"diffusion" poems
He has taken rake and shovel in hand,
Taking advantage of the light,
Rare in these climes this time of year,
Still welcomed, though rendered severe
By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon,
The type which, sauntering through a window pane
(Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle
Or some ancient, gilded frame
Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day,
Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion)
May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic
A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by
(And in the shade, the air is filled
With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence)
But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells
From the trees bowing to December's inevitability,
The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October
(Those having been collected and consigned
To the normal corner of the back lot)
But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart,
Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed.
One could contend that such activity is unnecessary,
The mere vanity of all endeavor,
As the snow will come soon, and steady as well,
Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time,
But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce,
Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping
To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while
Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more,
To be revealed to those
Who shall receive the teasing ministrations
Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
Oh, may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge men's search
To vaster issues. So to live is heaven:
To make undying music in the world,
Breathing a beauteous order that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.
So we inherit that sweet purity
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child,
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;
Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air,
And all our rarer, better, truer self
That sobbed religiously in yearning song,
That watched to ease the burden of the world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better, -- saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude,
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love, --
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb
Unread forever. This is life to come, --
Which martyred men have made more glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven, -- be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense!
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world.
4.6k
Love in my mind is acting aloof
It’s jumping over rooftops while playing the flute
I tried to tread past it ever so lightly
So that its murderous gaze would not see me so lively
It cares not about love for me
And it certainly cannot feel any for thy
We know that a narcissist loves only himself
But what about those who simply know to be careful?
A mind is created to think of itself
It conjures diversions to hide it, even from itself
Everything else is a pleasant delusion
Sometimes finding itself trapped on the brink of desolation
Squinching its eyes, hoping for diffusion
Time has created a person who loves
True is the one who knows whom he really does
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 3:22 AM UTC
It is raining outside,
Everything wet,
Soil, tree, terrace, flower *** gate, wall,,,,
But aridity stifles inside,
Head, heart, hand.....
Like the fruits of silk cotton tree,
Cutlery ruptures thought
Humanist is slaughters on the street.....
But slayer forget that
In extreme dryness
When fruits of dry Cotton silk tree explode
It’s diffuse
Germinate in wet soil
and grow everywhere,
Humanist will emit all over again!
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
there is something good
and some light
in this desire
enraging my cells
with divination chanting
sculpting my shape
in violent curves
I don't recongnize the hues
of mornings
because of frenzy:
the new definition of gravity
along the lines
mesmerizing visions of
softness and caring
love is a whirlwind
in any language
a clear water
so you can see
how translucent
nakedness can be
hers is
the bending of space
to smaller and smaller
atoms of delight,
fusion, diffusion, infusion
it holds you tight
from the very centre
(heart&lungs)
when it breaks you
and then these traces
the swarming of photons
in the fabric of skin
sweet radiance,
energetic warmness
an arch, a cohort of waves
crushing everything
like cherries' sense
reality sense
roads' sense
a scarring refusing
to scream/bleed
defiance of stillness
music of laughter
sun raising in your hands
there is something beautiful
for the poetess in me
it just describes herself well
for the never-day
it transmutes
anything:
beauty into horror
horror into despair
despair into words
even thought into
singing birds
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 4:44 AM UTC
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Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
After it blossomed,
The flower said,
"Now, my beauty is beyond my control.
Now, even I am beyond my reach."
Ahmad Nadeem Qasimi, Selected Poems, The Pakistan Academy of Letters, Islamabad 1995
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC
We range from mindful decision to mindless diffusion
Marching in step to others' lives
Stray from the path and follow a new storyline
Write your book creating your own demise
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:39 PM UTC
Diffusion is the act of a high concentration going to a low concentration, and vice versa.
However, what happens when the concentrations grind to an ugly, messy halt? I've seen this happen, once too many times.
It's ugly.
Crumbling.
Pathetic.
Every ache ends in another night of weekly wines, and daily sobs; does it help? No.
The light of the TV glow gives her a sense of motel cheapness, like a stain that the dry cleaner can't get rid of.
Is this the act of diffusion?
Yes. Yes, it is.
The self-deserving, overly confident diffusion. It's left its victim drained and powerless. She doesn't sleep anymore.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
There's a mansion on a hill
I've seen it numerous times
But,
I've never been inside
It's said to belong to an old woman
Who is very selective
in who enters her domain
Either you're an insignificant servant
And you slip inside
Through a back door
A tiny molecule diffusing
from high to low concentration
Or, you're a personal servant
Then, you gain special access
Still, through the back door
Water molecule
Diffusing through osmosis
After that are ordinary guests,
aided by the butler
through the front door
Facilitated diffusion
Molecules carried or channeled
And finally,
the VIP's
Welcomed by a great procession
Through a special VIP door
People,
invited by the madam
with great effort
Active transport
From low to high concentration
Requiring added energy
But despite this selectivity
of who can and cannot enter
That old mansion on the hill
And the jobs it provides
Is essential to the livelihood
Of the people in this town
Just like the cell membrane to our bodies
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC
Polished black
granite floor,
like a man's
muscular ***
craves for you--
for the heat
your lotus feet
transmit on it.
Generous,
you gift
a linear array
of foot prints
diagonally
across it.
Following
close behind
I step aside
not to walk up on
your foot prints,
fearing diffusion
of the epigraphic
arrangement .
Inward curve of your feet
and shape of the toes
make vapor contoured imprints:
cryptic love messages
for my pining heart--
seeing the easy dance
of your feet ,
captured on the floor,
I imagine.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 8:06 PM UTC
It doesn’t matter
how much weight you carry.
It’s about how you distribute.
Pain diffusion
is like sunlight through leaves;
it takes courage
to let brightness pierce through
and kiss you.
So stay with me,
right here,
by your tree roots,
where cyclamen grow.
Hold my hand
like you always knew me.
Forgive my shyness
as I fidget
with toe rings of clover -
I promise;
I’m less and less scared -
I still love your wildness.
I feel you,
all over.
Eyes,
of Pure Water.
My lack of sharpness
is yearning to soften your edges.
I’m floating above your garden,
weightless.
The ripeness of fruit
that your highest tree bares,
smells like a rose
you delivered.
If we really are here
to mirror,
all I want to do for you
is shimmer.
Nov 4, 2022
Nov 4, 2022 at 9:06 AM UTC
optimists and pessimists
need each other
to diffuse
their respective
perspectives.
pessimists
get too helpless.
they feel
everything is on them.
it starts to feel
like they think they're Atlas,
or Sisyphus.
pushing their boulder up
the mountain, forever
and ever
alone.
some inferiority complexes
border on narcissism.
optimists get too helpful.
they burn so hot
they forget that sometimes
they can be as useless
as the pessimists feel.
most people that want
to be positive, surround
themselves with positive
people. and negativity
vice versa.
this creates delusion.
it makes happy people
seeing all that's happy
and unhappy people
seeing all that's unhappy.
no one group feels
for the other
and neither ends up feeling
anything
completely.
you put yourself in
a position where all your
input contains a consistent
confirmation of your stale,
untested outlook.
if nothing is tested, nothing
is validated.
that's just science.
surround yourself with
people that diffuse you.
you need that
tension.
if nothing else,
you won't get
bored.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 6:39 AM UTC
Inflection
Infliction
Infection
Defective
Defenseless
Impressive
Depression
Impression
Departure
From
Reality
Surreality
Purity
Into
Frailty
Depravity
Definitely
Causing
Confusion
Diffusion
Profusion
In
Inflection
Infection
Imprison
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
the dust bloomed amidst the green
the shadow rose and parted from me
and me, i stared inside
i was hallow all in between..
i was not me for what I mean
i was only puppet to be..
...-"no turning back" was the decree
a gush of suction from my queen
with love and affection
set me free . OM!
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
I am the greatest poet alive.
In my body, I am the greatest poet alive,
In my continent, I am the greatest poet alive-
Yesterday, I was…
Today, I am the worst poet alive,
Because I know that yesterday
I was at the peak of my poetic diffusion,
Inspiration stayed the night,
and greatness happened to have occurred,
So yesterday, I was the greatest poet alive,
in my population-of-one continent.
Today I'm just a jealous bitter soul,
Cause I know I wasn't good enough
for inspiration to stay,
Today I know that inspiration fears commitment,
I resembled everything appalling,
I was desperate and needy,
So inspiration left me for another poet
without a second glance.
Because inspiration doesn't want to be
chained down to the grounds of monotony,
A room with four walls is all I could offer,
And it needs a castle where it can trespass
to the wilderness of the sky any time,
It needs the freedom where it can soar
above and look down
in fascination at the array of poets
that it has touched their minds and hearts,
Because that's when inspiration feels alive,
When it can see the power that it has diffused
into their -now- luminescent hearts,
A picture depicting a sky adorned with stars,
An earth adorned by poets that never sleep.
Today, I'm heartbroken because I know inspiration will never be 'mine'.
It will continue to break hearts, then come back,
And I know that I will continue to accept its apologizes,
Even if they weren't uttered,
I will make one up inspired on spur of the moment,
Because without it I'm nothing but the worst poet alive,
In my body, in my population-of-one continent.
And when the days click and the words rhyme,
The world isn't always forgiving of the greatest poet alive in my population-of-one continent,
Because my poems are me,
And I know that I'm flawed,
I have bad hair days, my nose isn't pretty,
sometimes there are bags under my eyes, and I'm not always the nicest person,
Sometimes my appearance is disheveled,
Just like my poetry,
Then some days I spend the extra ten minutes in front of the mirror,
I care for the details,
And some days people actually like my words,
those are the good days.
And today, I am the worst poet alive,
Because I don't have hope,
Inspiration didn't leave me a note before it left,
It didn't give call me and said I'll be back in a few days,
So today I'm the worst poet alive in my book.
I've cleaned my mind though,
And threw away all the disposal pins
where I burst the bubbles of words that sound ridiculous,
I also folded away all the negative feedback
that my cerebral cinques have given me,
Hopefully inspiration might want to visit the greatest poet alive … tomorrow?
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 12:49 AM UTC
Who gave you the key to my heart?
I swear you've had it, from the start.
Three in the morning finally crawling into bed
Bits and pieces of our favorite love songs rolling through my head
Hummin' a tune cuz I know I'll see you soon
We've only been holding each other since sunset
You sang sweet lullabies with your eyes while I listened intently
Cuz when I see your face, I smile
When I look at you, I smile more
When we talk, my voice is beaming
When I hear you sing, my heart is soaring
And when I get a glimpse of your soul tucked behind your sparkling blue eyes I hold that stare so calmly but inside I'm jumping for joy!
And even when I can't see you
When all I have is the thought of you
Well I'll be ****** if all I let out is a grin
You go beyond butterflies and above pretty blue skies
But you don't even leave the ground cuz we're aimin' for a love so deep that even we can't find the bottom
and I wanna write you a love poem
But I can't find the words
I wanna sing you a love song
But I can't find my voice
I wanna give you a flower
But we trampled them all while we were dancin' in the moonlight
And baby, when all these feelings
All these butterflies, lullabies and gazing deep-ly into your eyes
All this happiness, all this ectasy
All this emotional high that makes me feel so free!
When all this is gone, I will love you still
Because love is a choice fueled by power of will
And we will not be condemned by chasing a thrill
So when the highs become lows and the lows become throes
Of tossing and turning
Of hearts burning from confusion, confliction, and diffusion
Of a feeling we thought to be eternal
I will be reminded that feelings are fickle, let the teardrops trickle
Keep walking forward until my heart decides to catch up
Place one hand in yours and one in God's and sing that same old song
Who gave you the key to my heart?
I swear you've had it, from the start.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
coffee house is a place where you doubtlessly see all the people being swept away in an invisible connection you can not see--sometimes, there are also some people who get caught in discussion and stuck by diffusion. the coffee that you drink often converts you its energy to analize your life's difficult problematics.
coffee house is a place where you will genuinely feel sane if you see some people reading their own scripts or feel well-earned if you witness the self-interested people--where they hear their own tunes just for themselves, where they do not want to give you the same opportunity for joining them in thrilling your cochlear, even through the air filled with whiff of vapour. vapour which doesn't comprise the fumes of nicotine, but there is just a little amount of caffeine in its womb. however, vapour is vapour. it has its ability to serve you an effect to crave which oftenly makes yourself lose its excuse to refuse.
coffee house, is a place for the people who are looking for identities. coffee house is made for the people who keep analizing the layer by layer of their lives, for the ones who keep hunting the nucleus of your providence's atom, for the people who keep ripping apart their particles. not dalton, neither rutherford, nor thomson, not even bohr, as the ones who might be able to serve you a soup of theory which if you eat it, you might be enlightened and your life might suddenly be well explained. the chaos of your life can not simply be explained that way.
coffee house is a place where you will find the lonely people whose lives will always be tossed around, the people who keep glorifying the fumes of caffeine that can hit you back to the point where you can be boiled by new hopes. and it remains that way all the time.
coffee house is a place for them who are hurt and diseased, but feel like hospitals are not the right house to canalize their moans. precisely, they will find their house here.
in a coffee house, you will learn to be yourself, and you will never find the lesson at all schools.
in a coffee house, you learn how to admit your predestination as the Audience of Lives.
coffee house is a place where you will always find your own cinema seat.
Stefan Sagala,
February 4th 2017.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 1:35 AM UTC
Hot desert winds’ve come up suddenly and
covered my reality with a blanket
of Sahara dust
obscuring the mountains
like fog in the fall
The view I so love is cast
in an eerie yellowish grey light
the endless horizon cut down to a fraction
of itself
surreal and unfamiliar
I’m feeling slightly schizophrenic
How can there be silence when
winds are howling and
why does my reality feel
so still
while everything’s clearly
in motion?
Sound in silence and movement in stillness
Blending dimensions are rattling
my mind as space and time
lose their meaning
for a while
Curiously detached from
what I observe yet
simultaneously
intensely involved I behold
these realities that are tumbling
in and out of each other
And I’m faintly aware of my leaden limbs
All the while
three little butterflies
gracefully defying gravity
are spiralling in an infinite dance around
my heavy form
inviting me to celebrate life
in the eye of
the storm
Mesmerized by this lightness of being
I contemplate my
quirky reality bubble
the appearance of which’d changed from
photoshop crispness to
confusing diffusion
turning sparkling colors into
a blur of drab pastels
The meseta lays parched, silently hiding
in a cloud of sand and holding its breath
in this searing onslaught
no goats bells are ringing
or horses neighing
ev’n the cricket has ceased to sing
*But undisturbed and unperturbed
the butterflies keep dancing*
Then
from one instant to the next
the storm has drowned in a moment of
deafening silence
time’s standing still
neither sound nor movement until
a sudden cool breeze shivers me out of
my reverie
Now distant thunder in darkened skies
is promising long awaited rain
and creation breathes out
in relief
*And undisturbed and unperturbed
the butterflies keep dancing*
©Jasmine, Vilacarillo, Spain, August 7, 2015
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
In terms of a business, religion and government,
Diffusion of Blame is such a genius legal move
at the same time as being such a dastardly one.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
A shape shifter.
A transformer.
Everything you fear.
Change.
The unknown is
a scary place,
a scary thing.
Do you know who I am?
Do I know who I am?
Would someone please show me
which home is my place,
which family my own,
which lines I should trace?
Every contour on my face,
every word that I utter.
It is all you.
And that’s scary.
Why does it scare you?
Because I am a stranger, and your homie.
Your son, and your enemy.
I am all that you were,
and all that you will be.
You want to embrace me
as your child, your kin.
But I’m different, a little
too complicated to fit in.
You wish for things to be simple,
the son whose identity is set in stone.
So I travel these unbeaten paths alone -
As you close your eyes to me,
a child who barely knows part of his family.
I look to you to help define me,
and still you refuse to see,
even as your memory is stirred by me.
Your mind pushes me
to the back of your head
but your heart won’t let
you forget who I am,
and so I’ve grown,
the invisible boy,
soon to become
the invisible man.
Some days you simply wonder,
and life seems more an illusion, and
all those heavy questions drive
your mind into diffusion.
Your reason screams “yes,”
while your sleepless conscience
tells you otherwise.
So which is telling truth,
and which is telling lies?
As you struggle to pick,
you start to realize,
you’ve made a wrong choice -
a part of you died.
This choice about me
could never be wise.
So which shall you follow,
your heart, or your head?
Don’t be too quick on the take -
You might make a worse
nightmare of your bed.
To see the unseen
is a complicated thing.
Many have said that
with knowledge comes pain,
And I assure you that
seeing me has consequences.
So you whisper, “ok”
Your curiosity parched
For the knowledge that quenches,
As it tugs at your core,
A million tight wrenches.
I will see you
Is your tardy demand!
And a transient being
Lifts his transient hand.
Where this unveiling takes you,
You intend to land.
You’re facing your demons,
You’re being a man.
So who is behind
the mask, you ask?
It’s me,
An interracial boy.
A melting *** of culture, and color,
A child who won’t accept the word other.
Not molded from one sole identity cast,
Destined for eternity to sculpt my mask.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:31 AM UTC
Difference meant crosses
connecting lines of diffusion.
Anak, there was a time
your last name - carried
but prejudice will follow.
Our immigration,
garnered tailored unsuited
ties to our beautiful pearls,
progress adapts singularity,
a strength for your identity.
Relief, from fastened shades
opens palms allowed to dry.
Soiled worth will blossom
your ancestry will procure
self-reflection, and will spread.
Speaking our language
turned to novelty stones.
But a divided tongue
will speak the same good
bringing you respect.
Wash your hands, pray before
eating with your hands.
Appreciate the feel of the rice
each grain has it’s worth,
the pull from our hull.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Two nerves cells
and across the finite gap
an impulse passes
and diffusion of a
neurotransmitter
begins
passing down to my stupid mind
and the words i think
seam to dance
and do a little jig
and so my thoughts
begin.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
This fish bowl I'm in
I am a speck on the bottom of it: I am gullible
Mom tells me I'm special: That's not true
It was all a ******* lie
papers I produce are mediocre
comparatively: I don't do jack ****
they make art: speak beautiful words
compose music: research human trafficking
discuss what the person is: what god is or isn't
look into the depths of what it is to be alive
configure ways to improve their environment
discover and decode molecular diffusion
unearth social constructionism
link biomechanics to psychological transfer
is this wall red?
do you think it is red?
is this vein blue?
do you know why it is blue?
is this cup green?
do you care about being green?
is this person yellow?
how is this a historical conflict to be yellow?
is this plaster white?
how can we transform the white?
That's right, now everybody go change the world
dive down to the depths of human evil
your letter of recommendation will get you
real
deep
however I,
I will not even get past the glass
the bowl is too shallow
I figured out bull ******** a long time ago
but not well enough to understand things
It was more one of those move your fins
and then some how you will be able to breathe
That's what happens when you spend too much
time
inhaling the wrong things
you sink
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC