"cultivates" poems
I hate my personality.
I don't have a personality
That cultivates relationships.
No,
My personality leads to anguish -
Insecurity.
If I could,
For once,
Harvest a bit of
Silence in my brain -
I'd love that.
I hate to feel anxiety;
Fear of abandonment;
Insecurity;
Obscurity;
I hate to feel what I feel.
What's worse,
I can't find elegant words
To describe it.
Leaving me mute,
People assume things about me,
Making my efforts moot.
Friends think I'm overbearing;
Demanding.
Romances think I don't trust them;
That I'm too controlling,
Insecure;
Dependent;
Too moody;
Too possessive.
My personality makes people leave me.
I'm too touchy -
Too hard to love or understand.
People see me,
And expect me to freak out,
Or to demand attention.
Well this is my account -
Because when you are on
The borderline,
It's easy to see
That the grass is greener
On either side -
But for others,
You seem polarized.
I'm not happy with how my brain works.
I don't want to be the way I am.
I don't want to make sure people are
Thinking about me...
And then feel guilty or angry when they don't,
Or can't.
I hate my personality.
I hate who I am.
It causes me to never feel comfort,
And my unrest has left me
An insomniac for too long.
Now,
I just want to rest.
But,
It's hard to sleep when you're alone
And afraid of the dark.
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 3:09 PM UTC
All our lives are we cultivated—
Cultivated by birth,
Cultivated by parents, friends, teachers—
By ethos—
which in turn cultivates the identities which we don—
In search of a self.
Cultivated by Earth—Irrigated by Love.
All so, to be purchased by Death—
A ripened Consumer.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 7:08 AM UTC
Maiden,
New beginnings sprout in feminine Earth.
Legs rooted in blossoming
Spring.
Newborn innocence cultivates in
raw purity.
Mother,
essence of life,
predecessor of power.
Like fruit ripening in preparation of harvest.
Fertile fulfillment found in
abundance.
Crone,
a culmination of earned experience,
compassionate wisdom.
Cold winter bears bereavement.
Change in continuous
cycle.
~
Mother earth,
complexion of cosmos.
My celestial
creator.
Maiden, mother, crone. Woman.
Goddess.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
Words run down rutty cheeks and phrases pour out of ears and snotty clauses pool on a top lip. A sleeping lizard with tough skin fills the mouth with a little bit of space for the foot propped up against the molars in the back. Some magnificent ******** can part their jaws to let cascades of magnificent sense pass from them. This unfortunate individual, however, cannot stream any quips out of the correct orifice. If some promising witticism manages to squeeze past the big fat iguana under that palate then the bitter thing would flick at the uvula with its tail and the witty remark would be gagged out in the most broken form it could possibly take. The lie it cultivates is that everything inside is at least a little embarrassing. Desperately romanticising about growing a soft, lizard-less mouth must somehow cure the hard working mute someday. Because what the hell else is there to do when one needs to be undaunted and well-spoken?
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
the woman
SOsO beautiful
so strong, she's made of titanium steel
unbreakable and unchangeable
the woman
skin so soft
like the touch of the rose petals she cultivates
intertwined in her hair
gosh, nothing can beat THE WOMAN.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 7:36 AM UTC
Todesfugue ("Death Fugue")
by Paul Celan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come midday, come morning, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky;
there’s sufficient room to lie there.
The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes
in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...”
He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by,
whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie.
He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance!
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes...
he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...
Your ashen hair Shulamith...”
We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high.
His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!”
He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue,
screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come midday, come morning, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete...
Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes.
He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!”
He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise
to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight;
we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany!
We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you...
He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue.
He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true.
He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...”
He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies.
He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany...
“Your golden hair Margarete...
your ashen hair Shulamith...”
Paul Celan (1920-1970) was a Romanian Jew who wrote poems in German. He survived the Holocaust, despite the loss of his mother and father, to become one of the major German-language poets of the post–World War II era. His parents' deaths and the horrors of the Holocaust have been called the "defining forces" in Celan's poetry.
Keywords/Tags: Paul Celan, Holocaust poems, Holocaust poetry, Shoah, German, translation, black, milk, drink, vipers, serpents, hounds, grave, graves, golden, hair, Margarete, Shulamith, sing, dance, Death, master, Germany, Nazis, racism, antisemitism, injustice, brutality, genocide, ethnic cleansing, World War II, world conflicts
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
Boy sees flower
Boy waters flower
Cultivates
Cherishes
Admires
His flower
Man sees flower
Man waters flower
In a lush field
He lays there seeing
The beauty she is
Cultivated
Cherished
Admired
The flower knows
Because she blooms
Every day
For him
May 27, 2022
May 27, 2022 at 1:26 PM UTC
I want to feed you
Not feed the flame
I want to be the field
I want to be the rain
A seed inside your heart
Till the soil
Plant the crops
I want to be the harvest
And with the sunshine of love
We watch it grow
Not feed the flame
Not pushing wood unto a hearth
Tumultuous skies
And violent earth
And uneasy heavens
The only fire I want to feel
I use to cook for you a meal
Eat until you have your fill
Leaving room for my dessert
I want to feed you
Sustenance in ****** form
Nourishment for the soul
I want to feed you
You're starving appetite
I want to be your bread
I want to be your meat
A kitchen in a castle
A recipe for a queen
Ingredients in order
I want to be your dinner
The last meal that you eat
Before you go to sleep
I want to be your dream
The last meal that you need
And everything was leading to
From the seed, the soil, the rain
The time it took to let it grow
The mind that cultivates
The hands in the field
The back-breaking labor
The knowledge of the chef
I am your food
Laid upon your table
I want to feed you
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC
the jersey breeze
cultivates her curls,
as they bounce in the crisp air.
she’s the reason you can’t sleep at night.
the day breaks
into song when you meet her gaze;
she hums along, her voice
soft - like red velvet.
against the green
wallpaper in her room
she looks so beautiful
you wonder if she can sleep at night.
the night falls, and
in your rest she grows a foot taller,
becoming wise, like the book of poetry
you leave by your nightstand.
her friends know
that is she the one
who spreads herself thin to block the sun when it’s too hot.
she sleeps without closing her eyes.
her moments blend into the next ones:
she is so refreshing - even when she is thirsty;
and the acorns fall from her pockets;
and the deer come running;
and we all sleep soundly.
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
I fell in love today.
With a man I'd never met.
He had a power over me, what can I say?
Oh, he's a hero, don't you fret.
He is tall, and witty, and debonaire.
He saved me from the bandits with his flashing swordplay.
All the while the sun glinting on his hair.
Then he took me back to his castle on page 109.
When he crowned me there was so much applause the walls shook!
I cannot wait to see what happens on the next line,
because my lover and I are one on the pages of this book.
One of the many realities I have escaped to in my time.
Reading, a pleasant distraction that cultivates ones mind.
It is so deliciously good, pleasure at its prime.
The characters I've met have taught me how to love and hate, how to be cruel and to be kind.
I have won battles, and lost friends.
I have made love with Vikings, and danced with mermaids.
And it almost always makes me weep when a book ends.
Then it's back to the bookstore on one of my story raids.
I can't wait to slip between the pages.
The ink to my mind like silk to my skin.
There I will meet heroines, criminals, and sages.
Between each set of covers a new life will begin.
Flip the pages and inhale the drug.
the fine biblichor that sends my head spinning.
A fine way at the end of the day to unplug.
A new book, the best way to get me grinning.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
Her wonderful smile
blooming beneath the warm sun
cultivates my love.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
Writer
[noun]
someone who cultivates raw dirt to produce a single flower, blooming from the depths of their soul;
but grows addicted to its presence --beauty amongst darkness.
and in attempt to conceal the muddy reality, develops a garden with lavish, beautiful flowers--
of assorted variety, with unique traits of every flower and indistinguishable as stars in the night sky;
but harsh winter tramples with intricate footsteps, the petals tragically withered and torn as the writer's heart
their watery eyes acknowledging the dirt once more.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
How might he sing of this Queen that he found
Of their trip through the stars
Of the sights and the sounds
The soft subtle glow from her sun-kissed skin
Her Magic and rhythm that oozed from within
Of Holding her close, getting lost in her eyes
The lattice of limbs, the world passing by
Much more to this union than physics and heat
Their mind-space meeting place first of all treats
Hard to face truths they would tackle as one
Before all that JuJu had even begun
There in those convos through hours unfolding
A Lucid flowetry & neither witholding
She opened her heart up revealing her past
Her Darkness and Strengths
A history so vast
The degree of compassion and comprehension
Served as a softener, negating all tension
And he, he felt worthy, enough for a tear
To receive all she was
Dark and Light
Love and Fear
Pickled perspectives through dilated seers
Dissolving of egos & bringing forth tears
Humbly he knelt, for in him she would trust
Honouring intention
And Self
Before lust
Digesting their truths on candle light beams
Backing track soundscapes of finish him themes
Magnetic her radiance, a colourwheel aura
Bodies' bouquet, scents sweeter than flora
Skin to skin textures their grip free to roam
Tastes of pure Stardust
Her flavour was... Home
A moment removed from time's ceaseless pace
Light breaking birdsong, Love dripped from her face
The world switched on and began it's routine
While Awestruck he witnessed this manifest dream
Cat cursed yet tireless he played to her choir
Their Synchronous vibrations raised forever higher
There's never before been, nor again will there be
A woman of resonance as Perfect as she
Subjectively perfect, Ubiquitous truth
Yet how we see perfect requires no proof
All of his senses Peaked & Saturated
All his Desires
In this Queen concentrated
Once in a lifetime the lucky may find
A someone of substance who stimulates the mind
Once in a lifetime the lucky may be
With One who cultivates a compatible energy
Once in a lifetime the lucky may hold
The attention and Love of their true Twin Soul
But the idea that One girl could be all this and more
A concept so enticing he just can't ignore
The poetry of Presence
The Nourishment of Osmosis
The Freedom of the Eternal Now
She's Imperfectly Perfect
She's Perfectly Imperfect
His Queen Supreme
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 1:32 AM UTC
There is a resonating rhythm which cultivates a warm embrace from electric boldness.
Congruence is to be found within the fire of an athame, where familiarity can direct energy from each quarter of sacred space.
As nature displays her petals with utmost sincerity, there is certain direction to northerly earth, eastern air, southern fire and westerly water.
Invocations are personal. I now feel the need to consummate our equilibrium. Please do not be offended.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
A culture of stiff refinement as pain wheat and sugar biscuits are served with perfectly over-extracted coffee
The crumbs fall onto the concrete Wir gefühl and cultivates mold which lets of tiny spores of resentment and discontentment stinging the eyes of those who dance in from other lands.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
Dread
Deep,
Deep,
Dread
Waiting to lift a rock
Under which I have left a Viper
Venom nonfatal
But abscesses and grows
Cultivates already infected,
decaying tissue
Weight my temple
Drop from a tower
Only the ground below and
On all sides
Dread, pass me by
Deaf, blind viper
Is this paranoia
No, I tremble legitimately
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 7:52 PM UTC
__[Gardener]__
_/ ˈɡɑɹd.n̩.ɚ/, /ˈɡɑɹd.nɚ /_
One who gardens; one who grows plants
or cultivates a garden
I had the sight to foreshadow the coming rain…
the saturated drink of bottled-up sadness
—while longing to touch with eyes
Magnetized and mesmerized; smitten by
the coming storm of love… Oh how one does look
forward to the rain, as the cool of day- as droplets
dance on the shoulders of a raincoat
Perhaps in this long and overachieved drought
these feelings are like desert rains divine
precious liquor of life, upon my eyes parched sands
Growing out beautiful violets, from once violent gales
still in my eyes fruitless lands- I glance at you, my
delicate flower. For the yearn and crave— a heart
able, available, and willing to water your garden with
the words of raindrops gossiping about us,
_“pitter and chatter”_
Is it not a comforting sound?
Jul 16, 2024
Jul 16, 2024 at 7:07 AM UTC
I stepped into autumn rain-
it was cold as it wet my feet
near a rusted black mailbox.
Walking a cracked and weather-beaten driveway,
bent down-
smelled odors of dampened pavement.
Fragrances of autumn when rain showers or pours,
reflect stark distinctions-
from when the weather is warm and dry.
Can't stop wondering, if we're headed toward
a rainy season. That wouldn't bother me as long as
rain-
pattering on surfaces of gray and
blackened asphalt roads and country drives,
spoke of new beginnings-
through observant eyes.
Rain on green grass-
cultivates an aroma of roots and earth.
Pounding down-
picking up steadier momentum,
as it splatters ground.
Soil christened,
by millions of clear teardrops-
streaking faces of clouds above,
rolling down-
refreshing and purifying
deepest roots, buried in dirt.
Everything appears so fresh-
seasons of reinvention,
on the surface of sidewalks and blacktops
represent-
slates wiped clean.
I breathe in-
this autumn air, surrendering
sighs of relief-
as I ponder deliberate ruminations
while listening to autumn rains.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
What cultivates the greatness of our homelands?
Tis not the land, the rocks, the earth, the sea,
The treaties writ for nobles by their own hands
Decrying common views as heresy.
Great Britain was still great long e'er the sun rose
Blessing the nets of Europe's wedding veil,
And when her arms extended to her old foes,
She stood alone, defiant, to prevail.
Tis in the heart, the will, the strength of mind
Of each proud lad and lass that calls her home
Wherein the Great of Britain seeks to find
The inspiration of her epitome.
On her 'twas said the sun would never set,
Let not her sons and daughters e'er forget.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 12:01 PM UTC
It begins at a moderate pace,
Picking up steadily like time is in a mad haste,
Confined to one dimly lit area this fever cultivates,
Stretching endlessly as this heartache alternates to a physical pang,
Emotions barbed and jagged as those of thorns the heart turns to rage
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 12:45 AM UTC
I'm spreading my smile.
The antisocial one that hides.
I'm revealing my big teeth.
The teeth of the chipmunk.
I gnaw away at free expression.
My teeth a little twisted.
Somewhat like my words.
The real lady lurks, somewhere underneath.
I am soft and gently.
Kind and tender.
Like sweet meat.
Rather wordy.
The imagination cultivates.
The mind of this cute birdie .
I love poetry.
Dark or light.
Words always so mighty.
When tripping from the sprightly pen.
(c) Livvi
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
I’ve spent days
Screaming at my shadow
Lurking
In the corners
Of autumns belly
Searching
For those fragments of daylight
That
Shatter
And
Cut
Odd ghosts devour seconds
Days and months
It’s you whom I have whispered in dreams
Stepping into those shadows of days gone
Grasping at
Faint memories
Lost eyes
And slanted smiles
It’s this entire engrossing ****** scene
Which cultivates my mind’s slow moving camera
Spectator
Viewer
Two bodies smeared on asphalt
That’s what the argument
With no reason
Seems to be
Nothing shared
Picture happy moments are developed
To others
All is well
With us
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
I do not feel lonely
as I sit in the far corner of the room
surrounded by smiling faces
friends talking and sharing
unnoticed of me
...
I do not feel lonely
as I sit in the desk far from others
with a barricade of empty desks
they keep me
(at bay, calm, safe)
...
But when I lay my head down
I'm not tuning them out
I'm studying them
I hear every little word
...
I peak through my clasped arms
analyzing their expressions
and I wonder
can they feel this
this thing that cultivates me
...
But a part of me
knows they can't
...
Yet another part of me
questions
"If no one can notice you
are you really even there?"
...
Is that why
I don't feel lonely
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Cancer of the Tooth & Lung
Cancer of the Lips & Tongue
Cancer of the Cheeks & Gum
Cancer collects under the Skin
& Numb
Cancer ; Fingertips & Thumb
Cancer spreads
Cancer on my Mind
& Dumb
Cancer greases your thinning Hair
Cancer ; the Features you select to Wear
Cancer subtracts the light from your Eyes
Cancer swells your pinkening grey Heart
Cancer in your Thought and Barking
Cancer Glows ;
Ever Phosphorus
In your Dark
Cancer ; what’s the Matter ?
Cancer ; where is my Head ?
Cancer in our Bicker
Cancer ; I’m drying Blind
Cancer on tap
& extra Cancer ...
Cancer from You to Me
Cancer won’t leave us be
Cancer from Me to You
Cancer confirms every Act we do
Cancer ; when we stay up late
Cancer Cultivates our Relation
whilst we Canker in Snared Hatred
Sep 15, 2019
Sep 15, 2019 at 7:09 PM UTC
Thinking Clearly
I’m simply trying
To think clearly,
Times and destiny against me.
Not alone, it is we all.
A world of digits and addictions,
New temptations:
‘Lead me not into temptation…’.
Tiny hippocampus shrinking even more than ever,
It’s an effort,
I admit.
A part of words, a part of worlds
Inside a frame that gilds the lily,
Curls around reality
Like smoke from chimney.
Headlines chronically bad,
Chronicles of planetary sadness –
World of digits,
World on fire,
World that cultivates desire,
It is all the harder to think clearly
And sincerely:
Ergo, I
Am trying as a consequence,
To change the sequence
And think plainly, deeply,
Patently, indubitably
Clearly.
Thinking Clearly 6.18.2017
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II: Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC