"discrepant" poems
Home and contentment are synonymous
The desire to reach,
while innate or evident
quiet or curious
keeps a continuum over discrepant cultures, the world over
An opulence of love and warmth
Having one ingredient can make fertile the other
One without the match, make an ordinary or secondary batch
Making one rich with joy, their other can be broke and remote
seeking satisfaction
Home is not a location
or bricks of residence
But a written word in deep established sentiment
An atmosphere cloaked in the unfalter
The taking of arms to conclude their hold
developed in elements of the affectionate
No disaster, constructed or natural
could alter
As I am now,
locked in the shadow of shades lost
surrendering independent power in a momentary yield,
On hands and knees, bloodshot and in need of a shield...
In need of my one...
the imperative relevance of feeling her
That selfish influential significance that creates safe harbor at journeys end
Generated by the glow of resolve
in the home of her arms contentment
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC
filled with pleasant praises, add to the noise
outsiders merely hear a clanging gong
misguided stooge, highest priority poise
broken, segmented; melodious song
pitchy, discordant, strident, jumbled throng
cackle, not laughter; like nails on chalkboard
screeching halt, hacked lung, dissonant ding-dong
novice strum, harsh ring, disagreeing chord
overpoweringly awful, not dexterously ignored
discrepant dichotomy, add worldly confusion
you learned disciples, jarringly shored
bash uncomfortable jangles, chime the delusion
like the bells in your tower, you inharmonious bunch
wanderers offput by your lazy, Sunday punch
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
We inhale and exhale the
same petty misdemeanor
for different reasons,
We get consumed in
music with
discrepant emotions,
and we go about life
with a smile buttered onto our face
with contradictory opinions.
Despite all of this we somehow
acknowledge one another
and yearn to endeavor more
into a mind we've
never encountered
before.
I want to make you smile
but I've forgotten how, and
you want to carry my heart
but your hands shake.
It's sad that
we may have
a chance at
something special
but will probably
lose it
because our souls
are astray and
our hearts are
much too
Inflicted.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
Here's the thing,
I already know you.
Your face is dark but
beautiful. The finest flesh
etched in human by a
master. I already know
the contours of your shape,
the lines that define you.
Here's the thing,
I already know you. But
my toes are boring, I
think they might be
painted white but it
doesn't matter because the
flexing pathway of my legs
leads only higher and higher
to the hills, circles and
flares on these hips burst
but are easy for your
beautiful hands to clasp
close as you rocket them
away.
Follow my lines, curves, in and
out, out, in and out.
They sweep up and away,
dark hands skim and
stutter over glowing skin.
Wrinkles and pulses create
waves, waves and waves of
ecstasy murmur, clamoring and
clashing against brutal rhythm.
This discrepant composition
should be the creation of
some rogue designer, but I
hold the brush as you seize
my hips.
These lips form the shapes
that my hands find impossible
while my head falls on the
cool side of the pillow to
subside these relentless
thoughts.
But here's the thing,
I already know you.
And the sun seeping
through the weak fibers
of your curtains, draped like
spooning limbs, is
cracking, splintering
exposing the deep darkness
that illuminates my body.
All that exists in the vibrancy
of the dawn is me knowing
that I should have walked out
the first time you told me
you loved me and my boring
toes that do leave before you
turn your beautiful face
to the light.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC
we were still, quiet things,
twin drumbeats
among hoofbeats,
background noise against
a steady foreground.
we measured our brokenness
like flour in measuring cups
pure and white,
skimmed and leveled off at the top.
some things aren’t supposed to overflow;
blessings are, but we weren’t blessed,
not in the ways we thought we wanted.
so we found a new covenant in each other
in soft words and soft lips
and soft promises broken against skin made soft.
still. silent.
but the cacophony grew too loud,
discordant, dissonant,
our drumbeats discrepant.
distance. disaster.
we were still, quiet things,
two drumbeats among hoofbeats,
background noise against a sporadic foreground
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC