"deciphers" poems
Sometimes it is, poor Sylvia,
that we cannot find the answers. They're
not to be found clinking about in the stars,
blowing about in the August wind,
or blooming among the tea flowers, no matter
how scented. No charlatan soothsayer discerns.
No pull of the cards deciphers. If answers come
at all they'll be found deep within yourself, only.
Don't we all prove that countless, wretched
times? But know this, dear Sylvia, even though it's too
late for your sanity and your life, your daddy didn't
die because of you, for you, by you. Death simply
drew the line and pulled him across.
What were you to do when life puzzled you
to the limit, when all poems disappointed,
when the ink failed to flow smoothly,
the pen tore at the paper and the paper
turned to ash before a line could be written down?
What to do when your child's smile failed to ignite
motherhood, when Daddy's image floated in and out, when
emotional pain dragged you terrified under its
black cerement, that cold, wet, smothering grave cloth?
Fear, oh my God, fear, and the doubt that you had,
the whirling about of a shattered mind, bouncing
from this trap to the other - your muted, stifled inner
screams unheard, or worse, unexpressed. Yes,
you found a solution, poor Sylvia, but suicide
doesn't always equate with an answer. You found a
sad poem, a dirge to be exact, something that moves
us, but there is no rhyme to it and the ending is an
enigma, a great puzzle yet to be invoked, understood.
----
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
She approached me
Tiptoeing from across the room,
Although no one was asleep around us to wake;
I watched her lower lip bleed
From biting too much,
As she deciphers the DNA codes on her hair
With her fingertips,
Stroking the life out of it
Up and down-
And up and down again.
She said don’t get me wrong
But I found myself;
I found myself lurking underneath the light of your words
Bending with your o’s and standing straight with your I’s,
Because I
Got lost;
I got lost in the stories you wrote
About the girls who broke
And they felt just like me-
Dazed
By the love poems you cried down for her,
And I wondered how beautiful she must be.
I got flustered
In the blank spaces
That you chose not to write in,
And it felt like I should cut parts of myself
And add them in the vacancies
But I just don’t know what to add.
For every time I rest my soul
On the tip of a pen
I feel like I’ve said too much,
And every time I scratch my words
Throw away my being
Behind
Unread books and dusty light stands
I believe I haven’t said enough
For I could give more,
Be more,
If only I could start over,
And you
You seem to know me more than I know myself;
You have built bridges
Out of my paper shreds,
Tunnels out of my unexpressed thoughts-
You have created your haven inside my brains
And settled down in my heart.
You’ve managed to make me chew your words
Like breakfast
Was a poetic meal to be served
At all times of the day;
You’re an image,
I re-create you in my mind
Before I sleep
After asleep
And even during I sleep-
The thoughts of you never quit my head
Like a gamer would never quit
A game of Warcraft
In the midst of hunting season”
She took off her glasses,
And I could see the marks of them
Being there for too long.
She closes her eyes
As if she was about to take a leap of faith,
But instead she leaped two steps into my arms
And that was when
I got to ask her
What her name was.
And that was when I realized
It didn’t even matter.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
I never stoop’d so low, as they
Which on an eye, cheeke, lip, can prey,
Seldom to them, which soare no higher
Than vertue or the minde to’admire,
For sense, and understanding may
Know, what gives fuell to their fire:
My love, though silly, is more brave,
For may I misse, when ere I crave,
If I know yet, what I would have.
If that be simply perfectest
Which can by no way be exprest
But Negatives, my love is so.
To All, which all love, I say no.
If any who deciphers best,
What we know not, our selves, can know,
Let him teach mee that nothing; This
As yet my ease, and comfort is,
Though I speed not, I cannot misse.
2.6k
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
Her heart holds Him, but her hand aborts.
Searching for confirmation of a better world,
She prays to discern it, but without worship.
A believer she is, yet still fully skeptical.
She deciphers reflections from the gnostic,
The reality from the deceptive.
And hoping to fully and optimally filter the fictive
She dances with Him, going solely with the wind,
To wherever His capriciousness takes her.
She bows upon His whim.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 11:22 PM UTC
I used to love apologies
When you’d admit your wrongness in lew of
my rightness my pride did somersaults
with my ego
I would spend hours admiring their
acrobats and my posture would reflect
their newly practiced muscles with ease
Your apologies were music to my ears
until the bow broke the string
Now the music isn’t right
The gentle hum of my ego doesn’t find
comfort in your shame anymore
I now beg you to stop the music
It has become a terrible scream
A high pitched ringing no one else can
hear but I swear it’s there and I’m not just
crazy or lacking potassium
I want to grab a needle and thread and
sew your mouth shut before you can ever
apologize again
You cannot control the weather
Don’t apologize when I say that I’m cold
You cannot control my sleeping habits
So don’t apologize when you hear how I
couldn’t sleep last night because I
was craving something but didn’t know what
it was and I couldn’t go to bed without it
Don’t apologies to me
When you say you’re sad please don’t
apologize
We are all sad sometimes
There is no shame in realizing our
happiness is only skin deep sometimes
When you say you don’t understand the
joke I just made please don’t apologize
I promise I will explain it to you differently
even if it loses its humor that way
I know you can’t control how your brain
deciphers the meaning of words
When you read my expressions wrong
please don’t apologize
It was my fault for not seeing your
hesitation and confusion and failing to
comfort your headspace with promises
that I’m not mad or upset
I promise it’s just my face and you
heard me the wrong way
That’s okay
I hear things wrong sometimes too
But please don’t apologize for being you.
---Autism is funny that way
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
Thoughts bypass the conscious highway and flow into my bloodstream.
Spilling into my fingertips, while muscle memory deciphers the nonsense.
My pen leaks it's refined ink, permeating the recycled forest.
Evidence of my internal workings lay naked in bold scribblings.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
loss
and rainbows where two edges meet
orchestras of cellos (purposely out of tune)
shallow gasps manifested in rest notes between the spaces of off-key melodies
mosquito bites and your suggestion that my blood must be sweetest but I can't take you as a compliment;
this is not a time for threats, my darling, nor is it a time for deaths. it is not a time for spaceless thoughts nor for confessions with political motives under white garments of smiles and spices and seductive entices
the breath gets deeper even if only for a moment and then the gasp returns:
the window blinds my glasses
the windows blind the masses
the windowblinds conceal the sun from me which hides my sanity and peace behind the instruments and their voices but it is probably to be found in the rests where the bars meet each other at the edges, where the silences collide and burn as substances react to oxygen and oxidized carbon and I don't feel god and that is startling,
it is starting to sound like a long bar of rest notes
or a mind which deciphers like stars out of their constellations
out of their occupations
out of their spheres
like stars unaligned
like lies out of signs in the open blinding sun shining minds sparkling like water after a chemical synthetic process (like most of our bodies) and my condescending opinions on all who give in to fabrications and useless surgeries and drugs to feel
or to stop feeling, or to reverse the effects of
our sadness our misery our traumas and dramas
without seeing them face to face, eye to eye, because to turn around blindly is
so. much. easier.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
The tomahawk man writes
In prussic acid,
The orphans of Eureka,
Freckled flaws and faces,
Yearn for their mothers,
Wish father might be captured,
And forced to think
Beyond his obsessive deciphers,
A bottle of cognac and three roses
Placed on his grave marker
Every January 19,
As a reminder of life,
And a toast to death.
Jan 19, 2020
Jan 19, 2020 at 11:21 AM UTC
SILENCE
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
Silence is the Best
Silence is sublime
Silence is Vast;
Silence is all-transcending -
Beyond mortal acts.
It too is profound,
Makes us spell-bound,
Even though unexpressed
Reveals the Supreme Blessed!
It is the One unique existence
In its inane solitude -
Sends message of greater depth,
From Soul even when Being is asleep
Beyond Space and Time,
Cause and Effect ;
Wins the heart of Godhead
In her sweet soft golden glance! !
Silence is the celestial bridge
Joins the amazing heights
To Earth's forsaken soil,
And her attempted flights,
To reach the Unknown height
Of the underlying Godhead.
All vain desires and toil of the Brown
Meet Decadence -
Along with Ego's sky-touching crown
Man's arrogance and ambitions
And his derision of self-asserted pride,
To make Nature serve to his indomitable will,
And insatiable greed!
It never succeeds!
Inner silence is lost
As it served as the Golden Bridge
To meet the Supreme Will!
Which in each moment sees,
Our every act even if we hide;
His eternal Gaze -
Writes on Silence's page.
We humans create chaos -
Everywhere around us
To devastate the inner harmony.
Blind and deaf to mankind!
We have lost silence of our inmost mind!!!
Silence communicates the best,
Transfigures the language of the Lord,
In Nature's heiroglyphics
And Her innumerable ways.
Like when Dawn descends upon Earth
Heralding the joyful birth -
Of a vernal Creation
Awaiting to meet Humanity in the higher illumination!
The Soul's awakening -
Where only Silence reigns.
Dialect fails,
Speech loses semblance
Silence deciphers Creation:s unending rhyme.
Repeats in ceaseless Harmony!
We are born in Silence,
And to that Sole-existent Silence -
All have to go
By our Ego's transcendence!
Life's journey brief,
Ends in silence deep.
In Silence we must live,
And to it we must give -
Our listening ears in Knowledge's
Revelatory ascent!
We must make our life the greatest success -
In Supreme's Blissful Art!
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Anand Utsav Ashram,
Haridwar. 31.05.2019)
Jan 2, 2020
Jan 2, 2020 at 2:35 AM UTC
wither goest he?
traveling, traversing, rehearsing
the good doctor lingers in the doorway out
sometimes forgotton, but always, ever, perpetually
omnipresent
dictations and suggestions, hunches corrupting
helping one last time to cauterize, sterilize
cutting off the umbilical cord to humanity
nothing to slow it down, nothing to hinder, nothing to feel
cilia burned, silly-a me to allow it
is it a neccesary burden. a beast with a broken back
still slogging, blindly, towards an imaginary finish line
hoping there is only darkness there. rest. peace
he misses his shell. the whole world is asbestos
this is his hell. the soothing water sputters the flames to smoke
and miles away, tonto points and deciphers.
********* is what it says, soaring eagle
the white man is so trivial
primitive in his circular command center, melting legos to heat his hearth
hiring ****** to eat his heart
a trapper keeper. a pointed rose. a poisoned tip. a mental rip. a freudian slip
this place has no ass. I mean.. class. class is what i meant.dammit
surroundings never touch the surface of my skin
and quantum physicists only complicate this perspective.
**** your logic! and **** mine worse..
why must everything be rehearesed? this is a curse.
a verse of a song I sing with a gun to my head
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
The sanctum sanctorum of love
Reverberates with the waves
From the souls that are in harmony
Welcomed with a tranquil presence
Uplifts you from mere existence
Surrounds you with the freedom
Where hearts run wild with euphoria
Dances to the signature tunes
Each note birthed from the souls
Prepare for a symphony of grandiose
Ostentatious display of true feelings
None, but the connoisseurs of Love
Are captivated with the harmony
When Love is interpreted from heart
This is for Love that does not alter
Remains etched in the mind, forever
Love is not a word, but a feeling, true
Neither what the world deciphers
It is not what we see everyday
Only with access to the sanctum sanctorum
Feel the love that's rare
Therein, lies the truth
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
no delusions
no illusions
truthfulness
is in the glasses
reflection
its eye is sharp
keen and observes well
the object before it
cannot dispute
what it has to say
the glass deciphers
all the information
in front of it
in a most
accurate way
mirror you are a friend
mirror you see me
for what I am
mirror I can depend
on your incisive eye's sight
mirror you've
a grand ability
to shed an infinite
beam of light
all that you convey
back to me
is a wealth of
honesty
you knew that I was
bad and very naughty
as a teen
when I looked into your glass
you said I'd been mean
to Christine
you also knew
of my propensity
to give all sorts of excuses
to the local shop owner
about why I'd not wiped
the counters
over
you were onto me
the class of a mirror
never tells a lie
on its candor
I can rely
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
there's this guy who thinks he knows more than me about the far-left than i do, even though i'm the one with a communist grandfather; which means he's gone as far as mao to replicate an answer that i might agree with alongside adolf. ah no worry... the queen's corgi(s) are here. they always do that, the left, as long as they can provide you with a house and pension, they have the upper hand in argument meaning you have to agree with them... what about colour says the right? ah don't worry... we'll just all wear gray and become radically different from the canvas.
i love how the left asks to be agreed with
in terms of politics,
given no far-right politics was expressed...
death of communism taught them
they had to express far-left politics in such a way
as might be a form of deviation and counter-intuitive expression
of the middle ground... poor stalin...
god please let me enter the mozart club of death at 35...
i missed the modern club of 27... drinks on me... amy;
i just hate the way the left opresses us now...
it’s that thumb missing in terms of english law...
you know that thumb... ex hominem ad exemplum non hominem...
a lightbulb moment... because man never gave a nullifying
example with each example of his existence given as non;
man is curiously aware of his mortality, therefore he engages
with dating things in order to orientate...
of course... coins... deus ex **** although no solis ex ****
that would never work... would it now?
why would man need a sun if all man desires from
the sigma expression of will is to not exist?
can i enter the reference of will with a craft that deciphers water
as two hydrogens and one oxygen?
oh wait... i already have... three years of chemistry
in edinburgh taught me pressurised concentration
of carbon dioxide was termed fizzy.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
The clouds - machine made
Appearing In Infinity
From somewhere
Behind the curtain of Horizon -
The clouds,
They carry knowledge
But the monkeys can't decipher the code
And so
The clouds drift on
From nowhere to everywhere in between
Just waiting
For a mind to pay attention
To the pattern of Creation
Existing simultaneously with the Mind
And once said Mind deciphers said Code
All shall be known -
But the secret is beyond preexisting language
And so the Chosen Mind is trapped
In futile attempts
To share what has been seen
But the monkeys don't care
Because they never question the patterns
And so the Chosen Mind must wander
In hopes of meeting others
Who have also deciphered the Code
And together they sit silently
Knowing
All of Life exists to die
To Create new Life
To continue the pattern of the Clouds
For no greater reason than "Why Not?"
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
You are gathered with your friends
to play a board game
called "What Next"
Four people total, Including you.
First, the person with brown hair
and blue eyes to your right,
filled with HATrEd,
withdraws a card and
deciphers its MYstery:
"You are lost
at sea on a wooden
catamaran. There are others
with you. The phone that shows
where to turn is broken.
How will you unMASK
the land?"
The pitiful one across
from you whispers
the answer: "Unlock
the old, rusted telescope."
It is the pitiful
one's turn, who reads
with self-reproof, "You are on
an island. The boy child
with a broken glass face,
exposing the fire
in HIS head, looks
at you accusingly.
How do you extinguish
the volcano?"
Raising a hand in ANGER
is the disdainful person
with brown hair, who yells,
"Punish the boy child!
His SCARS will never heal!"
The loving soul in red
smiles and says: "Wrong,
you silly creature.
You solve the MYthical puzzle
by joining the flesh
on the boy child's FACE."
It is now THE loving
one's turn to select
a card (the ticket?), done
with a GENTLE flick of the
delicate wrist. One singing
VOICE chimed, "Spoiled farmer
makes you confine the
bamboozled man that names
your strengths. He
SUGGESTS
THAT
the befuddled
has already been put away.
How can you possibly
solve the Conundrum?"
You must answer. Relax!
I order you! Find the solution!
The patriarch has ordered it!
Or else you MUST walk through
a curtain of falling bullets
showering down.
It is the only ESCAPE
back to the beginning.
Kerry Herrmann
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
I write this to you and to you only;
as another reader could not appreciate the true depth of the words without being either one of us,
they would only interpret the words to what they know, what they have experienced,
yet our experience deciphers it’s true meaning.
I have been lost in a fog at sea with no sight of land
but with a life raft who has helped me endure the storm.
Now the land is in sight and the storm has passed,
the clarity of the warm, clear days enables me to view us
as I experienced us.
The ignition of a friendship
to the excitement of two new lovers
always intertwined, always embracing.
loving life, living love…
Friendships and family shared and history made.
Good times, tragedies, bad times, miracles…
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 7:30 PM UTC
Intuition deciphers the kiss,
And a misplaced hand on my thigh
Conjures the nights I missed,
It's been two-hundred centuries,
And still, intuition deciphers the kiss
I know his kind,
He's the sort of boy
Who reddens white roses,
All the while, fifty-miles away (by train)
His "true love" supposes,
I recall the taste of summer,
And he tells me it's winter,
Through Pachelbel's Canon, I am stoned-eyed
And he tells me I haven't realised
'Cos I have not been Spiritualized,
I know his kind,
He's the sort of boy
Who bores with unfathomable proses,
All the while, with him I stay,
As my "true love" supposes
The space between him and I,
Dwarfs the Grand Canyon,
It warps and shrinks then unfolds
Wider than ever before,
For every three steps I take,
It becomes apparent
That nothing has changed
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
You colour the chest-implanted violin of life
with drops of chronic
alkaline comfort.
You deposit in yearly doses
on the upper heart chambers.
You will be buried with her.
The book of souls deciphers
the chemicals were low,
your presence is unwelcomed in peoples' courts.
But you have always been there
for her.
You are destroying her.
The blood violently regurgitates
back to the left and right cardiac chambers.
She wore that heart proudly in her chest.
She played the heart strings till her fingers
bled with blood.
But what worth do words have right now,
when the damage is really done?
No metallic stent can restore the pathways of the heart.
The violin strings break one by one.
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 11:47 AM UTC
yes, the eye acts in dynamics of seeing standing, but interpreted upside-down, the eye says up is down, and down is up... but the world and the body in it say: left is right, and right is left.
the painter begins adding colours to
a blank canvas,
in terms of uncoupling poets
from philosophers, mindlessly termed
akin and useless in the philosophers'
republic,
the painter works with a lack of colour,
white, or all colours and thus deciphers
the canvas with his own unique rainbow...
so if you were to choose a canvas for a poet?
i'd choose a mirror, mirrors are canvases
for poets, because poets hardly see themselves,
when people protest and ask the poet:
do you see yourself? the poet retorts,
i'm not good in third person narratives,
you see yourself? oh you mean encapsulate
a perfected humanity, synchronise body with
soul and eclipse the mind? nah,
i prefer noting that if poets are not akin
to philosophers because the philosophers
****** them and were too excluded from
their invention... then if painters paint
on white canvases, poets speak against
the canvas of frozen quicksilver.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
Who deciphers what is normal?
Who deciphers what is right?
So many people want to be this so called normal,
but does it even exist?
Being ourselves is better,
it shows our different views,
it is a way for other people to see who we really are.
Ignorance is shown for those who still believe
in such a word as,
NORMAL.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
Air hits,
Mind shifts.
A moment of happiness,
Another of pain.
Euphoria,
Gone down the drain.
Blood flows,
So does shame.
Mind deciphering,
The owner's little game.
Her voice,
But there's one more.
She barely speaks,
The other voice guides her actions more.
"Tried fighting the intruder,"
Says the mind.
But the voice is an escape,
From the real being inside.
Into the gallows of shame it leads her,
Her head in the loop of death.
The owner ready to die,
Letting the other take charge.
When the air hits again,
And the voice dies.
It is murdered,
The owner wins.
No other voice,
can take over her being.
The mind deciphers the code,
the owner didn't want it to know.
It said,
"There's a plan, only the secretive heart can know"
Jul 8, 2020
Jul 8, 2020 at 6:51 AM UTC
The deepest grief I believe I've ever suffered was journeying through the extremes of true happiness.
To some extent I don't look at you as the same person.
Just because it's a thought of you doesn't mean I should be entertained by it, although it is a thought occurring inside of my own head.
To wait is to find hope.
Meanwhile hope journeys into the split road of faith.
At what point does metaphysics become alchemy.
The mark of an educated man scribbling on an enlightened woman.
The whom the how's and what not's
The true statement where knowing becomes understanding.
At these times anger misconstrues everything.
The simple wildness of the mind venturing into what the heart feels.
A lion seeking to devour the silhouette of where a lioness once stood.
Without color is it still considered prejudice.
A heartfelt contemplation which the mind deciphers a million different ways.
Sticks and stones swept under the fault of closed eyelids.
The deepest grief dug by expectation.
The best intentions made empty by the deepest grief.
Motorized hands starting anew once the clock strikes twelve : twelve.
Repeating the thoughts that often replay on an daily basis.
To wait is to find hope.
Meanwhile hope journeys into the split road of faith
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
imminent distance looms
but naught to fear
though I shed an easy tear -
like flowers of April, love blooms
a growing gap, empty rooms
a lasting tie, I hold dear
love won't wane but wax by year
my guarded heart, he exhumes
enjoys me, accepts me, deciphers my art
wrapped in embrace, I'll forget never
healing, security, warmth - tranquil heart
inexplainable and sincere, leave it there -
a love that enjoys when together
and endures when apart
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
I am such a failure,
and I am echoing
the most refreshing
laughter during this recounting,
because while I wither,
I dumbly take
an interest in the gods.
They are right over there
just sort of swaying in the
magnolia blooms' creamy flow.
I believe their dance deciphers love,
but as agreed, I am too dumb
to understand. I only hope
that the new born's smile
upon my face, will beckon the rejoicing
of your tomorrows soon to come.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 12:57 AM UTC