"deliberation" poems
There are people who
Love to participate in meeting
And make storm and dream
in their deliberation;
But vacillate
For coming down to ground
And execute;
They are called as meeting brawny!
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
love is not made of giving and taking in equal parts
it is not a favor for a favor
i owe you nothing
love is not a compromise reached after long deliberation
it is not hurting on Monday
and healing on Tuesday
love is not touching because you will leave if i do not
it is not feigning naivety
when you see me cry
love is not the untimely squandering of innocence
it is not the suffocating grip of guilt
it is not your unwelcome touch
love is not
love is not
love is not
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
I sat by the window and gazed out
at the rain falling down
in torrents and sheets.
The night was black as ink, save the stars;
barely visible behind thick storm clouds,
pinpricks of silver in the ebony scape,
as the rain continued to fall.
I thought of you, of the deliberation in your face
etched into every feature a painful, wavering resolve.
The decision before you:
two fates, the ending, or the prolonging of the time before the terminal predetermined.
I grieved as I remembered the pain in your eyes.
I know you too well. I have seen too much of you
for you to hide this from me. I broke
-a silent cry of realization, collapsing my furrowed brow into a contorted countenance
as I realized that you were gone
not just for now, but for good.
And so there I sat that night,
after I removed the gold chain you rested around my neck
after I scrubbed away the makeup
after I traded my lipsticked smile for a mourning countenance
-I sat, alone in the dark, and gazed out the window into the rain.
I wondered where things had gone wrong.
And so, May showers
drove away April's flowers.
It was all I could do to cry quietly,
face soaked with the saline of sadness
that dripped now on my chest.
Now, I sit again at the window
and the same song plays that had consoled me before
'you'll feel better when you wake up'
And I did.
The sadness stayed safely at the bay
while I tried to channel it again
But this time it wasn't the same.
Though I duplicated the mood down to the clothes I wore,
the heartache was no longer fresh
and my face remained dry.
Sure, I felt sad. But it was not from you.
It was not from a heartbreak or a brokenness.
It was inorganic sadness, brought on by my own need for closure,
the thirst for a goodbye that burned my throat in agony and sorrow
that my parched lips would never find.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
love is not made of giving and taking in equal parts
it is not a favor for a favor
i owe you nothing
love is not a compromise reached after long deliberation
it is not hurting on Monday
and healing on Tuesday
love is not touching because you will leave if i do not
it is not feigning naivety
when you see me cry
love is not the untimely squandering of innocence
it is not the suffocating grip of guilt
it is not your unwelcome touch
love is not
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 1:28 PM UTC
I love your curvaceous contours, whilst physiological precipitations calmly shoot their nectar across longitudinal and latitudinal expressions of ontology.
How seductive are your displayed features of blatant enticements.
I truly give thanks for your explicit revelations, where blatancy and discretion collide with dialectical icebergs.
So, my friend of uncertain deliberation, put it on the altar of sacrifice where botanical skies of elliptical infernos resound throughout the classical universe.
I love this revealing and scientific corridor of acknowledgement.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
Fading stains record the tender scheme of flagrant deliberation
Transparent in their defense of the illusion
Depicting careful consideration of honesty and reserve
While shattering the picture of your delusions
A saturation of recollection, distinctive in its eloquence
Briefly coercing the eyes to conceive
The continuation of a scheme hid in a shroud of confusion
Which refuses to change or ever leave
What would ever stain, yet without any imperfection
Expressing clear in all of its defense
Completely raw and uninhibited in the purest honesty
Yet leave your values standing on the fence
A love beyond comprehension is your tender scheme
The stains are your records of transparency
A continuation one cannot deny, when looking in your eyes
No illusions, just the pureness of honesty
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 10:03 PM UTC
because our dreams of leaf-canopies and lignin
arrive at a certain variety of green, we will zither
anew with song
here in Bulacan; all the leaves are capsized
brandishing inflorescences as naked as
the scent of petrichor girdled
on the cobblestones: they are forsaken not by
trees but by seasons only, a twofold deliberation
of caprice: there is only two of what is spoken.
such is the warmth and coldness,
missing their obvious targets, hesitant and abstruse,
scattered and at long last, never collected
deftly camouflaged in the familiar drapery,
“Tantusan mo!” as they cry for marks to remember,
we touch the cicatrix to measure with our jagged hands
how much we have forgotten.
what we cease to remember descends deep, as wash-hand basins
concur such depth,
into the well of ourselves, later to discover such
perilous foundling in the squall of either morning or evening,
still devoid of sense: still arguing whether there is much
to reconcile with what has been found and what has been pictured
now, altered by such loss: this is danger, and so is nothing,
swollen and tender, the waters of the estero reek of such
remembering – we cannot ignore its perfume, oddly taking the shape
of the next dagger slowly making its way towards the back
of the skull to pare with river-run precision, what we all
try to hold back inside; so as if to say,
“Tantusan mo!” to remember
where we last took off, like a heron,
or a bird, wary of distances.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
He was only one, that day,
Standing alone to fill and gap the breech.
No one else, but he, stood to face the onslaught,
The terror that charged forward,
Toward where he stood and held his post,
Where someone before had drawn a long line on the ground.
No one there to help, all had fled,
Intimidated by the imposing, closing threat
That was coming near.
All, but he, had run, and the time and the foe drew closer;
Making a last stand was not even on his mind,
Resisting was not a choice,
He would do what he could,
What must be done, until he could do no more.
Death took the defender that day,
But not easily.
He fought until he had no more blood to shed,
With a final gasp, onto a bloodied ground he, at last,
Fell dead.
His enemies, his foes, stood in awe,
At the red-stained, battered corpse,
With sword still in hand.
After much deliberation,
The horde decided to turn and leave.
If this one, lone sentry had courage such as this,
How much more an entire army that probably laid in wait.
Tactical retreat was the best option, and,
With that they turned about,
They left to conquer other lands.
His comrades came; took his body;
Pinned medals across his chest;
Said a few words reserved for heroes, and
Laid him to rest.
They glanced into the distant, disappearing dust and thought,
What cowards they must have been
To have let one lone soldier frighten them such
That they turned away.
There was only one, that day,
Standing alone to fill and gap the breech;
One soldier who stood the watch,
Who did not retreat.
Armies are made of
One soldier at a time.
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC
We're all just a massive mess of energy
A beautiful, massive mess
And that's just the brilliance of it!
Times and times retold of our divinity,
Of our ancestors painted by the stars,
Of glory untold
And oh the glory!
That you may see it
Or even hear the echoes of its glorious memory resound across the heavens
And the loftiest of them all being our mind
Singular, not plural
For we have but the same mind
That we are moved by the same passions
That we are subtly subject to change
Oh, our malleable souls!
That we aspire for the Heavens
So we may get to soar freely
And yet dance to tunes of a heathen kind
Such is the hypocrisy that we've been raised to uphold as daily norm
None being the lesser!
For had it not been so, then with God you'd be this very moment
As Master, nature springing to your tunes
That you'll master all as Did SoloMon
Tense just being one of our many creations
So through this wake up call,
I beg all of you to arise from your deep slumbers
Your virtual realities whose bounds you artfully set with decided deliberation upon your mind
Wake up and see that you are infinite!
Wake up and see that you are divine!
Wake up and see that you are gods!
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 5:30 AM UTC
An exhale to rid the conscious of deliberation and doubt,
to cleanse the body from worry and anxiety,
to center the soul to its origins,
a moment to bask in solitude;
a solo journey through life and it's many triumphs.
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 3:45 PM UTC
Playing a solo game of frustration, I embrace cowardice as I constantly back away from confrontation, rage simmering in the alienation, mars attacks, scars attach and no manipulation can stop their compression of my circulation,
Heart stops and my brains on a feeding frenzy from starvation, out of blood so I'm out for blood, count on assassination no resuscitation
Try to reassess the situtuation but the deliberate deliberation just seems like procrastination, open to stipulation , stitch it up and look at my creation, a Frank-enstein abomination and there's no time for negotiation
I'm on trial and the tribulation
Leaves me heading to an unknown destination...
**A Destination Unknown
Though this Hate was Home grown**
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
on this rumbling
stretch of tundra
no trees reach up
to soothe the sky
there is a pulling down
of wind tunnel vortex
like conifers in reverse
an icy howl
in the bonechill
of time
Translucent holes,
perfectly round, are dug
in glacial archeology
and in the sea below
gelid creatures lurk,
half-frozen
in the history of my
soul
Only moss and lichens
grow on the rock,
somehow softening the
rugged textures
of the wild landscapes
that seethe
just beneath my skin
and there, just
shy of the surface
is a quickening
a subtle pulse of veins
that pumps life
between the gales of
my heart's steppes
flushing out
the pain
somewhere
deep
within the private lotus
of my being
folioles unfurl
leafy shapes around
my organs
wrapping them like gifts
as they undulate in whorls
opening my petals
in renewed consciousness
and deliberation
as a new kind of
stamen
rises
dusty pollen
powdery
budding ripeness
bursting up
and out
of my deepest
centered
whirlpool pistil
nectar dripping
in viscous webs,
to be caught upon
the tongue of
a new dawning
My silky outer
wings of vegetation,
slender stalks of
filaments and anther
have been turned
into hot steel
They protect
the tender vulnerable
when burned
as poison words held up to my
watchful eyes,
are properly discerned
I give myself over
to this new power,
my back arched to fully embrace
what is to come,
a universe calling thunder,
the old patterns undone
I am ready
to reveal my all
as the goddess deep within
comes to release my gold
suffusing light through skin
conjured from me
a relentless strength,
ever-growing,
now tenfold
rising way past
soft-lit stratospheres
and orbiting
to
bold
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 6:05 PM UTC
i swear
but i'll sleep under your bed if you'll let me &
eat the dust in the crawl space between your kitchen walls
when you're entertaining guests &
only come out when they're in another room
or you ask me to
i'm not stalking you
i swear
i'm actually on this ladder fixing your neighbor's gutter
yes this same spot has been damaged for three years
& deserves a complex solution arrived at by
strenuous deliberation
i'm not stalking you
i swear
i'm not wearing the cologne you bought your ex
for christmas last year & threw out
into the aluminum trashcan six months ago
because that ******* didn't appreciate you
like i could
i'm not stalking you
i swear
i don't know how your mail gets mixed up with mine
at least twice a week the postman must be dyslexic
& also trade his mailbag with the guy who delivers mine
for five dollar bribes
i'm not stalking you
i swear
it's just funny we go to the same dentist &
you have such white teeth my mother would love
you if only for them
i'm not stalking you
i swear
this idea hasn't been growing in my brain since
i was an innocent boy spurting his essence into
a gym class knee high sock at night after
watching baywatch reruns
i'm not stalking you
i swear
i don't spend my days wondering if i should get
****** piercings
because you seem like the type to enjoy them
i'm not stalking you
i swear
i walk home this way too but instead
of a third floor elevator ride in a gated community
on the next block i'll continue three more blocks
west take the train back south four miles & finish
cutting through alleys for another mile until i
arrive at my own cellar apartment
it's not out of my way
i don't mind taking an alternative route
i'm not stalking you
i swear
but your cheekbones are stealing my sleep
& when i do dream you turn your ***
toward me not in surrender but
defiance that vicious
dilated ******* and heavy flesh
taunting me in my own
fleabed forever
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
Would you prefer it if I called myself Master God?
Would it please everyone if I called myself beautiful? Or would it come off as fake?
Whatever, nevermind.
I am zero. I do not count. I am an omission. Neglected. Ignored. Alone.
I have developed many a personality. I have become everyone and everything and I am nearing ripe. I call myself a piece of ****
Why? Because no one else would… I call myself a scumbag, a loser, a failure, a disgrace.
Because no one would want that burden.
I call myself Jesus.
What confidence? Keep wondering. Deliberation hmm…
I call myself a piece of **** because why not?
If everyone called themselves a piece of **** we would all be the **** of the earth.
We would all be disgraces. The playing field will finally start at the bottom line.
We would be **** in unison.
We would **** embarrassment.
We would **** it.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC
Each morning I look through my drawers
Looking for what outfit would best
Suit me for the day.
I see anger, cynicism, pride, and crankiness.
I see sadness, frustration, and entitlement.
Then at the bottom of the drawer
I see humility.
One of my least favorite pairs of
Tight-fitting pants - ones I've gained
Too much weight to wear comfortably.
Yet, after careful deliberation
Something inside me knows I must choose
To wear them, even if they don't fit.
I may not look right,
And passersby may get a good chuckle,
But I know you will reward me with ones
That fit much better: strength, confirmation,
Restoration, and establishment.
All of which require a big leather belt.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
I flip the switch
As the electricity flows through the wires
Giving life to my two fluorescent lights that rest above me
The first fluorescent light is full of life and vigor
Emerging from the darkness like a strong warrior after a ****** war
He is tired and old,
But powerful and dominant
He tears the secrecy of the night with his sharp, searing light
The second fluorescent light flickers, blinks, wavers
She is unsure and afraid of showing her light
Her light is impending and hidden, behind her glass face it has not been revealed
Wrinkled and exhausted,
She is stuck in deliberation and reluctance
The fluorescent lights are no different
Therefore as I sit and watch the second fluorescent light as she is stuck in her own self-created inability,
I wonder
Why doesn't she break free from the prison that she has locked herself in?
k.m.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
streams of consciousness
her deliberation sways
gentle breeze of thought
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
Shrouded thoughts of being pessimistic,
Because everyone's preaching to be realistic.
So people let their dreams die,
As they open their eyes.
But me, I rather hit that snooze,
Because I don't want to lose,
My deliberation or concentration.
Resurrected from ignorance,
As I close my eyes,
So my dreams won't die.
I begin my days hitting that snooze,
Even though they tell me to wake up,
Because reality is a shock.
I wake up only to hit that snooze,
Because it hurts more to let dreams die.
So in pain, I refuse to lie,
With restless nights.
Living with dead dreams,
Facing insomnia.
Its something I can't accept,
So no regrets.
So let my dreams live on,
So I can at least lay rested in peace.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
They were always up there, when
Moments of cognitive reflection started,
Gathering they went from white to grey.
They would start to think, rumbling
As Liquid thought meet with ice
Particles of deliberation.
Then thoughts would strike from their
Being to the solid below, it would be the
Beginning of words as gravity took hold.
Precipitation fell, first thoughtful drizzle,
Then as words spoken, each raindrop
Was voiced on the terrain below.
They uttered for what seemed like a
Deluge, their words flowed down
Streams and rivers to the waiting sea.
Words spent, that flowed no longer, not
Talked but evaporating skywards to the
Waiting white, to be spoken once more.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly,
With the calm deliberation,
The intense deliberation
Of a photographic artist:
But he left them in a hurry,
Left them in a mighty hurry,
Stating that he would not stand it,
Stating in emphatic language
What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes:
Hurriedly the porter trundled
On a barrow all his boxes:
Hurriedly he took his ticket:
Hurriedly the train received him:
1.6k
Here we go,
take your pick:
which is worse?
to cry and not feel
or to hold back the tears?
in public?...
which is worse?
living in a house made of glass brick?
or a house armored thick?
so no one can ever see you...
or harm you
or your house...
which is worse?
being in a body you cannot stand?
or being the person you said you can't
are you your own?
or are you being held captive
perhaps by a former you
are you your own?
or have you turned on yourself
lied and said that it was to protect the rest of the world
rationalized
you are too clever
you are too violent
you are too... much,
or so they say.
yet its all on credit, an unregarded tab
and someone somewhere is keeping track
your words they twist and turn
they are vines and veins
whose blood they burn
you deconstruct meaning
transcending with every verse
it is a blessing, it is a blessing
it is a curse, it is a curse
oh but which is worse?
immediate classification no, judgmental interpretations?
descriptive deliberation of informative investigations
soon as the information is deliberately delivered
to the perception of my appreciation
artistic systemization
or
casting all this self manipulation aside in finalization
and choosing self mutilation
for the preservation of the rest of the nation
all the while, pleading through consideration
which is worse?
which is better?
to be everything is to be nothing
lack of identification.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
While Jake was nursing his broken head, Byron was nursing his broken heart.The journey to the hospital was a silent and tense one."Why Jake?", Byron almost laughed at the sight of his friend as he turned to face him, blood all caked to his head, Jake was always a ***** when it came to physical pain. "She swore me to secrecy buddy, she was going to tell you when the cottage was finished. It was a fluke, i saw her at the hospital and she *had to tell me".
A sudden pang of guilt hit Byron, as he looked at the gaping wound on Jakes head. Now, every time he would see the scar, he would remember how it got there. Being a shrink at the hospital had its perks, enabling the two disshevelled men to bypass reception and straight to triage.Byron was beginning to wish he'd brought his laptop with him, he was so bored to the point where he actually contemplated going home."YES, at last", "Jesus bud we've only been here half an hour".
After much deliberation, Byron finally made it home. He headed straight for his laptop. A strange and curious thing to do. Still stained literally from blood sweat and tears. *Ping, a dozen messages on Beautiful Words. Some from his good friends on there,Vampyric, Jester, Lady Luck and, "Yes", Maiden."Dearest Phantom, its been a few days and i know you're uneasy, i can sense it somehow, i meant it when i said i was here for you, feel free to contact me on here, or by email.Kind regards, Maidenx" Byron found his thoughts wandering towards Holly, Maiden, such a sweet, girly name. He began to wonder what she looked like, blonde?, brunette maybe?.
He started writing, writing a poem, for Maiden, he found himself imagining her with pale skin, soft burlesque curves, and, red hair! Real fiery, Megan red, he could feel that little knot at the pit of his stomach, that age old electric shock, the one that felt so good, yet carried with it a sense of dread. A seed opening up, pupating slowly, like a butterfly, eventually becoming a million butterflies,...........
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC
Dear one,
As the domino, I fall cascading on the drawing board. Why would one deny progression? A furtherance , the ebb and flow. I remain up beat and spirited as I read your letters. It's like a barred barricade is being lifted.Your glowing light is charging me. Certainty is liberating, the riding of the waves have become a skill that I have engrossed. The tides spread from shore to shore and I must anchor. I am ever grateful for your deliberation in regard to my current affairs. Your magnanimity is greatly appreciated.
As I am
Enormous, bountifulness of free spirit. Episodes of taciturnity alternated by sequences of thrill are remarkably felt. The higher level linking is simultaneous , coordinated and equidistant. As life propels, years progress a resemblance of energy is greatly congruent. The conforming compatibility of the absolute is evident. Transpiration of what once known yet unknown surfaces, erupts and consolidates a new meaning. A renewed existence, a recovered emergence solidifies. These moments are so evident, abundantly and vehemently felt on every fibre,bone and muscle of my being. Right to the core of my soul, my very existence.
On the tangent of thoughts........"J" the jewel... the forgotten treasure. What happened to the nature trueness that stroked your mind? The non win compromises aren't spontaneous. We must realign.... we must.
Vous êtes magnifiquement merveilleux et excellent en tous les moyens possible.
You sure do give me the butterflies......
You hold me in skies high above.
I can't control the butterflies.........
Is it just a flutter ?
To progress as you progress.....
SassyJ
Inspired by........
Natasha Bedingfield (Soulmate)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P27MPi3ZhCg
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 2:35 PM UTC
I will not take from you.
I will receive what you freely give,
Your time, with attentiveness;
Your opinion, with deliberation;
Your wisdom, with appreciation;
Your care, with contentment;
Your trust, with meekness;
Your happiness, with joy;
Your sorrow, with comfort;
Your compassion, with relief;
Your humanness, with understanding;
Your adoration, with commitment;
Your passion, with fidelity;
Your heart, with sacrifice;
Your soul, with reverence;
Your love, with devotion.
©1998 Michael S. Davis
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC