"delving" poems
the first time, touched
us, otherwise strangers
delving within ourselves
our overt close encounters
past intimate imitations
of love’s labour lost and gained
we collide
again and again
crossing over, crossing under
energies focused at the hip
flowing through & into one another
endlessly
we release
feathers soaked
in each other’s essence
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.
Mindless,
In the soup of silicone,
all
Myth-makers,
Pouring over electro-spawned
networks,
fall
Workers,
In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
megabytes and terabytes,
down
Everyone
Far from the wood, the brine, the
mud that caked us,
In tighter and tighter
digitised projections,
click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’
Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,
enter:
Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,
Now a waking voice,
Hardened, digitised, recorded in
bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
mirror.
A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
To record the echo in the hollow
of our Being.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
Situations find themselves unraveling uncontrollably,
picking at scabs of superiority,
delving into wide expanded pits of insecurity.
The master of masking change
would be the ever drifting reputation,
it leaves bitter, it brings hate.
May I express how much I hate?
Nothing squirms and squiggles uncontrollably
more, than watching reputations
crumble, due to fake superiority.
What do I want, change!
What does she want? Change, but she gets insecurity.
To understand the confliction, insecurity
must paint walls of peeling purple hate.
Well, something in you will change.
You may remain stubborn, uncontrollably
defending your sudden superiority,
you’re just choosing a rotten reputation.
I wish to fly you to a new nation, I mean shes breaking your reputation.
I’d like to find the spot in your mind resided by insecurity,
I know you’re not studded with superiority.
She’s finding a reason for everyone else to hate
the way you attract uncontrollably.
Nothing about you, in you, should change,
because this digs deeper than the change
her and my relationship took, than are used to be reputation
of adoring each other uncontrollably.
of ignoring that insecurity.
of the day she learned to hate,
spindling a slippery net of superiority.
Her comfort zone of a home lays in superiority,
I’d rather cry endlessly than change
by cultivating my hate
for her, for her debilitating take on your reputation.
Transperency touches insecurity
and you are broken, falling uncontrollably.
I will continue to hate her superiority, but that won’t reflect on her reputation.
You mustn’t change your disposition, but lose the grip on insecurity
Don’t you dare hate these words, they care, they love uncontrollably.
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
~~~
“To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.” Henri Bergson
well in that case,
I’m either the most immature teen here,
or Rip Van Winkle
the re-creation process is six, nearly seven,
decades long (you thot days, ha, no way),
can’t recall the last name
I called myself
the delving, the researching, the forgetting,
the fifty first dates of no short term memory,
the checkdown, throwback Thursday of
did I write that?
no recollect, the pretense of
prehensile strength to touch
you and me simultaneously
might, could be true,
if you claim I authored it,
ok with me and all that
life taught me this,
the one who oft hangs around
very young kids
learns a lot,
and soon recognizes
maturity indeed endless
but not senseless
just a poem-of-the-day process
indeed
every sense says the minute difference
between this morning and this approaching midnight,
an opportunity to grow up, stand straighter, uprighter,
write down my failures one more time,
cause that is the sterling hallmark impressed upon
thyself, ourselves,
that is genuine maturity,
the courageous wisdom to start all over again
the clock has transgressed,
moving past
the 12:00am digits,
which for cause
makes me giddy,
it’s permission to write a new one,
of course,
maturely thinking I still got one within,
a newbie, an aged day-old brand new baby,
a poem,
of course
god bless, I’m all grown n’ growled up,
with wisdom to know I don’t got nada,
but own the immature youthful courage of maturity,
to keep on trying, endlessly,
being your obedient-servant
~~~
*p.s. this is kind of love poem of thanksgivings,
a love poem with no misgivings,
a thank you for the fragments of sharing -
hold so dear,
the best reason to mature,
the best reason to change,
the best reason to write
right now, here comes the mojo
my newest oldest friend,
reminding for the last and first time
that I’m all growed,
using the bigliest words I’ve known
to say baby, hey baby,
good night good morning
write us a poem,
a thank you note,
from one who blessedly forgets his name,
day in and year out*
For that guy,
you, that ancient kid,
That poet-in-retrograde
so rewrite the title, a refresh,
are you immature enough to write?
1:12am
~for the crew~
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:28 AM UTC
The seraph sky on ebony night,
A white marble of placid light.
Casting to the living glass,
Haunting, the feeling's elapse.
A time of gardenia drapes,
Hanging the mourning wall.
Scent of ambrosia fogging,
The pavement covered in moss.
Portraits of Celts amidst,
Drifting upon moonlight mist.
Eyes delving, ears opt to hear,
Voices whisper of ancient fear.
An oracle muses the unguided,
As trees speaks the truth.
Humanity strives to be the art,
Yet only remembers by a few.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 2:45 AM UTC
A Few lines etched where no words give weight.
Good riddance say the veterans
Of a nation gone sour with grief
Like a lemon slice evaporating onto the tongue of the sick.
But when the young yearn for White Nights,
The old claim they are blinding lights to the cold sugary substance
That supplants an easy path.
The bullithole rush of renewal and lonliness and progress thwarted and abandoned,
Inertia seeping through
Into a cold summer's day.
Between the cursing slant of sleek paved roadstrips,
And the burning briars that thresh the border's haunt,
What is picture postcard emerald
Is in that same instance soviet architect gray.
These are the sleepers bereft of the dream
whose twenty-five stories high
or ghost estates
are domes to cast out the howling banshees,those suffrage of the real
to be re-thought as mere props which surround the haloed glowing screen.
So sheen the Motherland glows in untarnished eyes
Familiar solely with glass behemoths parading with their reflections
In grey water-drizzled streets,
Only to be replaced by iridescent rainbows that foster a hope.
A hope that was packaged and sold two decades back
Since it was not worth carrying into the New World.
The water-trough delving where the electric line banishes,connects a spike,
"rejuvenate the breakfast table"-some far-off God reports, Hades still waiting,
Intel-chip Blue, epiphany at the gates.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC
A buttercup was beautifying
for the afternoon dance
her cheeks were flushed with water
the garden sprinkler had thrown on.
Her petals were fully stretched to a softness
that even the butterflies slipped when they trod upon.
the sun beams bounced off on the mirrored smoothness
and a bumblebee looked on hovering above with second thoughts
envying her golden locks.
She bathed in the sunlight turning every cheek for the warm rays
batting her long anthers dipped with thick orange powder.
I watched her shake her hips to the folk wind tunes
tip toeing into my heart
slowly
her yellow liquid lined eyes delving mine
making me smile
when I have almost forgotten how.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
the ghosts are tip toeing
through my memories
restless and at play
scattering a dusty pile
of half hidden thoughts
to one side
delving further
deeper
into twilight years
gone by
throwing caution to the wind
pandoras box is opened
copyright gothic mistress/razorbladekiss 2012
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 9:34 AM UTC
Sliding fingers over alabaster shafts,
crevices and nooks catching at delving digits
as they seek between the ****** ***** of
remov-ed meat.
For before the bones the meat.
And before the meat the scalpel,
Running liquid through the tendrils
with its clever carv-ed lines in the
succulent,
decadent
dead.
The gore on the board.
Seen in rivulets of scarlet,
A tracery of cuts,
Multi-layered and exquisite.
I taste the smell of this corpulent finery.
Hands reaching into the layers,
slick with blood
pulling at the fat.
Sleek and deadly
I ply them, my tools.
For I am the butcher
And you will eat my meat.
Feast upon my carnage,
And leave me with the bones.
And leave me with the bones.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 1:01 PM UTC
A person like you should never have to go through what you have
No one deserves it, but especially someone like you.
I talked to you for 15 minutes and by the 8th minute I had tears rolling down my cheeks and my heart pulsated so sharply I thought I could see it through my shirt
God, why.
Mom. Cancer. Rehab. Chain. ******* Smoker.
Depression. Anxiety. Body dysmorphia. God, I am so sorry.
All the cliches in the entire world could not amount to the things I wish I could say to you, and one day make you believe.
All the times you saved me from my worst self, only to realize that while you had saved me, it was your own self that was delving deeper and deeper into its own defeat.
God.
Every time you would come up and give me a hug even when I barely knew you.
When I had no idea what you would mean to me, and how much your life would impact mine.
I am so sorry.
Sorry that your parent's were **** to you. That you didn't get the family you deserve, but made yourself such a strong, completely marvelous person.
I'm not romanticising any of the things you went through because I would never shed a good light on things that caused you so much suffering.
No, that's not it at all.
All the stories you told me tonight seemed too unbearable to be real.
But those stories are your harsh realities and I would trade everything I owned, all the money in my bank account, for you to stop what you do to yourself and the undo the numbness you've trained yourself to feel
you are NOT sad personified
you are NOT just *** appeal and sweet heartbreaker
you even know that my heart breaks, literally I can feel it, when you tell me, show me, paint ******* pictures for me of all the things you've dragged yourself through
I can't pick your feet up and carry you through, though.
God, how I wish I could.
You have to do it on your own, I know you can.
But I just ******* hope you'll follow through in your terrifying, mystifyingly horrible promise of, "Maybe I'll stick around until then"
.
.
.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
(for Nietzche, who cowers behind art.)
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every night yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
when there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing.
Yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise.
The world called Canaanites ******
while they traded and toiled along the shores
of land promised to the aged heretic of Sumer,
whose wife could give only love.
The world called Hebrews ******
while they raised Pharoah tombs
Provided respite from the eastern chariots
Stubborn in refusal of the living gods
Drinking only Eloheim's bitter grape
That provides brief respite from his decrees
When delving deep in one's cups.
The world called Britons ******
When flogged Boudicea fought and fought and finally fell
To Roman spear and gladius
When Angles and Saxons raided then stayed
When Cromwell climbed the pale cliffs
The world called the Iberians, Gauls and Teutons ******
when Caesar crossed the Rubicon
Pax Romana for Citizens born
Land for the wealthy, voting rights too
Taxes and tithes from their toil.
The world called the Khoikhoi of South Africa ******
From the VOC to fatal Apartheid
Up rose a man
The heart of the land
A man named Nelson Mandela.
The world called the Viet Minh ******
from Can Vong to Dien Bien Phu
'till they slogged howitzers above
to reign Napoleonic terror below.
And to them it was just
The American War
After the world called them
Vietnamese.
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every day yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
When there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing
yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
'though it never watches its own rising
undoing raiment of fading embers
swimming naked in the royal blue
bathing all with daily newborn naked glory
chasing the celestial tidal tease
that seems to wander where it please
reminding that all are born free
but can grow into ignorance
and be called ******
Seek truths
that hold in unity;
that provide nourishment
beneath the lash
allowing one
to rise, to rise, to rise.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 9:01 AM UTC
*Ignorance is bliss they say
There are many who might agree
But I have a secret to share today
That once was shared with me
If you should ever chance to gaze into the eyes of the young and bold
You might discern a glowing light that neither flickers nor grows cold
What sustains this constant spark-
Night or day, light or dark?
Whence flows the river of joy and peace
That gushes forth through gentle souls?
What is the secret of peaceful sleep
Enjoyed by minds of simpler mould?
Tempting though it may be to attribute to lacking wit
The exuberance and ecstasy discarded with the training bit,
Wisdom urges a second glance
beyond the proverbial looking glass
In the hope one might contrive
to visit with the other side
A world of simple charms and grace,
far from this one’s treacherous maze
And so this deeper, delving look
Might relight that failing spark
While in the pages of a thousand books
One may languish in the dark!*
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
I pour myself into
your glass each night,
a toxic taste, I beg
for you to choke on.
You drain our bottle
dry, drinking desert
laps but still thirsting
for Pacific oceans.
Delving into firework
taste-buds, savouring
how we spill so easily in
nights drunken palms.
Telling me I'm cheap
stuff, liquid eyes that
keep you sober, but are
still a tempting sip.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
Our temporal lobes have neurons whose sole purpose
Is to recognize faces
You see, humans are meant to be connected
Our bodies should vibrate
From the sounds of emotional resonance
We are meant to be seen,
Really seen, delving deeply into streams of running water
Where our vulnerability makes love with our experience
And this need is so great, that day after day, year after year,
We open our mouths with hope
That our words can share a meaning with someone
But mostly, we are left colliding
Or surviving near misses
Driving through relationship guardrails
Over the edge into desperation
We are left holed up in separate hospital beds
Isolated by IV drips of disappointment
Until we tell ourselves that true happiness is a myth
And the word “soulmate” was intended for everyone else
This used to be me
And it used to be you
When I awoke this morning
Remnants of our laughter were singing on your pillow
There are 86 lashes on your right, upper eye lid
I can almost see them listening to me
Conduits for comprehension
As I speak,
You turn your ear so it can graze my lips
I whisper while I stare at your profile
Blinking, gentle smile lines
And my heart lunges toward yours like a magnet
I have crawled inside your pupils
To be covered with wet, black paint shining
From your spirit outward
Opposite of indifferent
Our faces so close that I can taste you breathing
This strange sensation is the absence of fear
I. See. You.
I have always known you
I can pull the IV out of my arm
Because what keeps me alive,
Is that you know me too
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
There are many different masks that adorn my wall
Always at the ready for such time they would be needed
Each one of them summoned to answer a specific call
Each one of them used so that the truth can't be uncovered
With time and wear these masks grow all the more necessary
They protect me from situations that render me vulnerable
Kept contained all the emotions that I wish to bury
Kept in check all of my thoughts so I stay capable
I've had these masks for as long as I can remember
Afraid if they have begun to redefine the true me
They assume their roles seamlessly as if it's second nature
Their roles they would assume without fail, ever so diligently
But as much as they would protect from my own naivety
They also would protect others from the words that I wield
These poison-laden words fueled by my poor misguided sanity
Could easily stab and wound if not for the masks that shield
Often wondered these masks if I've ever taken them off
And function as is without hiding behind bolted doors
Would I be able to walk the line without temptation to scoff
Will I be compassionate yet honest; without causing new-found sores
Such a tough questions to which the answers I know not
Despite having pondered till my head grew sore and weary
Something I should have done before delving in deep thought
Is to now remove the mask that my face does carry
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
Mystique
- a framework of doctrines, ideas, beliefs, or the like, constructed around a person or object, endowing the person or object with enhanced value or profound meaning: "the mystique of Poe."
- an aura of mystery or mystical power surrounding a particular occupation or pursuit: "the mystique of nuclear science."
the mystique of Poe,
the mystique of nuclear science,
don't you see the irony extraordinaire,
the perfect intersection of
human and science?
atoms of a poet.
what, who better to
radiate
the profound complex meaning of
mystique
smile while
commencing the
delving, inhaling,
comprehending,
subsuming the
aura of human cells
odors of the atomizer
flavors mellifluous
chain reacting
the set theory of all my senses,
at the ultimate overlapping
of the primordial intersection
of the nucleus.
I am the living scientific proof,
the written poem,
the
realization of mystique,
the enhanced value
of the human you.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
Laying in bed on my back.
My head resting on hands, cushioned.
The dark ceiling with a black asterisk in the middle.
My windows casting shadows of light across my room.
The rain outside silencing me with
shhhhhh
continuous
shhhhhhhhhhhh.
Listening closely I hear the lone pitters and single patters.
The nearly not noticeable rustling of branches.
Tempo of the rain quickening, slowing, quickening-
almost like a heartbeat.
A drip drip of droplets delving into a puddle.
The rushing of a shy, shallow, stream;
Its rare gurgles.
The ominous bass of thunder, deafening.
Natures own orchestra-
For me to fall asleep to.
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
It was never my intention to place you in harms way.
Enlisting your heart to trouble after we kissed on that precious day.
As time elapsed, my heart took a moment to understand.
You were portraying your earnest emotions subtly then crass.
The turmoil you must’ve felt during the time you kept to yourself…
Causing you to experience agonizing despair while delving into mournful swells…
Find it in your heart to forgive these third degree burns.
For it was never my intention to crucify your kind soul.
My love yearns to romanticize unhurriedly,
Seducing passionately while intimately feeding the soul so fluidly.
Is it too much to ask for an amorous exploration?
For what is love without a genuine vibration?
If *** is all you seek,
Be explicitly direct; don’t play games that will cause deceit.
Otherwise, in the end, ambivalent emotions will prevail.
Crafting a false sense of endearment that will soon be too much for you to bear.
I once journeyed to a crucible of love and hate.
Traveling far beyond the unfathomable depths of heartache.
Hopelessly exiled to endure the slowest of brutalizing pains;
A light was discovered, allowing the abhorrence to dissipate.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
Will my misery entertain?
Will he salivate at the prospects and their resulting effects?
Joy, he wouldn't contain.
"Oh girl, the things I could do." He did almost coo.
"I want you to remember this encounter long after I'm through."
"With fire, you chose to play. Such a childish fool, one only gets burnt that way."
Why does my creativity choose to bloom?
Why does it grow as I contemplate delving into the darkness, pitching my tent in the blackness, amongst all of the doom and gloom?
Will my soul be efficiently sort out and collected for The Man In Red to consume?
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
i guess there are
some people
who just don’t realize
how preposterous they sound when
using social media.
yeah, maybe you’re one. no one
is safe from suspicion:
-the comedians (their own biggest fan types)
the witty commentators
jumping in from the far corner.
(you wonder how
someone who learnt every word they know
from about six Archie comics is allowed to
use social networking)
-oh and the girls
who post new selfies
every day. (in fact there’s one,
i swear, posts so often
so regular
i barely need a watch.
“here’s the three-fifteen cleavage shot.”
—she’s long since been hidden!)
and wait here’s that
fella who speaks out about injustices;
firecrackers taped in a doberman’s mouth,
which is awful, sick, repulsive—and bravo
for making the universe aware, i applaud thee,
but it’s the rambling included about what you’d do
if you ever caught them
(curbstomping, mutilating, beatings)
that gives
me goosebumps.
i don’t wanna see this kid’s mug in
the paper next week/point & say
“christ i knew it!”
..so maybe keep the ****** fantasy off the web, eh?
& then of course the weirdness
too weird to
properly recall
example:
an acquaintance's call for attention “i need a hug :(“
and the random girl
probably th’sister of a friend
(which is bizarre in its own right,
adding a friend's younger sibling..
but i
won’t bother delving
there tonight)
who replies:
*“hey you should come here instead
and see the skunk that just came
by my window
if you wanna?”*
—what is this absurdity?
and hey here’s an answer
to your original call:
internet hugs don’t work.
computers don’t hug in binary, man.
0110101110101101111001010010101011011010110101110101010101
>—O—<
—i’ll never understand it.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 1:42 AM UTC
Lost inside a ***clockwork
Heart attack***
Waiting to happen
Ticking and cracking
The silence in half with a second's helping
I was hungry and delving deeper into somnambulance
Gambling my waking minutes
Away with a hazy resemblance of life
The sharpest of minds couldn't cut it out
This troubled route gets more fractured with each forced laughter
Hours pass faster the faker my happiness becomes
I scrape by on a yearly basis as my days have gone numb
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC
I am not naive
I know how far
the stars are
away from me
wanting to see
I reach and beseech
to know
to love
to grow
to touch them
and hope I won't get burned
you think I would have learned
deprived of judgment
and reason
put out my singed wings,
cuz a silent voice can't sing
still scorching hot
white light,
I wonder not
I just couldn't fight
or save my sight
burning my retinas
with no surprise
I've taken flight
I cover up my eyes
with Rose Colored Glasses
taking off into the darkness
sightless, feeling empty
delving deeper
into the light
the night,
I follow you
everywhere ...
you
are.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC