"cyclic" poems
Leaves, sticks, and seeds make up this six foot stalk.
Oh, how she blooms before the flashing lights!
Leaving men and women with a stunned gawk.
Oh, you cause the seeds of your kind at night,
to dream of heights they won't reach; how sadly
try the delusional. But in all kin,
is imprinted least a scar on their psyches.
Sacrificial offer in porcelain
is ritually performed by some daily.
If not for fame, glory, or money, then
to mirror fashion people's ideal beauty.
A cyclic mental disease that won't end.
Shhh.. Here she comes! The first, but not the least.
An appetizer for the famine feast!
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC
Radical as Shakespeare
Cool as Frost
Spooky as Poe
Cyclic as Lee
Rounded as Austen
Abundant as Brontë
Earnest as Hemmingway
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
I love a good debate,
[science mixed with illusion]
and this year was no exception:
the debate on the best shapes for a kite
from design implementation, inception and execution
some sturdy string and industrial-strength glue
the machinations of whether to use plywood or bamboo
and of course built by your own fair hand
such was the intensity of discussion it continued
with an after-lunch stroll on the beach, where the uncles
drew their prize-winning geometry
with a primitive stick
in the sand
a question on the mathematics of aerodynamics aside
its currently a battle of the cyclic quadrilaterals
and documented film of it successfully tested and tried;
years of perfection honed by the skills of Fatherhood
to know instinctively the difference
between the brilliance of genius
and the borderline
just plain good
If nothing else has come from this
I now
know
[so as not to lose]
K = p/q over 2
or
K = ab – sin Ø
[are the formulas to use]
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
PROMETHEUS (alone)
O holy Aether, and swift-winged Winds,
And River-wells, and laughter innumerous
Of yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all,
And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,--
Behold me a god, what I endure from gods!
Behold, with throe on throe,
How, wasted by this woe,
I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!
Behold, how fast around me
The new King of the happy ones sublime
Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me!
Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's
I cover with one groan. And where is found me
A limit to these sorrows?
And yet what word do I say? I have foreknown
Clearly all things that should be; nothing done
Comes sudden to my soul--and I must bear
What is ordained with patience, being aware
Necessity doth front the universe
With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse
Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave
In silence or in speech. Because I gave
Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul
To this compelling fate. Because I stole
The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went
Over the ferrule's brim, and manward sent
Art's mighty means and perfect rudiment,
That sin I expiate in this agony,
Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky.
Ah, ah me! what a sound,
What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseen
Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between,
Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her bound,
To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain--
Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain!
The god Zeus hateth sore,
And his gods hate again,
As many as tread on his glorified floor,
Because I loved mortals too much evermore.
Alas me! what a murmur and motion I hear,
As of birds flying near!
And the air undersings
The light stroke of their wings--
And all life that approaches I wait for in fear.
5.5k
Life is nothing more than madness.
Probably there is no karma, no right, no wrong.
It's all a bunch of mechanic or random probabilities fighting against emotions, which are simply chemical reactions happening in our brain. Often good people get bad things, bad people get good things.
Simple: no meaning, no reasons.
We have these curious habits to give life some meaning just because we want some sort of reward for our efforts.
We put effort in things because inside and deeper each one of us is a dreamer, even the most skeptical man on earth.
But we should go through madness first, to get rid of our inner-fake-dreamer, to unlearn the ********* we have been told from birth and to re-learn how to dream properly, with the help of a less magic but different truth.
If we decide to go through madness we need to know we may not come out sane from it, and sometime we will have left just that little bit to keep going and survive. If we succeed we will understand that there is nothing to win, nothing to lose, that is all about perception and everything is a cyclic succession of experiences to use wisely.
- Manuela Camporaso
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 7:34 PM UTC
Budding Rose
building pressure,
pursed and ready,
meeting the threshold
with preparatory
anticipation;
quivering.
Blooming Rose
opening with elegance,
breaking from tight enclosure.
a fragrant, companionate aroma,
inviting, an unfoldment,
spreads of flourish;
exquisite grace.
Dying Rose
with humbleness
in bowing stem.
letting go,
petal by petal.
richer reds,
darkening,
decease.
Cyclic Rose
coming, breaking
open and shedding;
a transitory
ephemeral beauty.
teaching the natural
art of being;
in bud
b l o o m
& death.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
All but still
Wheat wavering in the distance, shivering in anticipation
Animals hide away, tucked in the safety of hideaways, holes, and orifices
Humans crouch underground, waiting
Hours pass
A lone alarm shouts across the land
"This is an emergency. I repeat, an emergency warning"
So loud that those below, closer to hell than ever before, clutch their ears
For they are ringing from the vibrant sound waves stretching across the fields
A slight change in wind directions
A little bit of motion
Begins the devastation
A lone inverted triangle appears
Seemingly hovering, inches above the ground
Circling its prey, before it gorges itself
Endless cyclic motions, vacuuming everything in its path
Houses, barns, plants fly
Tugged from the attraction to the ground to the sky
Engulfed by the tornado
That winds down a path of destruction
On a whirlwind high
Drunk off of its power
Invoking pain for no reason, except that it can
Land ripped to shreds
Houses taken and tossed miles and miles away
Barns slingshotted across the American countryside
And the deaths
Oh the deaths
Those who thought they could wait it out
Survive again once more
Those who tried to chase the twister
Mesmerized by its hypnotic dance
Those who were in the wrong place at the wrong time
Oblivious to their preventable fate
When the humans emerged
From their underground bunker
They found a land left ruined
Wiped blank of human development
With that they shed tears
Watering the fertile lands
As the tornado wrecked havoc
It brought a rebirth
A chance to start again fresh
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
you came to me in the first dewdrops of spring
with the scent of newleaf lingering on your lips
and the taste of fresh rosebuds and honeysuckle
a mere whisper on my tongue
your kiss the heat of summer sunlight blistering against my skin
and ripping my throat open in a blaze of inferno
heaven knows how you quell the flames
with the same brush of lips against mine
you dance forever in my mind’s eye on dappled autumn leaves
with the swirl of the breeze tousling in your hair
a symphony of red yellow brown and glittering eyes
footsteps going crunch crunch crunch over the carpet of my heart
your goodbye is the wind that whips through my eternal winter
as the snow settles in the silent solstice
i crave crave crave crave the fervent heat once more just once more
REPEAT.
cyclic cyclic cyclic
as i fall in love with you all over again.
(like the mist that rolls in with the first snow that tumbles like waves from the sky/like the budding of the flowers in the garden and the fallen petals beneath your soles/like the gradual melt of ice cream onto sticky fingers and stained flip-flops/like the green fading into a myriad of blossoming colour the facade of beauty disguising slow death)
baby, you break my heart slow
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
Around me architectural mastery:
sycamores, embankments, enduring ionic pillars.
I round a walkway bordered by trees,
enamel thawing, gliding off their low leaves.
Beneath the late-May’s pounding sun,
through the glittered trees’ reaches,
a gazebo crackles into sight.
Children in their prime, sunbathers, a wistful portraitist
encircle it carelessly:
a leisured chimney; the billows of life.
The foliage escapes into the river,
purplish, palpitating, cyclic creases
receive the dewy notes.
Kayaks licking acacia-gum-edged
ripples sputter and slip
through reverberations
of leveled white-water terraces.
Blackcurrants in clotted cream
slide on the plush lips of a young passerby.
The 8 above a doorway
dances motionless, silent in my periphery;
“Nicolas Cage just sold the spot”
pops from unknown lungs
inside the Circus crowd.
Unacknowledged, half-proud
hands built the Roman baths
alone, closed-in by such grace,
forgotten, then as now.
I wander these ancestral lanes
more or less alone, the same.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
For long, I've had a pen
And at the beginning of that time:
I used to write fantasy,
With set syllable and rhyme.
I gave it to the public,
And they gave it back to me.
Told me it was bland,
Somehow, I could agree.
And then I changed it to
First person—
Wrote about my troubles
Gave up on punctuation
And that ******* filter.
To write about my fight with needles,
A cyclic session of depression and regression,
Is release.
I am,
the butcher who chopped apart her soul
Drained blood into words.
Ground the bones into a bag and
Fed it to the birds
I won't dwell upon the rhyme scheme
Chime whenever the hell I want.
I hid my words in shadows
Did not care for
The world's gaze
And suddenly I found myself—
Showered with honest praise.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
Upon every arrival of every celestial birth,
There is only one common normality.
A susceptibility to an infinitesimal design,
A kink in the chain, the war of our mind.
This psychosomatic condition is no stranger,
A rendition of life’s existence.
Confinement exacerbated by poor health in the gut line,
Hormonal imbalances manipulated by addictive influences.
Paradigms shifting in front of awakening eyes,
Psychedelic truths hidden within the tides of time,
Confusion and conflict preventing expansion of evolutionary consciousness,
A cyclic pattern, the sadness in all our lives.
This idea is immortal and internal in the human genome,
The greatest subterfuge,
Amnesia
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
Let us invoke a healthy heart-breaking
Towards the horrible world:
Let us say 0 poor people
How can they help being so absurd,
Misguided, abused, misled?
With unsifted saving graces jostling about
On a mucky medley of needs,
Like love-lit ****
Year after cyclic year
The unidentifiable flying god is missed.
Emotions sit in their heads disguised as judges,
Or are twisted to look like mathematical formulae,
And only a scarce god-given scientist notices
His trembling lip melting the heart of the rat.
Whoever gave us the idea somebody loved us?
Far in our wounded depths faint memories cry,
A vision flickers below subliminally
But immanence looms unbearably: TURN IT OFF! they hiss.
2.9k
All edge and divides
Frightening truths, severed lies
You don’t walk through a crowd
For fear of taking their lives
Serpent tongue, serpent teeth
Rattles between lips, sealed
Spoke of many, far too many
Nonconformities
Cyclic reveries
The start and end don’t
Repeat
Just an infinite line
Parallel in
Retreat
Cyclic history
Stalled and stuttered to
Death
Just to rise once again
All mistakes and
Regrets
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
We are hopeful; we are loud
We are nonperishable,
Cyclic, changing-
Remolded constantly in a crucible of
re-understanding; unrelenting
Unvanquished, not even by death.
We are caring and wishing
dreaming, fulfilling
We are breath, in and out-
One, two, three:
Leap without looking
We are above all, hopeful
in the face of adversity
To be human is to hope.
To be human is to dream.
To be human is to be,
never to become, but just to be
Like wind ever moving,
seen and unseen-we pass
through one life to the next
leaving impressions behind.
We are purposed in that our purpose is
a thing to be found, to be sought
and even if it remains lost,
it becomes apparent at the end.
But even the end is a beginning.
There is no such thing as a wasted life;
no such thing as wrong
no such thing as right.
There just is, and whatever is,
is up to us to find.
We may never know where the big bang came from
or what was before.
But if we're lucky, we may one day know ourselves.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
My beloved night was dense,dark, wavy, soft velvet,
fully naked, moving in rhythm with me, frenzied, sweet,
we moved heaven and earth to reach the acme of delight,
then flew in to a sudden culmination,words fail to express,
the day dawned, blazing molten gold,ages were impatient steeds,
together we rode, gained wings, became transcendentals, sublime
reached that tranquil, trident blue peak where silence for ever reigns,
we had a deep yearning to sit and peer deep in to each other's eyes,
and see what remains after the last wave returns to the ocean's heart.
Above the emerald mountain,ran a river that fell in to an abyss,
the white foam of it's smile told us, about all we sought thus far.
"Ÿou have reached here in your frenzied search for the elusive
chasing the essence of a conundrum unexplained , cyclic, cryptic"
looking at us sang a little bird, from a low hanging branch
of the tree of diamonds, that shaded us with it's clear light.
We felt the thousand petaled lotus bloom within us that moment.
"Day and night are the horses that draw the chariot you ride,
an oasis you'll reach, then hear stories that would ease your pain
you are in a story that reflects on the periphery of a bubble,
that exists in innumerable worlds simultaneously and hence
none is real, your truth you create,every minute and live"
We are somnambulists, that sit and paint colors in our fanciful dreams,
when we smile the colors stick to our souls till the apparition dissolves.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
cyclic lingering
disconnected rambling
the same words rearanged
breathes shortening
impotent bargaining
the same pattern misbehaves
Ive always walked this way
hormonal litter cursed by anatomy
hyesteria
weepy futility
uncharacteristic of one so bold
the words of tongues
drag mud through wounds
a voided heart : not so
deep breaths
stand strong in misery
mindfulness, like a drug
disconnect and call it religion
pacing pacing pacing
thoughts;
I bleed for the words of others
For both praise and scheming lies
I wish to leave this haunted soul
but I
But I
but I ...what?
need to run?
to hide?
to hold my ground?
we'll see as it comes
a controlling women's worst nightmare
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
In the greenery of the courtyard
Nested the Bulbul
Always in hide, but at times
A shine of the black beak
The crested headgear
Or a glowing red garland.
A flash now and then
Of the crimson tail-vent
The bird of ************
Of the rustic legends
Said old granny
The sight of the bird brings
Cyclic periods to woman
‘Bathe bathe bathe’
Babbles the bird.
Before the tomcat wakes up
From the ashy hearth
Into the nest everyday
I steal a peak.
Soft and tiny, dotted pink
Two cute eggs…
Later with slit-open eyes
Open beaks sticking out
But with no wings…
Today the nest is empty
Slaughtered by the cat
Or the wings bloomed?
The sound of ritual ‘kurava’
Announced a wonder news
The neighborhood twin girls
Have attained puberty together.
The crook tomcat
Should be exiled
In a gunny bag
Out of sight afar
Across the river.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
We waded knee deep in the puddles
of vacant lots when the flood filled
our gutters to the brim.
When the rain died down and the water pulled
itself from the streets we watched the rainbow
of oil swirl around our ankles,
walked the wooden footbridge that broke
apart under the weight of our feet,
the water-logged wood rot
splitting while rusted nails slid
out of place. We followed the streams
back to the plaza, back to fake IDs
and the ash-stained tobacco shop.
We found ourselves under flickering
lights, leaning against the rusted
siding of the family market, faces hidden
in a mask of smoke. We got lost
in the electric hum of the laundromat's cyclic drone.
They paved over it all -- covered freckled
skin with cloth and hot tar,
crushed vacant houses like hollow skulls,
ignited neon lights and street lamps,
strip malls and drugs stores
that burn holes into old hiding places.
They still try to sift through shattered glass,
silence the hiss of the popped bike tire,
wipe away the blood flower that blooms
from my scabbed knee.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 10:29 AM UTC
A harbinger of life and death
He walks the sky
Carried by her breath
From above his many arms reach the earth
They beat rocks down
Carve waterways
And raise earthly pillars
From the sun he brings color
Captured in his work
Down, Down in the leaves
His gift to her
When her lungs are deep and shouts coarse
His shadow is dark
The land lost in premature night
Interrupted by angry light
On these dull nights with sullen color
Life is ruptured
And the blood of torched nature
Swallows her
When her voice is gentle and breath still
His works are thoughtful and cautious
Gifts numerous and precious
And she’s alive
Lost words capture the light
Of the ancient giant
Making the beautiful
Visible to the earthly soul
His touch like the heart
Strong and warped by passion
Imperfect and earnest
And dictated by cyclic motion
Wild and Eternal
The Heart of Nature
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
You are cyclic like
the change of seasons
in your reinvention;
robust is your passion,
a mountain brook
that embraces hills
plains, fields and ravines
without any restriction.
Instantly you would imbibe
any message, air, wind or water
sends through flashes of intimations,
nature's child you are, a woman
in sync with the moon in your veins
and the sun that seeks you from my *****
I only follow the music your heart strings play
that in my psyche resonates, every moment,
it makes easy navigation in this planet my right.
You and I move through the waves rowing
shoulder to shoulder, singing spiritedly barcaroles.
The feminine in me is under your tender care,
I let my masculine self be in communion with yours,
all merging in harmoniously, resulting in only ONE.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
Floating,
Above my body
Questioning my
own Reality
Harmony surrounds me
peaceful tranquility
emanating,
all encompassing
auras of reverie
Atmosphere defies my shape
I will undefine
Shapeless (be ethereal)
Nameless (nonexistance)
I am stuck fast asleep now
Lost in a pensive meditative state
My third eye is awakened
Liberation from cyclic existence (x2)
I am washed with zen
Cleansing me of my own sins
Real
Bliss exists it's intrinsic
From One we stem
As One we'll find our way
No more pain emotions unfold
No more pain, No more straying
Open
Your mind
Focus
New light
(Floating above my own body)
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
Despite suffering from illness,
****** assault from a once trusted individual,
being told I do not belong in my own country,
and shoved away by supposed peers and professor at my institution,
I remain.
As steadfast as ever,
protecting my place, country, and
family.
No matter how exhausted
or how shattered my current frame of reality may be,
I never cheat on my schoolwork or exams
like the same peers who belittle me.
Me, who is there:
patiently waiting,
always the last,
seeking help after another misstep;
Nonetheless,
diligently remaining on track,
amidst the others descended from the Esteemed,
Who continue the cyclic tradition of oppression.
While I acknowledge that
the absence of refuge
for the trodden
has existed for many centuries,
and even myself as of now,
I understand it to be ill-gotten privilege
I may have stolen
from another applicant more promising than me;
I remain in
This Place
amongst books
and the International Royalty.
Beginning from
such atrocities
in both blood, home, and later within the educational institution,
I never had any interest in making a name for myself.
I did not apply to college because I was told to—
it is because I was predominantly told the opposite.
Facing the shouting and dismissals
from those closest in blood and esteemed teachers at school.
In this time of a loosening socioeconomic hierarchy,
finally exposing the Freedoms of this Nation
Our Ancestors could never dream of,
We Must Remain, Learn, and Fight!
Revel in how
Unfulfilled we are,
Remain Loyal to your well-established Ideals,
and Fight!
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 3:58 PM UTC
Painting glossy images of life and
laughter
sitting near the window thinking about what has gone and what could have happened;
folded hands in prayers restless minds over sleepless nights counting stars over wishes to push the button~ renew, restart and rebuild.
Alarm rings to wake us from unsettling nightmares
Chores and stern face to pursue for bills await and responsibility to ensue.
When the night crawls in
the cyclic pain begins.
Oct 7, 2021
Oct 7, 2021 at 7:00 AM UTC
I could drown myself in cups of coffee, in nicotine, old books, and whiskey.
But that won't make me crave you any less.
I could immerse myself in the deepest of enthralling literature, poems, a sea of colloquy,
Waves, strangling the current of my mind.
But you'd still be the resonant word.
I could listen to the sweetest of voices on repeat, golden like honey, sticky,
But my ears would only ever truly answer to yours.
Serpents tend to bite their own tails, a mythological and alchemic symbol of the cyclic nature of the universe: creation out of destruction.
But I'm not breaking my heart, loving you.
Swollen, yearning, daydreamed astray, gathered fast by night.
Curiosity deniable no more, innocence lost, hands wandered exploratory below.
Clambering desperate over themselves, those hands fell over folds of warmed flesh, over forgotten nooks and unfound crevasses, over trembling thighs and aching calves.
Astounded by the vast array of fresh delicacies, of unencountered sensations and deepest pleasures, she stood by loyal as those hands swiftly accustomed themselves to pursuing true ecstasy.
What divine rapture. What soaring heights of pleasure to ascend to. And what a delicious revelation to encounter such unimaginable ecstasy.
That twelfth year become a fourteenth, a fifteenth, a sixteenth.
And with the passing of each came a series of ever more adventurous trysts, the sorts of which Cousteau, Armstrong, and even Columbus could all be truly proud of.
Depths sounded, crevasses plundered, self’s nectars tasted and devoured, the pleasures of the flesh went unearthed.
Elaborate constructions lovingly shaped, waxed and honed, years of heady experimentation, trial and errors, fantasy and dreaming, all in the pursuit of even harder, better, faster, stronger ******* Perhaps it was that, or was it more a case of welcomed companionship? Ambidextrous frustration? A carnal appetite, most terrifying in its magnitude?
Isn’t it time then, you tried a little tenderness?
Be good to you.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC