"educe" poems
****** my delicate
Mind and run after my
Oxygen which is the
Key to my sweet, long
Everlasting pain
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
And so resounds the echo...
Sewn against your shadow,
handstitched destiny edges,
unraveled in the fire,
pulses rage
in heart-paced whispers,
collision of midnight panther
pelts, bleed into powder silk,
ravage the gentle merge,
your touch upon my awakening
sway me softly in your gaze
taste me with eyes that pierce
my soul from wingtips of butterflies
cast from the fire of your existence.
Unfold the unspoken words
dripping in the creases of this
throbbing...needing...wanting
heartbeat-slip-stitch,
suture seal the ache
of gossamer flesh
pressed against raven,
twin glances,
the bookmark,
fingertips
tracing the eyeprints
of your words upon me.
...so resounds the echo...
As echo wrecks the body
in a fever of words, purged
from the ****** night,
that devours_and devours_your lips,
my hands' gentle cradle, spread
its roots dark these russet
threads the gold, swept
wetly over hands, like nerves,
quickening and so laden
with tremors, these words echo echo
Slip knot tongues intertwine,
tangled tasting breathes, exhaled
in slow moans surging, purging
that drink_and crave_and need
m o r e
beneath hands that unleash
the fervor, lips pressed through
the flames, as gossamer falls
upon panther silk,
an exigent trespass,
beyond the touch
beyond the kiss,
educe the quake and the quiver
within this rapture.
...so resounds the echo echo...
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
This silence instils me with dread.
Perchance 'tis me, bereft of knowing ear.
Golden reciprocity; nought be said.
Would dialogue ensue, if thou art near?
'Tis insipid; moonless every night,
and empty; cloudless every day.
Black and blue; colours of plight!
Oh, hast thou nothing to say?
A silent whisper once graced my ears.
Sunrise over spans 'twas once frozen.
By who? The receding shadow disappears.
Why was it, that I was chosen?
In a surreal wasteland I awake;
every blinking star appears a ticking clock.
All space and time I'd forsake,
for the key to destiny that thine lips lock.
Knocking on heaven's door, questioning,
'twas her – my angel – that you sent?
Imploring the Fates; will she educe a king?
They reply: “the future is always silent”.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
cometh darkness thou waith
thy dance thou dos't do
avialath thou thy cometh
beginst thine fervor
thou blot
thine morrow's mist
ast thou ensue thine ubiety
whist thou educe
thine loveth hence
thine beauty kisseth
thy lambent duskness
cometh darkness thou waith
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 6:48 AM UTC
Living inside each of us
Is a greater poet, than are we
In our minds, with such visions
We cannot educe, for our eyes to see
In our heads, their grandiose thoughts
Are those, we could never speak
Wondrous dreams with miraculous ideals
Which mere mortals, would never seek
Such passion and emotions
That our hearts, dare never feel
And so remain, unexpressed, imagined
Or, could they all be real
BOEMS BY JA 571
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
My shadow inanimate object that since
Birth an un-attractable Siamese twin.
Some times smaller, longer, fatter, thinner
Than what I was but always a part of me.
Then the light came, like ball lightning.
Never harmed a hair on corporal flesh.
But shades that had been surrogated
Since a time of birth now dwindling fast.
With each one that evaporated from a
Puddle of mimicking thought a sleep
Did educe on each that lost that partner
Of onyx depth that never left a side.
It wasn't as others thought a light of
questionable guidance It feed on our
Opposite and in subtle collapse feed
On our weakened state now slumbering.
We were sleeping giants that wilted
Like a flower our petals ever dwindling
Till the only shadow that graced us was
That of a silent dormant corpse.
Graves were dark and now was our moment
Even though we were covered in blissful
Light, we were still. Our other half's harvested
Our companion from birth now faded apart.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
A writer is a tiger stalking
Purposefully through tangled plot
A poet is a kitten mocking
Feral instincts long forgot
In prose the words are carpets laid out
For the comfort of the fan
In poetry the words are weighed out
To educe a lyric plan
A story is a tale of reckoning
As the faithful reader’s caught
A poem reflects a wistful beckoning
To a purity of thought
In either case the subjects differ
Each one to the author’s schemes
Except with poems you must decipher
Exactly what … the poet means
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 3:07 PM UTC