"delineate" poems
Singing birds are often better off caged, and maybe I’m no different. Maybe it’s safer, biting my tongue and shoving my hands deep in my pockets when the urge to delineate my woes shivers its way up my spine, shaking the rust from the back of my teeth and loosening the hinges on my jaw. I’m constantly reminded that the world outside my mind is far too dangerous, too brutal for my fragile thoughts, for my feeble words. But every now and then those words get the better of me. They convince me that their songs are worth hearing, that they’ll survive the hell that awaits them. Then, eager and hopeful, they jump off my teeth like a diving board, spreading their wings and gliding out into the world of the unknown, the world of wars waged to divide and battles fought to conquer. I watch as they hang suspended in the air, wings spread, small and beautiful against the ominous background, innocent if only for a fleeting moment. But, of course, beauty has no place here.
I cringe as the shots ring out from all directions, as everyone around me opens fire upon my winged thoughts. I shut my eyes tightly against the firing of guns, arrows, cannons: delivering the message loud and clear that the airspace between me and the world is better left unclouded by my superfluous banter. I try not to watch as they drop from the sky, my unsuspecting words, but my eyes force themselves open. Wings broken, hearts still, they crash to the ground, silenced.
I want to gather them one by one, my feathered thoughts, gently in my hands; I would take them somewhere safe and give them a proper burial, for they were once so near and dear to me. But I’m afraid of what lies in the battlefield. I’m afraid of the landmines and the barbed wire and the trenches. So I bow my head, refasten the locks on my sore, stiffened jaw, and turn my back on the carnage, on the dirt and grass and the haze and smoke. I turn from my defeated birds, form the bodies of my barely spoken words, and I leave them.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
Etymologically,
paradise
is inherited from the Latin
paradisus
and the Greek
paradeisos
and ultimately an ancient Iranian root --
pairi daêza.
In theory, paradise is a religious term. By that definition, paradise is a place in which existence is positive, harmonious and timeless. It is conceptually a counter-image of the miseries of human civilization; in paradise, there is only peace, prosperity, and happiness.
It’s absurd, though, how we provide ourselves with such a convenient idea, a carrot for all mankind to share in our relentless drive towards death. It’s absurd that we must rely on such nonsensical ideals to inspire us to adhere to literal, arbitrarily-dictated morals. “Thou shalt not do things we say you probably shouldn’t.
Except sometimes.”
“Actually, whenever, as long as you feel bad about it and spend a moment kneeling quietly and thinking something along the lines of ‘So, like, sorry -- my bad. It won’t happen again, unless it does.’”
The fundamental mistake here is attempting to delineate the existence of Man with an old book and relentless propaganda and childhood indoctrination and threats of post-mortem punishment, but more on topic -- why can’t one just live the right way without this kind of artificial motivation? It’s a juvenile concept that we’ve taken much too far. It marginalizes the human race -- “listen, Man, if you eat all your broccoli, then you can have dessert.” But what happens in this situation, when the dessert isn’t real?
What I mean to say is that maybe you should eat your broccoli because it’s healthy, and because, besides what society has attempted to instill in you, it might actually be tasty if you give it a chance.
Live for now. Care about people now. Because you don’t get anything afterwards; however cynical it may be, dessert is just a cold grave or a flame designed for whole incineration of your being. Paradise is now.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
Mutilated chains of flowers
delineate where schoolboys cowered;
sixteen brick houses on St. James Street
reduced to red dust under homeless feet;
photographers pause, catching their breath,
spellbound by the neutrality of death;
clearing haze where the white chapel stood
reveals ever-dismantling wood;
the market's one register on a charred-black stand,
nearby derges lilt from a funeral band:
*...oh and as, and as
they're lain in silk and white ashes...
the town broken apart, flattened...
...in marble graves and mahogany
under skeletal laurel branches...
...on down to sleep, to sleep...
...we may walk with weathered ease...
...oh we may consider, may remember,
a granted time, an affirming love...*
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 1:40 PM UTC
Demagogues of our society; daftly delivering
disarming delusions of decrepit delights.
Dealing in powder, rock and liquid death,
demurely doled out in droves to the
willing unconscious, dysfunctional deviants
of the land.
Blindly offering devotions, flaccid devotions
to plastic, white collar deities; giving new
definition to internal deformity, through
decelerated dejection.
Desperate and emotionally dismembered,
defrauded by quick, cheap decadence,
debauchery, and mental decay in many
deliriously delicious forms...pick a flavor,
name your poison!
Delegate your defect, as those with
doctoral degrees in defunct traditions
do deviously delineate their demented
designs...for our future.
DejaVu?
Perhaps, but in fact, it is we
who sniff, inject and drink up their drivel,
decidedly and dutifully depleted of
intellect by way of dubious data.
Duplicitous dullards...sanitize and
deodorize their fiendish lies...as we,
WE do nothing!
Not enough of us dumbfounded or
dumbstruck by their deceitful smiles.
Full of dread and deep dismay, by
the statutes of the day...I, for one,
will dream of better days, when we
shall defeat these diabolical demons.
But for now, down beaten, downtrodden;
we will continue to be denigrated for
the duration.
Clever dissection; dumb as they want you
to be,
disparity of all creativity...individuality...
and all of your rights...controversially.
Our disgruntled displeasure doomed...to
fall on dormant hearts...and we,
debilitated and daunted, lives dismantled,
are now forever haunted, by our freedoms
demise...by days we could question
their smiling lies.
Demagogues; Big Brother...such delinquents
dosing up the masses with a deluge of powder,
rock sedation and liquid elation...pick your flavor,
name your poison.
At the end of the day WE are ONE...duped,
defaced, defeated...and to continue on this
road, our final denouement will come
disturbingly disguised...as DEATH!
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
Static of definite extinction, to whom are We allied?
If it is to Your noise, Your scatter and clean-up-later attitude,
then We are separatists.
If to Whatever, We are assuredly conspiring cohorts.
Do You claim to provide what We've needed all along,
but have simply been too short-sighted to know We've needed?
Or do You delineate? Do You define Us by unpacking Us,
thereby reconstructing Us into sections of a whole untarnished tool?
Machinery, if you will?
Take, for instance, television.
Do We need, or even want to watch?
Needlessly We need it. We want it for lack of choice,
or so We think. It is, simply, there.
Easily - and how easily We may never know - one may turn
to the body's offerings, or the plummets and peaks of the mind.
Sport, science, language, art, human, essential, vivid, now -
they are nearer than no one knows; practically graspable.
But Static, You move Us to wish.
You **** Us to think we must consummate Ourselves.
As We said, We are separatists.
Declare some vapid civil war.
Who, then, will provide your nothings?
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
the moon shines because it reflects the light from your eyes.
the leaves & the wind dance to the rhythm of your heartbeat.
the moon follows your thoughts, and shines brighter at your every attempt to understand the glowing trail of a thousand fireflies.
i sketch your movements from above a tree, and confess to heaven. i said, ‘Lord, thank you for taking your time’.
the flowers of the night delineate your captivating rhythm.
rain clouds gather. raindrops entwine your thighs, and oh my, what a deep waterfall. your soul convokes the sparrows of the deep, convivial spirit.
free spirit. not even the law of gravity can stand you, angel. even though your wings are invisible, i can imagine you fly.
heavens confession: they took the time to mold you. create you.
and you glimmer in a graceful grassland, and the roses listen attentively to your voice.
a voice made up of beautiful dreams & broken promises.
heavens advice: never leave your happiness to someone else. otherwise you’ll be left broken.
only time can explain your he(art).
a pen & a paper are not enough to describe you.
they ran away from your words, they couldn’t understand but i do.
and i will with every ounce of my being, try to decode you.
i’ll stay light on this one. angel, you’re beautiful. you’re real.
heavens advice: stay you. stay true. you’re beautiful.
these words were not adequate to describe you.
you made a pretty good first impression.
p.s – this was heavens confession.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
a contradiction contracted in
lowest terms are
you.
[it’s metal edges]
your beauty is
of
a
garden
(suspended at mid-
clouds), to enter
and
to say
that in such a
variety of
flowers
there
can not
be
one that
attracts
you
to pick it
to dismantle it
and
to
neglect
the
rest.
[it’s plasticized segments]
you know how to
quickly imprint
yourself
on me
when
you laugh
at times
and
conversely
you weep
and
you are like
those skies
that shake me
to my core
when
they are
blinding
on one hand
and
violently bleak
on the other
so
clearly
fractured
they shake
me pierce
me
pierced
i am
by
you.
[it’s just thinned points]
imagine if
a chameleon
started
to
acquire
each
gradation
of
another
creature
in the form
already
similar
to
it:
where
could
he
ever
escape?
[it’s inconstant semicircles]
(i can not
delineate
you
it is like
sketching
a tidal
wave
nobody
can:
painters
invent them)
[and it’s shoved arches]
i’ll tell you
of
a
woman
her soul
shattered
and
subsequently
imprisoned
splinter by
splinter
in hail
stones
she
fell
and
she felt
herself
crashing
at the same
instant
millions
of times
however
she
never
went
insane.
[it’s torn curves]
(and I know well
how a continuity
interrupted
succeeds
to make
you
fumble
convulsively
but it’s not
enough
for me to
restrain
myself
don’t
ask
me
to)
[it’s petrified vertical axes]
what i see
is
a cross
section of
enclosure
handfuls with
disconcerting
efficiency
consisting
of prisms
and
you know how to decompose
yourself inside
an innocence
delimited
you proceed
by inconstancies
you lacerate
metabolizing
you struggle
silencing
and
i could
only
teach you
one thing:
gray is not
a faded
version
of
black.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
Delinquent lips
That delineate a
Loose and sinful smile.
Eyes disguised behind
Barred black lashes
That rise, and reach
Like fingertips,
To catch you, and trap you
Without a trial
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 9:51 AM UTC
Through translucent eyelids,
the light increases.
Wherever we are, this is so.
Time zones delineate regions
where the light has been,
and where it is heading.
As some stretch slowly in
morning beds, dusky birds
across the world sound
soft evening songs.
Rambunctious, small boys
outrun their mothers,
somewhere in between.
Plenitude is with us,
in all this abundant life.
We can create an end
to the rampant, senseless
tragedy, to the desperation
looming hard upon so many.
It is what we are here to do.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
you hold on so tightly that I suffocate
when I find the courage to escape
you delineate and debate
why can't enough be enough?
why not be happy with what we had?
we've been through thin and tough
we've experienced life's worst and survived
but sometimes love isn't enough
I've been bursting at the seams, deprived
maybe my happiness is selfish and weak
I could be undeserving of joy again
but I won't know unless I leave and seek
so please, I beg you, let me go
it'll hurt like hell for a while
but I know with time we will both grow
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 11:28 PM UTC
he grabs my leg and his claws sink into my barely-there thigh
his hand slips in the denim of my jeans
and when he kisses me,
it tastes like venom
i feel his toxin slither through my veins like a serpent
his ardent fangs gleam as he nips my neck,
and i know that he is the true definition of vermin.
my blood, red as cherry currant
crosscurrents with his slimy soul
his talons delineate my jutting ribs,
surely, he craves the control?
i writhe as he caresses the inside of my upper leg
and i realize,
that this will never end
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 9:28 PM UTC
Romancing the theories obviated by practice
Cryptic names in the fiasco
Work supplants play for the new actors
So time is technology?
Mass ethics supersede reason
Who are the cornerstone language guardians?
Radical superordination is for all
Ancient mystery can still delineate precise uncertinty
Shall edicts manifest by resurrection?
The conundrum must be isolated from protocol
In an analysis suddenly unframed
Compromise only promises compounded civility
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
Charcoal, arbiter:
its equivocal
moral rectitude etches
the tableau off the dawn,
Swans too smudge the landscape.
The muses long gone ,
ghosts sit in red houses
once resplendent,
contemplate in whispers yet,
forever decisive in vacillation
their hands delineate,
the autumnal canopy
a symphony of coming despair.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 2:14 PM UTC
I may be a universe away.
I might have traveled between the stars to reach the fifth dimension,
Only to speak to you through the voices I left for you on the wall.
I made it easy enough for anyone to decipher but only for you to pick up on the pieces left behind.
Trace it back to what you've always wanted me to tell you.
Delineate the way it was always meant to be,
The both of us growing old while the stars shine brightest at the darkest of night.
I'm here now, among the lines of time,
Trying to figure out my way back to you,
Trying to glide peacefully through each and every moment we ever shared,
Knowing I get to drift among these times in the stillness as they were meant to belong.
The good mixed in with the ugly makes all of this seem a bit more comforting, a bit more realistic.
The only true quantitive data I've been able to make up is that love will bring me back to you in time.
Let love flow through you when we part for I'll always be there and I'll always find my way back when you are freely open.
Don't think this is the love that's been created from the way we were taught,
But the kind that transcends time and space and has no true formula for figuring out why it exists,
Why it can't bend or why it can't stretch.
We have our own formula for how it works so that's the path I plan on following.
So, hold tight for I'll be back soon.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 3:26 AM UTC
Dusty rooms with broken locks , that open on Styx river’s docks . Quiescent and serene , the broken shards of endless dreams lie shattered on the quay .
Hyenas prowl , and vultures lurk , while ravens collect shiny baubles . And far across the tumultuous water stands the devil’s majestic hovel . A house of cards all full of light that speaks of vindication . While capturing self righteous minds with human degradation .
Such a tentative position man , a flash of light on desert sand . Yet to the endless sea of time , a tortured wretch in pantomime ?
To mock the gods with books of lore , that delineate tomorrows shores . With so many right and so few wrong the devil weaves a simple song , of perfected ostrazation . While social stigmatism's blind becomes it’s own creation , to tie the hands and feet of all and shadow our perception .
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
Nocturnal spirits ablaze with the
Mark of the weary. Encased souls,
Comforted by the sounds of her exhales
She reaches for oblivion with outstretched arms
Her minor catastrophes delineate the obvious
But what of love?
Its cold and calculated lies have no place in the night
She thinks
The sparks of the firefly, dance in the firmaments
Ripples of thought plunder the silence of the darkness
She wants to jump in the abyss
A baptism of fire
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
Often times, abominations misled;
memories beyond travels abound,
with a mint of souls falsifying the "wind"
"flossing" our inner guide they intend...
maintaining a "dirty-game" like "secret agents"
what’s for the future?
having travelled from afar
is this our place?
to delineate as “aliens” scudding from the surface?
Who are we-but sojourners casting a dice of chance!
hitting the freeway, but for what "price"?
followed by a little "preparing the way,"
What else would we think about, anyway?
In time and space...or anywhere else!
Phew!
We are always here!
We will always be here...
Muhumuza Kenneth. E
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 3:38 AM UTC
“**Few people know how to take a walk. The qualities are endurance, plain clothes, old shoes, an eye for nature, good humor, vast curiosity, good silence,
and nothing too much.**”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
<>
A late-in-life walker, the words above resonate in my mind,
with a check, check, check, check and a voluble ding, reading
and nothing too much”
many a poem mine labored, birthed arrhythmically walking,
eyes see verses, verses fill the mouth, mind desperate as
the feet unceasingly trod round new corners, new visions,
Emerson’s words remind my well worn weary path daily renewed, a vocabulary child re-newborn, and how to keep all this forever,
until tomorrow, and nothing is everything all too much carried over
and nothing too much”
speaks to an openness in every orifice, be prepared scout-boy,
to adapt to nothing too much as hours earlier now recalled are ancient history, mind staggers at the minuscule differences tween yesterday and this exact moment in this exact place that has been reimagined, deserving of recording, notating, and my desperation struggle to
semi-successfully delineate, report, on all these
mini-magnificent miracles countenanced, overwhelms…
the brain furnaces/furnishes a thousand thoughts, a million worries,
slew of infinity-sized emotions like love of children, so it’s confusing to window-peeking strangers watching for the walking man with tears pockmarking his cheeks, unaware that his each stride is a story, a unique grace forward and too, backwards, history mine, reviewed, graded, and the comfortable shoes, the old sagging clothes well worn and beloved, fit like gloves, whispering in the good silence,
a lamb sacrifice to the
**good silence,
“human, your foibles and deeds, admixture of
blood inherited, a morality crafted by ancestors,
so the next step is
alway$*
and nothing too much” and everything…
Sat Dec10 2023
Shell Beach, Central Park, in my mind, and nothing is perfect
Dec 10, 2022
Dec 10, 2022 at 8:02 AM UTC
At some time in past, pacing dispersed deliberated fine,
I met accidentally childhood a mate close to mine;
Yet, he is not mendicant, stiff replete,
Become visible altogether equally, drew sight;
'Hastily reach somewhere I', was my only answer - ignite.
If no symphony exists in human race, matter excite.
Soon the spirit stirred to delineate-
Many eyes were fixed at me and comrade.
He too is man of dignity and pride
Well learnt, self-reliant, vigorous and gratified;
Little his fanatic and freak made him waif
And confirm not an ideal of living safe.
Astonishingly perk, perhaps, he concluded actual existence,
Sneer with splashing note on my strange performance:
Set uncombed hair posting both hands thereon
Marched towards destination unsettled in gloomy way-worn.
It is gesture tells standard all of us.
In as for as, society co-operate with loquacious
Hugged not poor and deserving due to hesitate,
Victorious appreciated beyond measure those ne'er violate.
Turn round the cycle pursuing principles certain we feel,
Ready not to deny ostensible reserved in our deal
An artless inquiry knock but in vain
Just digest, can landscape bloom without rain?
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
A canorous music perforates my opaque
Quivering chromaticism smears me
With osculance and solidarity
I solicit solitude
And altogether, I'll be accompanied
By my only one ally
We, anon, will rally loneliness
Imbibing a cup of chocolate
With zest and dally
Oh!... An ameliorated hallucination
Do not! I beseech! decimate
My incipient, redintegrating mate ---
I cannot delineate now any line of this smooth... lie!
Oh... What love dove above!
Blinked delving and desperarion
Scintillated once whilst falling apart on my face!
With a liquor of ink... and... tears
Penetrated any level of my flesh and sunk into my sole soul
Letting a chrysalis breed into a labyrinthine verisimilitude
Lulled by loop and fetching,
Fetching equanimity
I'm sorry... I cannot any more equilibrize anything
This is my alibi desuetude
I hope desynchronised is not my goodbye!
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 2:56 PM UTC
Several idolatrous revolutions
of the Earth:
Supposedly the inviolable law
and declaration of potential.
To be told among the hive
that the honey is not sweet enough,
or the fate of conception
was too delayed,
is to sentence a mind
to a long-fused and
intemperate wait
The debt of youth must surely be paid,
but alas – too few summers have I known
and I have yet to feel that doppler swing
to the right; my hands are still soft;
my taste is still keen; I have never made
nor broken a vow.
So I am settled to deflate
to penitently delineate
and I hold you – arbitrator -
to your word.
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 7:14 AM UTC
I’m utterly lost
and there exists no compass or map to help me.
After all, no map or measurement
can encompass the longitude and latitude
of a broken soul.
And if there were a way-
though, I know there isn’t-
to delineate the uninhabited, inhospitable
wastelands of my being,
there would be no cartographer
capable or willing enough to meet the task.
Regardless, there would be no point in trying.
The shorelines of my soul are ever-receding,
slowly overcome by an ocean of troubles
bent on washing away all that grounds me.
I’m lost, submerged- another victim in the depths
of an ocean too deep to be explored.
Here and there, you’ll find a wreckage,
a sunken dream, rusted through.
The deeper you go, the darker it gets.
So, how am I to find myself,
when all’s succumb to the tides?
I’m searching for a shoreline which no longer exists.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
A long forgotten art, needed to reinvent it from the days past,
making a clay *** the size of my heart, where everything started,
with my bare hands; I felt like a man in the primeval times.
The act but brought a sense of satisfaction, it seemed like a ritual
with therapeutic effects,but couldn't delineate what it was.
Was the red clay *** in my hand, a yearning, in symbolic form?
Was I trying to capture the elusive meaning of life, in a way wrong?
life throws questions after questions at one, not wanting any answers!
And then one stumbles upon symbols, morphed in the depth of emotions,
with these forms, answering to the enigmas of life is done with ease.
A vessel perfect, it seemed to collect one's tears,wasting not even a drop
on the pool of tears, reflects my face, than any of the surfaces before,
why then, her face too floats along with mine, out of nowhere?
a nowhere called past,which never goes anywhere, even if charms are tried.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
Numb … defined not taken
Passion… Pursued not travelled
Family, friends, foes… no lover
Devour by false hope I crumpled like a blanket;
a vision of comfort I stay still
Crippled by more and tortured by hope
We alter reality with this dream world
We run through the footpath of same direction
And ordered to behave when every one is on default
Soul tortured and expended so many times ----
Enlightened moment it just passes me by
Deranged with anger, smile covers the bruises
Miracle of moment, I am in full exhalation
I hold on tight but it slips through the crack
Sanity of joy turns into a wrath
How many times can one take a beating?
When I was on the floor and continuously bleeding,
As you push your self up to delineate the undertaker
I am still numb, and all the words are unspoken.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 2:59 PM UTC
Rays from banks
To blind with thanks
Too gripping underwater
lived fullly, life sank.
Grays ever blank
Bold lines of black
delineate shapes
Felt fullly, heart sank.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC