"curiosities" poems
*coffees are my one-way ticket to contemplation–
to realizations and dramas
it shapes my eyes
to view life like a panorama
coffee makes me think
about the world,
the people
and both combined
coffee connects me to the crowd
to their lives,
mishaps
sometimes shared with mine
coffee gates to different events and realities
it awakens wishful thinking
and kicks curiosities
coffee, summed up
is a friend
of all those who've got their heads in their *****
it is a guru of life
love,
and other life experiences
a.t.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
Everyday’s affliction with what we know is missing
Countless moments wishing that fishing was as simple as whistling
Remembering that willows wither in winters un-warmed
and wandering wonders willfully repose when rivaled against ripening woes
Come closer potential memories of exposes’
Clothes skydiving with expectations of faceplanting into the floor
Lady classifications disguise the actions depicting a *****
Heaping hopefuls cascade over glistening gazes that persuade the perilous to lay dormant
Come closer to the oops
That second guess in the back of your head that taps the shoulder and says go
That same go that was an initial no and now corruption has spidered the criteria
It seems the cat may have found the trick to the ball of yarn
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 10:26 PM UTC
Only if you knew…
How it bleeds inside
The baby born of blood and flesh
Just a hideous beast ruined by time.
Single dame- thousand names
Only if you knew,
How the ice burns my throat
How the wills and wants went cold…
Only if I knew,
What the skies hold for me
I didn’t touch the blade,
But the stains don’t fade away..
Why the contrition of yesterday
Still ****** my soul’s edges
Why the sweet reminiscences,
Still a gloomy haze?
Why the memoirs of divinity
Have turned in immoral disgrace?
Why the reaper can’t sing in its solace?
Thee heart keep running but lost in its pace
Why each passing moment moans for the albatross?
Only if we knew…
The curiosities of life
And anxieties open and wide
Don’t stop the eyes
Now open and searching life
Taking my chances,
Hiding my grievances
I risk the curve
Once was jilted and deserted from love
I bask in the glow, soak in the sun
Step out of the low
The Satan takes no pity
Leaves the beast with an impaired heart
Now the eyes are shut, the dark creeps in
The clouds come and lo! they win
The stars now astray in a veiled sky
Feeble and faint
Again leave the beast forsaken
But animal instincts they call it
It strives again..
Only if you knew…
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
The road is long and the days are short.
Life consists of only so many miles.
Enjoy the ride while you still can.
Someday, you’ll run out of gasoline.
Life consists of only so many miles.
Take heed not to speed.
Someday, you’ll run out of gasoline.
Don’t let the rigorous journey discourage you.
Take heed not to speed.
Savor the curiosities that you behold.
Don’t let the rigorous journey discourage you.
Find the beauty in the bumps and turns.
Savor the curiosities that you behold.
Enjoy the ride while you still can.
Find the beauty in the bumps and turns.
The road is long and the days are short.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
The magician's basement was no more glamorous than my own.
Old couches, an untouched television.
One corner, however, holds some curiosities.
Loaded dice, trick decks, handkerchiefs.
Handcuffs, matches, rope, knives.
But his handcuffs hold no illusion, only my thin wrists.
They are hard and cold like any other pair
digging in, no escape.
There was no magic.
He offers to show me a trick.
How easy, I think now, it must be
to fool a seven year old girl.
I was tricked.
He told me once that magicians love the dark.
The black, he said, keeps their secrets hidden.
He told me to close my eyes,
and when I could finally open them,
there was no more light.
He hid me in the dark with the rest of his secrets, the rest of his tricks.
K.A.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
maybe I am bedeviled by thoughts of you everytime my mind slips into the abyss, maybe that's the reason I don't tap into it the way I used to.
But If I told you how I felt, it'd get swept under the rug.
Suppose my eyes burn behind these creme- thick glasses everytime I see you, suppose I hate the silence and fight the urge to burn my surroundings with the heat behind my eyes.
But if I told anyone what I saw, it'd get swept under the rug.
Imagine I listen to music and hear your voice, so I claw my headphones out like they were ice seeping into my skull and freezing my cranium with words oh so soothing as a double-edged blade sinking both ends into me, Imagine a tear escaping my eyes, voice raising in a blatant attempt to ease the pain.
But If I said a word about what I hear, it'd get...... well, I think you know what'd happen.
Lets dig under that rug, four feet by four feet area of infinite emptiness.
Half of my life has been hidden in there: emotions, mental, thoughts, pains, lusts, curiosities, questions, intents, past, present and future, all have been hidden under that rug.
It's stitches are one with my soul because it has so many of my confessions that it absorbs part of my soul.
I trust that rug more than I trust some of the hoes I claimed to trust from day one.
I trust that rug more than I trust some of the friends I've had since meeting.
That rug has an affinity for gaining people's trusts, like me.
That rug produces more positive vibes than power chords produce energy, and yet we wonder why something being swept under the rug is a bad thing.
I sweep myself under the rug because I know I'll be safe there. I know that with all the thoughts and emotions I share, that with that safe haven, I am assured.
I rest under the rug, I cry under the rug, I sleep under the rug.
As it is my home.
And I love it's sincere serenity.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
I’m lost amidst the closets of curiosities,
Trapped within the fibres of a page.
Desperately humming lackluster songs of
Redemption.
Straining my eyes to see into the dark,
Scanning subconscious horizons in search
Of the rocky cove where the sun will be.
Reborn.
My fingers are bleeding from trying to grasp.
The peonies and gardenias in my skull,
Losing my grip on the garden in my mind.
Shrieking.
Obscure obscenities as the angels stand and
Stare. Nonconformity has eternally failed me.
Garden nymphs move their wooden mouths.
Whispering.
Songs of sorrow and the skies.
Constructing.
Oddly-shaped windows of eternal insignificance.
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 4:34 PM UTC
Speculation proved
contagious,
misinterpretation
crept silently on patchwork soles
(odds n' sods messily stitched,
tittle tattle did no favours)
like a flu it spread,
hushed curiosities rested
outside ol' Hutch baker's door,
where even a freshly oven'd
batch might strain an ear
or five to net nearby tongue trading,
seeds straining on their brows.
Even those Mother hens
had a cluck or two left in them,
rumours about the
'Dust mite Martyr'
as she was dubbed,
“Does she have no shame,
sitting pretty in Matrimony's dress?”
one heaving checkered breast commented
titling her beak
to gain a better look -
At that shriveller slumped,
an examiner of the cobbles
with such a religious stare
her lids traced stones
within the darkness,
a traveller -
wanderer not to be trusted,
especially not
with bloodied lilies tangled
within her gleaming mop.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
The child trapped within me, wonders
She still does…her heart filled with curiosities about the world around her
She still loves the smell of concrete after it rains
The feeling of velvet, the sound of Velcro as it detach itself
She is still intrigued about the intricate bends on an elderly face
And finds herself dancing among strangers to the tunes on her head
She still likes to feel the cold floor under her naked feet
…and at times she allows a smile without reason to fly away
The child trapped within me, still sings the songs she learned decades ago
When innocence couldn't make sense out of the corrupted lyrics
…she dares to invade my brain in search of herself
and tries,oh how she tries to take ownership of absent things, that no longer belong to her
The child within me doesn't understand
It is time to disappear
Lost among the day to day
She cannot add the weight on the shoulders
the creaking of the joints, the sleepless night of a busy head
the tired feet
rhythm-less arms that forgot how to fly, and now…now can only float guideless
among thousands of face, hitting the shore
lingering in an ocean of responsibilities
drowning, my child, refuses to sink and resurfaces
intrigued by a reflection of intricate lines
Lost, I find her
Hidden deep inside, she escapes at times
To remind me of what life ought to be,
…afraid my child, hides again.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
How do I show my beauty?
By just being me.
By embracing the things I love in life.
By feeding into my energy.
By diving into my creativity.
By leaning into my curiosities.
By embracing change and striving for improvement.
By showing empathy.
By digging into my strength and endurance.
By practicing mindfulness.
By harnessing my focus.
By utilizing patience and compassion.
By feeling strong emotions.
By loving my nature.
By moving with passion and resting in good reason.
By needing nothing else outside of these.
These are the beautiful things that come from within me.
All that’s needed of me
is to dig within myself,
to dive headfirst
and fully submerge into the water
and pulling out these attributes-
these facets of beauty,
reflecting the sunshine
like the scales of a fish,
the cuts in an emerald,
the ultraviolet color in flowers and birds.
Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 11:15 AM UTC
I do not write poems
About the world we see
Because the world we see
Does not interest me
Landscapes inside my mind I find worthy of words
Internal curiosities appeal to me
I am bored by birds, and clouds and flowers
Lakes, and trees and bees
Sure there is sadness enough in the mind of a bird
To fill an ocean with the tears
From trillions of heart-wrenching words
But you may prefer that I write about birds
With innocent human minds
Cute as pie, flying by, in the sky
Not terrified ravenous hunters
Constant killers of anything smaller
All through the day,
Like a child’s sinister play
Or should I write of cuddly cats
Who ambush innocent birds hopping by
Silly birds who should have stayed in the sky
‘Tis nothing to do with a need for food
‘Tis wanton bird abuse for cats' amusement
Our Earth family is Dysfunctional
The truth of Mother Nature
Is not what we want poets to write about
Sean Hunt Windermere
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
"Hola mi amigo"
That is how they greed us
in the states, but
don't blame them, because
we are the Latino's lost twin
Next time
don't let them
judge the book by it's cover
tell them that within the book
it reads:
*we are pohnpei
the garden island in the pacific
on the map
we are midnight stars
in broad daylight, but
through the lens of a telescope
one shall be blinded by our beauty
for we are
sweet harmonies of birds singing
before sunrise, and
sweet perfumes of island flora
pouring through your nostrils
we are reflection of sunsets
stretching out into the open sea
glittering, like
diamonds beneath the sunlight
we are children in Christmas
crowding along the roads
clutching onto plastic bags
waiting joyfully for Santa
to ride into town and
rain candies on them
we are dusty old tires
diving and splashing into
muddy pool *** holes
on a paved road
we are coconut milk
leaking through
the valley of ten fingers
wedded in a shape of a ball
and pouring onto breadfruits
we are wooden hulls of canoes
smashing through the waves
like a bull through a red cape
we are grandmothers telling
ancient local tales to her kids
and fathers showing his sons
how to become island men
we are the powerful kava
repeatedly pounded on a flat stone
forming a liquid
brown as a chocolate milk
and when one drinks
the world suddenly becomes
a quiet peaceful place
we are pig meats
heated beneath flaming rocks
covered with banana leaves
we are proud and peaceful
we bow to show respect towards
one another, visitors and their highness
we have five kings
and we are one
our home abounds with mysteries
but we see what is behind the cover
some of us have left
to pursue their curiosities
but we will always be one
and when the rain
falls on a sunny day
we understand that
one of us is at peace
we don't have any museums
but we see our history through
Nan Madol
we don't have any towers
but we see our lands from
towering mountains
and we have seen them
burnt to ashes, but
we survived, and
we never left*...
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
It’s in the eyes
Her plan and schemes
Invitations
Dreams
The tilt of the head
Her smile and tease
Curiosities
Ease
Light strokes of finger-tips
Her attentive caress
Promises
Success
…
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
Stop reading, I tell you;
there is no resolution coming.
Only laments and curiosities,
incursions into the soulless depths of mesonoxian thunder,
maybe a note on the desirability of warm socks,
but no satisfaction.
Don't expect a mournful awakening,
nor deliberate (or otherwise) profundity.
-disregarding the note on warm socks, of course-
I have given you warning, and if you continue,
the burden of exploration falls on you,
for consideration is the ferry to insight,
of which this text is built strictly without.
The boatman may ask that you pay with your wisdom
and refuse those that have no treasures to offer.
Would that not be the most desirable life?
Where we live to learn and when we have,
the boatman ferries us into the undying waters?
And those refused must wander and wonder
why they were excluded, where wisdom is birthed,
realizing that they are exactly as intelligent as they work to become,
to which the boatman might say, "Welcome aboard. Tell me more."
Allegorically speaking, this notion is nonsense.
Metaphorically speaking, completely absurd.
Practically, it's practically insane,
though actively, it is inanely preferred.
Alternative to apathy and pageantry,
wherein the boatman has empathy for those without wealth.
There is no true truth, only real observation,
so stop trusting my judgment and go create it yourself
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
I have a light under my concrete
For others
It is fatally luminous
So it must be contained
I relegate rays to the darkest depths
So no light may exit
But then you walked on my blacktop
And cracks started to form in my road
Light began to escape
You were fascinated
I was terrified
Because the more you traversed my pavement
The further my road split
Brilliant flashes with increasing frequency surfaced
Your curiosities were piqued
Mine were plagued
By what lies underneath
And when it would blind you
I tried to warn you from inside my cocoon
You said you'd purchase sunglasses
You never understood
This light
Shatters glass like Stone Cold Steve Austin
It's intensity is a stunner
It may be the Sun itself
But you insisted on continuing
To travel down this path
As models import wrinkles
Potholes become sinkholes
Fears were realized
Senses overwhelmed
Skin burned
Blackened
Into something unrecognizable
As all signs of life fade
I'm stranded on a crumbled road
With only sightless cadavers to lead me home
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC
They have institutions which are to reveal to us information, for a price.
Information, as if it is hidden; secret.
Inquisitive minds will always seek deeper understanding;
they will use the available resources to seek out accurate and unbiased information
so as to formulate a personally relevant worldview and thereby,
Philosophy.
They have institutions to reveal to us what it is that is already known
as opposed to kindling the spark of curiosity that got us here in the first place.
Information is our birthright as Humans in an era of interconnection such as this.
Intellectual Inurement Institutions are Abominations to such a creature of Reason.
To solve this perpetual problem;
Learn how to teach yourself
then educate yourself about your curiosities.
Follow the spiral; go where no one has been.
Come back with something.
Share it. Profess it.
Then delve back again into the unknown.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
She is dark haired
Faired hair
Blue eyes
Brown eyes
The curvy perky pervy mermaid
Of quiet joys named Maria
The fairy queen of the Autumn roads
Master and mistress of mystery
Shaded tints
Of unknown
Digital history
Cloaked in anonymity
Baring my solemnity
Wearing layers of dignity
And desire
Is inspired
A crackling volcano
Of unmeasurable passions
A shadow thief who stole my heart
Monument made of more than beauty
By all the curiosities
Of Casual conversations
It is not out of obligation
Or out of courtesy that I court
Her kindhearted pleasure
It is merely for my pleasure
That I treasure such a jewel
I will never meet her in person
I will only know her in poetry and prose
And as far as that goes
It is a grand gift she bestows
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
You.
My creature of the night,
you frighten me.
You.
Dark and sultry,
you ****** my curiosities.
You.
They all say they know you,
they only know your name.
But they don't even know that.
No one does.
So we'll just call you Batman.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
Take another day of afterglow; put it down as luck.
Another place has turned to gold in my dominion...
Too much more of happiness and I will turn to gold myself!
Made of curiosities, placid on my shelf...
Rewards for scarcity...
This is my reward for scarcity...
My rewards for scarcity...
I will see more dawns than coins.
I will be the text on art.
I can't stand too much attention.
Pull me closer!
Pull me closer!
I will criticise this state of art
yet I will play this risen part.
Rewards for scarcity...
This is my reward for scarcity...
My rewards for scarcity...
My rewards for scarcity...
My rewards for scarcity.
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
Teach your child
to plant a tree
than pluck one
that was never
her own entity
but its own
Teach your child
to make a painting
of a flower
as a gift
than give a bouquet
that will die soon
or instead
teach her to
give a sapling
that will grow
into a memory
which will hold
much power
Teach your child
to question
than cower
to vain rules
and illogic
that steal her
playful affection
and her artless frolic
Teach your child
to climb trees
before the
ladders to
supreme echelon
Teach her
that when she collapses
she must stand up
with grace and poise
like the shining sun
for after
the night
is done
laying its darkness
it rises again
the sun
Teach your child
the colors of mankind
Yellow or Orange
Red or Brown
Black or White
to accept each one
everyone
without the division
of vanity
of power
or a crown
Teach your child
to create
her own meaning
of Love
Teach her to
listen to the story
of every tear
that bears grief
and to
speak aloud
to bespeak
wisdom and virtue
in brief
Teach your child
about the freedom
in and of the mind
before she rebels
to venture outside
with people
who care less
about her kind
but more about
filling the space
on a car seat
Teach your child
to believe
in possibilities
and have faith
in the certainties
of unlocking mysteries
Teach her
to fuel
her curiosities
Teach your child
values that were not
taught to
the crowd
then you will
stand a mother
full and proud.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
Those things these hands have held
gently -textured care-
tactile curiosities
life's measure
A small, blue bird's egg
broken -sadly-
mocking nature's symmetry
Ice
cold -cold-
water making shape
A stone arrow point
sharp still -old-
black as death
My mother's hand
warm -caring-
now long gone
A small dog
wiggling -happy-
nipping, licking fingers
A woman
smooth -soft-
curving heat
My son
my son, my son -my son-
now grown, love unmeasurable
A coin
gold -only-
worth little
Those things these hands have held
measured -treasured-
memorized
lifelines.
r ~ 8/12/14
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
13 shades of blue
With strokes of brush
****** in leathery paint
I Colour me treize
Hues of blues
Into the blue yonder
Runs my mind
Picking for my throes
Carnations blue
Cerulean paint I
Silence of my orbs
Dandelion desires
Shimmer sapphire hue
Laughter echoes
Waterfalls Periwinkle
Meconopsis curiosities
Walking avenues
Rocking plopping
Dances my heart
As morning glories
Jewelled with dew
Electric energy, glacial blush
Reflected from mine zaffre soul
Clematis colored my Aster touch
I - a blend of Majorelle blues.
© Dr. PRERNA SINGLA, 2015.
Please note that the poetry is copyrighted by Law.
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Fairy thimbles = related to fairies
Aster flower = healing
Morning glory = borns in day dies in evening
Blue hibiscus = splendour , serenity
Clematis = mental power, courage faithfulness
Dandelion = happiness
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
I feel out of place
Out of place like a mushroom in a green salad
Like an all-male rendition of Cats on Broadway
Like Godzilla on Melrose Avenue
I feel like an adoptee in my own body
It's like "Hey! how long have you been here?"
My sentences are cut short whenever I try to speak because
Of all the train wreck shows that people could watch, I'm the one that's been off air for billions of years
Relevance
That's what I lack
If I open my mouth
I sound like I'm from another planet
A stranger on this earth, in this land, in this city
And I can't forget my mother's words
"You'll fit in somewhere."
But the boat to ****** island already left, and I'm a bad swimmer
Let me feel at ease
Let even my whispers make sense
Let me touch someone without feeling like I'm burning them
Let me do my campaign of shock and awe like a living creature in a cabinet of curiosities
I feel out of place
Like the lightning that falls inches from the tree
Like a satellite thrown off the Earth's orbit
Out of place
Like a missing sock ****** for the rest of eternity
Like a plastic bag drifting through the wind, thank you Katy Perry
In my own skin
I feel too big and too small
All at once
This rock in space feels odd, like it's not home
But the mothership is long gone
And, what can I say
I guess I'm stuck here
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC