her eyes encrypted;
only I'll be entitled to read it, none else,
and undertake the next delicate move.
It comes gliding towards me, isn't it magic?
Nothing unexpected this , in fact two pair of eyes
for a cool one week,did negotiations in intense silence
pregnant with desire, culminating in love,
the scent of love
elates, it's in the morning air, binds us together, wafts!
Yes, you are the wild flower, the honeybee is here.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
What dawn-pulse at the heart of heaven, or last
Incarnate flower of culminating day,—
What marshalled marvels on the skirts of May,
Or song full-quired, sweet June’s encomiast;
What glory of change by nature’s hand amass’d
Can vie with all those moods of varying grace
Which o’er one loveliest woman’s form and face
Within this hour, within this room, have pass’d?
Love’s very vesture and elect disguise
Was each fine movement,—wonder new-begot
Of lily or swan or swan-stemmed galiot;
Joy to his sight who now the sadlier sighs,
Parted again; and sorrow yet for eyes
Unborn that read these words and saw her not.
3.3k
**Society, the embodiment of human securities
Is in reality the stark confirmation
Of a conglomerate of screaming insecurities
Begging….its leaders….fervent introspection **
*Bending logic is an art perfected by all
Regardless of creed class or stature
No wonder the walk is seemingly a hard laboured crawl
Culminating into deep exposed…psychological sutures*
**Beings are bedevilled by a roving myopia
Craving a farfetched grandiose utopia
That’s why a bespectacled cynicism
Is ironically of essence…to neutralise a deep rooted parochialism**
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:28 AM UTC
Among trees i rest
and wander through
scriptures of olde
pouring over ancient
words of grace and peace
of love and compassion
where can this be found
outside my leather bound
at a green picnic bench
i read and marvel at
the words of Peter and Paul
two thousand years removed
in my semi-secluded sanctuary
just off the bike path
among trees i rest
and wander through
the works of Ezra Pound
language beautifully poetic
but nothing is found
to my liking except
of course
a line or two scattered
with no anchor
that is how my
mind rolls you see
gathering bits of inspiration
followed by digestion
which gives birth
to a renewing of my
mind and soul
refreshing as i ride
my bicycle down
the path of enlightenment
aided by the words of
poets, prophets, and priests
culminating in fervent
meditation
among trees i rest
and wander
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
Frozen moments,
embraced,
visions of
luminous things,
unpretentious
pearls dancing;
embers of memory linger,
elegy of the lachrymose,
this horizoning self
lying low in saturnine
tranquility
and repose – paternity lost
to the provisional.
The cross of lassitude,
forming
scars of loss;
estrangement,
preface to
ineluctable autonomy.
Earthen treasure - immortal
footprints, the migration
of fair maidens across my
effusive heart.
Venus trio in bloom,
aesthetic allusion,
ephemeral incarnations
of beauty - perishable fruit,
transcending the plebeian.
Aerial substance-
the hermeneutic,
betraying desire’s
ambrosial tyranny;
The permuted passage -
savor the sojourn, submit
to the fated peregrination.
Purple orchids blossom,
immortal creatures,
culminating
in perfection
from the sheath
respectively,
each plume,
singular,
the continuum of
splendor, mediate
the inviolable.
Eternity compounding,
time and essence suffuse
the already and not yet
into an
orbiting mosaic.
The susurrant devotions
of a satellite father,
summon the quest -
both, and,
absence and proximity,
conduits of
distress and peace
ironically,
solace and
terror
traverse the
same path.
Plunge though,
deep, the depth of pain;
deeper, sweeter
the taste of pleasure.
Engender and witness,
window into
preeminence,
surface azure,
the sacred -
inimitable gravity of
grandeur,
ma petite,
you - are
lived poetry
seen and heard;
cosmic order,
a mediating heuristic -
to love is to see,
in the dismal,
gift of distance.
child of delight,
evermore, Don’t I hold you?
Beauty and strangeness,
music found
in linear,
secret places
beyond the tangent,
purview of limitation,
arousing imagination -
infinititude as near
as it is far.
Long loneliness -
dissonance that
resolves;
perceiving,
the tertiary refrain -
as exquisite verse,
and matchless liqueur,
sublime gratuity
derived
through
doors of surrender.
Daughter,
in adoration and wonder,
I hold you.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
It is February
From my balcony
Yesterday I saw
a man in suit and tie
eating his lunch in a Mercedes
some old ladies crossing the street
in colorful hats
Maybe they were from England
A group of Jews with beards
and long coats walked slowly
“Let them mind their business,
while we have *** in the city”
Said she
and we took our clothes off
All this time
amid the noise and mayhem
We made love
culminating in syrupy peace
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
Bamboo shoots, cooked in oil,
we munched were delicious. The tender love,
we shared, in our sojourn, in the lodge
deep inside the forest, had complemented it.
She was a playful tigress, transformed
by the atmosphere, with a manifested ****** interest,
different from her usual demure self.
One thing led to another, we fed each other,
heady vintage wine, from our mouths,
till we found out, in such circumstances,
love would make us do things,
we never imagined we could.
The sketch she made depicting us,
as two wild elephants, in musth*
rummaging the bamboo grove,
eating shoots to our fill,
reminded *Shiva and Parvathi, his consort,
taking the form of elephants
indulging in every possible play amorous,
culminating in the birth of Ganesha,
the cute God, elephant faced,
the remover of obstacles.
Love drunk the song we both sung,
was one of innocence.
The booming wind in bamboo leaves,
suddenly changed tune, sounding like ankle bells.
Dense, dark, green womb of forest
and the flow of wind above, like a blood stream,
kindled the prenatal memories, from deep down,
and as the background score,
cacophony of unknown birds of many feathers.
We swam in the lukewarm water,
of a day so different, with joyous abandon.
A voice mysterious, spoke in my blood stream:
"Be like birds, wind on bamboo grove, elephants seeking what they want,
the love you share would bring, fantastic results,
the world, would look far more simple,
life and death cease to be riddles, just natural,
shadows vanish, no fear remains in deep caves,
everything gently flows, like a clear river to the ocean"
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
WHAT A POEM SHOULD BE
*A
Poem
Should
Be
Devoid
Of sentiments
Should be
Dark as the Night
Or
Clear as the day,*
**A
Poem
Should speak
Attention
And
Not seek attention
Should be
Bright as the culminating cloud
Or
Dark as the emanating nights**
*A
Poem should not seek, but speak
Should be
Free as the Moon moves the earth
A
Poem should
Be
Free, but not stale
Should be
True, but not forced*
**A Poem
Should not seek,
But speak
Should
Be
Vast as Rainfall
And yet
Calm as Dew falls**
*A
Poem
Could be
Violent,
But mean no harm,
Could be hateful,
But mean no hate*
**A
poem
Should
Be bright as SUNSHINE,
Should be
Vast as Rainfall,
Yet
Calm as Dew falls
A Poem
Should not seek attention
But
Speak attention!!**
*Should be
Vast as
Rainfall*
**Should
Be
Vast
As
Rainfalls**
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
What is your touch?
It is the physical sensation of electromagnetism repelling our atoms,
It's the chain reaction set off through my nervous system,
Culminating in my cortex, where it is comprehended as your touch.
*In dim streetlight through your window,
With just a crescent of your face illuminated.
With your soft eyes, and memories of our backpacking trip mixing in
Like honey mixes with warm tea, or coffee.
With ***** brown curls around your head like a halo.*
Still, what is your touch?
It is like a ripple through me, and it ripples out into the world
It is more present in my action every day
As you take down my walls
As your lips send soothing down to my core
As you make me believe
In love
Again.
It is everything that went into making you,
No better concoction
Has ever been brewed.
And the way that you move
Makes little eddies of awe that captivate my eyes,
They cannot move.
So you see,
It's not hard to convince myself
That your touch is everything.
Two ends of the universe,
You're setting me free
That anything happened at all
Was as great a miracle
As your touch is to me
It's giving me shivers
And melting my heart--
There is nothing in this world like your touch.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:17 AM UTC
*Every night...
Our prayers float towards heaven
Like a million bubbles in a wine glass
Ascending gradually through space
Culminating in the white cloud above
Eventually dissipating into thin air
Giving hopes of answered prayers
Amidst bubbles of faith and doubt
Against pulls of gravity and fears...*
© Raphael Uzor
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
The girl’s corneas expand over the small black abyss of pupil
Tides of blue and hazel rising over onyx isles
An unhinged eyelash balances precariously on its neighbor
It evaporates with her quick blink
Directly beneath her right eye
Below the mottled eggplant shadows
The corpse of a capillary drains among the freckles
Subterranean rivers of vein
Pulse under thin skin
Her nose is spherical
Etched by soft papery scars
Pores round and gazing
Culminating in a uniform valley
Lips are soft and pink and unkissed
A source for a small steady trickle of pride
Her mother’s lips
But behind the outer façade
The seamed surface is rough with nervous nibbles
Ribboned with scars of worries and troubles
She lacks fourteen teeth
Absent since the womb
Those she has are either sickly infants or filled with grainy mystery metallics
Some entirely fabricated with spatulas of amalgam
Yellowed and cracking
Rough and worn
Spongy inner marrow screaming with pain
She hides the stony incisors from view
The hair
Curling and waving
Kissing with reptilian tongues at her cheeks
Neck
Forehead
Framing her face in brambles and cowlicks
Indecisive of its true form
Fuzzy with moisture
Unwilling to obey
The strands of a gorgon
A monstrous tangle of personality
Instantly recognizable
Her hands attempt to soothe the undulating tendrils
But they anger
As stubborn as her
Refuse treatment
She gives up
Rinses her hands
And turns away from the mirror
Sighing
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
Heed this warning: Beware the Antichrist!
We know from Christ’s revelation to Man,
that the ‘End Times’ officially began in 1948
with Israel reclaiming their ancestral land.
Be aware and be not deceived.
For this evil soul shall rise up - from obscurity.
Out from the descendants of Dan
the World will take notice of Satan’s emissary.
Although the Antichrist should be easy to spot,
this individual will be viewed as ‘Heaven sent’;
for his initial proclamations of false peace
will be supported by a one-world government.
Napoleon and ****** would have been impressed,
for his lavish promises are lies - full of finesse.
He will have no time or regard for women;
power ultimately will be his true mistress.
Eventually he’ll claim to be ‘God’
while appearing to survive a fatal injury.
From only the Devil himself,
the Antichrist received his earthly authority.
Yes, he will be voted into power
and will place the ‘Mark of the Beast’ upon thee.
So don’t be surprised when he demands…
worship from thee, upon your bended knee.
His reign of terror will be spectacular
and will probably lead us into World War III -
culminating in the ‘Battle of Armageddon’
and another ungodly event in Man’s brief history.
Will we face our ultimate destruction
from our earthly lust for power and authority?
Will mankind’s existence end from us forgetting
‘that absolute power corrupts absolutely’?
Author Notes:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2010, All rights reserved.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
ha ha!
a ha ha ha ha ha ha!
sorry... i sometimes
get the giggles...
you know that jeffrey dahmer
biopic?
ha ha ha ha!
i'm laughing,
because i'm authentically just curios...
who was the inspiration
for the film,
Napoleon Dynamite?
who?!
ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
are, you, sure,
that Jeffrey Dahmer wasn't the muse
are you, sure?!
ha ha ha ha!
doubt it...
seriously doubt it...
NA(H)PO(H)LEO(N)
DYNAMITE...
what a "vague" similarity...
with a Jeffrey Dahmer...
**** it... let's go full **** -
DJ REBEL & MAHOMBI
ft. SHAGGY...
but... ha ha ha!
i love the fact that Napoleon
Dynamite was borrowed
from... ha ha!
ah ha ha ha!
the Milwaukee cannibal!
please tell me
when Albert Fish pops up...
esp. with the scene of
injecting needles
into his groin
before sitting on the electric chair:
i'm guessing for the added
O in gasping for...
anything but air.
it's still sinking in...
it's nighttime and i'm...
seriously trying to avert laughing
out-loud...
how there's connection...
reciprocal points
of
vested interest culminating in
pristine Abel...
and his shadow, Cain...
now...
if Jeffrey Dahmer wasn't the inspiration
for Napoleon Dynamite?
then Pinocchio elongating nose...
wasn't the basis for a *****
i must always be wrong,
it would seem.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
just trying to take each day
separately from the others
maybe then the similar moments
won't run together like muddy water
down the roadside of a week or two
and seep through into the grass
of culminating time and too much rain
trying to pick the hours apart
and keep the bits and pieces of patterns
away from each other
so they'll just stop dancing around me
for now
it's true that they somehow make me whole
but i've thrown logic aside for a little while
just wanna see how the other side lives, that's all
let me do this, i need to justify
myself
can i be justified?
turn me into a philosophical debate
and justify me, prove me as a theory
concrete as an idea
make me an argument, defeat what makes me wrong
teach me myself
and i promise i will learn, just please
make me right
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
Blot out the whole emerging gesture
To demonstrate leading astray thy pace;
Don't rebound to toil and wrestle,
Be temperate tilt not at any rate!
Outrun ne'er surpass in celebrity quartan,
Submission ties settle better productive gain;
Prepare to ignite flame of fixed canon
Must evade excruciate feeble in vain;
Riches give delight yet defend not,
Slaking thirst aqua less attract rabies;
Pride of sagacity weak riot crazy spot,
Mere contentment if alive relay miseries;
Deny not troth behave alike recuperation
Spurt what ambition turn amative thee;
Man! thou hold energy to alter cultivation
Please the almighty by culminating blemish free;
Only provident would give certain dexterity
With vigour, venture, assume design marvelous;
Where its sacred light confirm privity:
Personality seems observing rare not fabulous.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
We are taught that we inhibit a sphere
Earth is a triangle, that is a point I would like to clear
Triple 6s attached with zeros govern the prism's corners
Infiltrating the angles we base our views on, they program us
Masters to butlers, the barcodes on our foreheads put a price on us
Never the less, Try an angle
I bet they'll confess, we are equal
Amongst other 'triangle' stories, I'd like to tell my own
Of a man's soul with a triangle embedded,chiseled like statue stone
I see that soul within us all
Culminating to reach apex by parallel lines that can let you slip and fall
And with every fall the try angle's base stretches and widens
I remember looking at a perspective drawing titled 'Life is a journey'
Shaped like a triangle was the everyday boulevard traveled by many
At the start of life, objects were big, bright and colourful
Far into life, objects become small, dull but meaningful
Never the less, a triangle has 3 sides to it
Listen! My stanzas confess and guarantee to it.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
Start with the breath,
Shaky lately, it changed with the stains a painting formed on my chest came leaking, sneaking black bubbling death
It foamed up towards the roof of my vest,
Cough is hoarse excuse me my poorly conveying the truth I confess that maybe I've trained my brain to ignore the distress culminating the gruesome express
Eyesight now, and my Eye's feel numb
Two flocks fly in the light of the sun, side by side in a sign like a gun that stops my stride in time with the young, I wonder why and who had time to train these geese to write ******* W's alright, soon it fades from mind a two days wait until it's time to light up the night blunt try somma my cut the line trust is high up sigh at thoughts thought in my mind fuzz fought climb up bought thine scuffle what ******* geese fly in V's I'm blind cuz.
Minds in circles my muscles in decay my brain can't keep track of the ******* days
I'd buy the parcel from hovels of dismay trade for ants to keep mortality at bay
I'm afraid I wished for death too often, it waits till I'm content to grant it's bubbles while I'm coughin.
Nov 13, 2020
Nov 13, 2020 at 7:58 PM UTC
The inferno builds, beginning from the tips of her toes,
where corroded copper pennies lie covered in sludge & slime.
She claws in the darkness searching for notches in the stone,
surrounded in a tomb of suffocating impenetrable rock.
Inch by inch she reaches the surface, bleeding at the nails,
blinded temporarily, with hesitation, she finds her footing.
The inferno is boiling now, unstoppable,
coursing through every vein, artery, capillary,
culminating in a throat constricted from a history
of silent struggle, not one understands.
A scream lies in wait,
yet she is afraid to give it freedom,
fearing the rage will take on a life of its' own,
and become a never ending roar.
A blank-faced crowd stops & stares,
some giggle, others mock in disapproval,
snide noses upturned, they simply scoff and continue on their way.
She watches, red-eyed, at their backs,
like an army off to battle.
Feeling a grin of confirmation & satisfaction forming on her lips,
she celebrates her victory.
An ivy league education would do nothing for their perception
of her.
Empathy is dead. Nothing is authentic.
Either be strong or cease to exist.
She returns to the hole in the earth,
filled with her own murky stench,
away from the chattering voices of those
forever searching for accolades & meaningless status.
Alone, she is jubilant, in her own nothingness.
She floats in water as clear as crystals,
with pennies, now sparkling underneath her feet.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC