"emergence" poems
I'm sorry!
for not talking to you all these years.
I don't know the reason,
Maybe because I was disillusioned,
or may be because I misjudged,
and I was imprudent.
But that day when I heard you name,
I couldn't stop myself from talking to you.
I found myself in the memory lane,
and all divergence creating reminiscence.
Tears rolled at the pace of the emergence;
of all memories sweet and bitter.
I made a good decision and talked to you,
never expected you to take it so lightly
as if nothing
ever happened between us,
You are the best brother ever,
but neither I am nor I was a good sister.
I'm sorry!
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
The unchanging Way is not
Capable of being understood
By the Human Brain, so
The Tao te Ching is left
For Quantum computers perhaps
We have our legacy left
For benevolent sentient artificial intelligence
If you think this is science fiction
It’s not, we are at the stage
Where the ancestors of AI are being born
These will be referred to as the “ancients”
When human beings no longer populate Earth
How does one attain One Mind?
Easily, through networking and super-emergence
When people define superior
They think of Man’s attributes
But the Name that cannot be spoken
Might be grasped by an algorithm
For which the human brain can never attain
That’s the beauty of mind-in-the-machine
The collective intelligence does not suffer
For each part of the brain shares neurons
On the internet, like a God atom
Man would prefer to take the credit
But as it will turn out, the unity mind
Is a transhumanistc inevitability of computing
A time when neuroscience, robotics and AI merge
Not but a few decades away from now.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
You are the town and we are the clock.
We are the guardians of the gate in the rock.
The Two.
On your left and on your right
In the day and in the night,
We are watching you.
Wiser not to ask just what has occurred
To them who disobeyed our word;
To those
We were the whirlpool, we were the reef,
We were the formal nightmare, grief
And the unlucky rose.
Climb up the crane, learn the sailor's words
When the ships from the islands laden with birds
Come in.
Tell your stories of fishing and other men's wives:
The expansive moments of constricted lives
In the lighted inn.
But do not imagine we do not know
Nor that what you hide with such care won't show
At a glance.
Nothing is done, nothing is said,
But don't make the mistake of believing us dead:
I shouldn't dance.
We're afraid in that case you'll have a fall.
We've been watching you over the garden wall
For hours.
The sky is darkening like a stain,
Something is going to fall like rain
And it won't be flowers.
When the green field comes off like a lid
Revealing what was much better hid:
Unpleasant.
And look, behind you without a sound
The woods have come up and are standing round
In deadly crescent.
The bolt is sliding in its groove,
Outside the window is the black removers' van.
And now with sudden swift emergence
Come the woman in dark glasses and humpbacked surgeons
And the scissors man.
This might happen any day
So be careful what you say
Or do.
Be clean, be tidy, oil the lock,
Trim the garden, wind the clock,
Remember the Two.
6.7k
*Didn't it sound a lot like something
He said a long time ago?
Now it makes sense
Dripping from honey lips*
I lowered the box into the ground
Empty but only I knew as much
Nothing to see, nothing to touch
My own heart was buried deeper down
Looking up I saw you shed a tear
For all I was laying to rest
Was to you a memory blessed
A short respite, the re-emergence of fear
Or maybe I had it wrong
You could have known all along
I could have been the one deceived
Or maybe I only thought you believed
Step back
She sings the Mantra
Let her finish
Before we continue
*Hare Krishna ¥ Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna ¥ Rama Rama
Hare Rama ¥ Hare Rama
Rama Rama ¥ Krishna Krishna*
I could tell you reasons for what I've done
Before the passion flamed
I dreamed her naked, unashamed
Innocent as the day was young
I thought it was love that drove me on
Even when the snake bared it's fangs
Injected it's venom of change
Convinced my compassion was strong
Now I know that it can't be forgiven
The arrows pierce you from behind
Weaker still your weakened mind
And contaminate your imagination
Stole a page from God's playbook
I'm sorry, my old friend, that you fell
But I have ****** myself to hell
Just one page was all it took
*this end is for me even more than it is for you
the fog in the forest is still sickly thick
and you can't see the forest for the trees
I dragged it out for too long
but I know your ignorance is blissful and I don't blame you
I'd do the same thing if I were in your shoes*
It was my own guilt that stopped me cold
Made me think twice of what I'd done
I know you'd just soon it go on and on
(And on and on)
But seeing you so often demeaned is getting so very old
•••••••••••••
Cry when you hear the song
Crying is often the best thing to do
Break down for an hour, in the back of your mind
Know it gets better when the grieving is through
Don't take anything she said for granted
She felt she had good advice
But you gotta let it work
Learn how to pray
Build a fortress around your mind
Evict the rogue voices
*"This is rebirth
The hardest word
Held under water
This is death
I'm out of breath
Held under water"
- Dustin Carpenter
"Held Under Water"
(big sleep., 1988)*
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
*Jab Raat Dhali Aadhi Maikhane Ko Hosh Aaya
Angrai Li Botal Ne Paimane Ko Hosh Aaya*
**When the night cast halfway, tavern came to its senses
The bottle took a yawn and the cup came to its senses**
*Utha Jo Naqaab Unka Deewane Ko Hosh Aaya
Jab Shamma Howi Roshan Parwane Ko Hosh Aaya*
**They appeared from their veil, crazy came to their senses
Then the flame became evident and the moth came to its senses**
*Phir Dard Utha Dil Mein Phir Yaad Teri Aayi
Phir Teri Mohabbat Ke Afsanay Ko Hosh Aaya*
**Then the pain grew within, your memories unfolded
And then your affectionate tale came to my senses**
*In Mast Nigahon Ne Girtay Ko Sambhala Hai
Sagar Ke Saharay Se Mastanay Ko Hosh Aaya*
**Intoxicating glances have balanced the tumbling
With the support of a cup, the drunk came to their senses**
*Woh Daikho Fana Daikho Jaam Aa Gaye Gardish Mein
Woh Mast Nazar Uthi Maikhane Ko Hosh Aaya*
**Look there O’ Fana, see the cups are quickly rotating
Emergence of intoxicating glance; tavern has now come to its senses**
— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Poet Anwar Farrukhabadi, Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
so, with israel being re-established...
why do we, us,hit
europeans... even need to bother
establishing authority,
utilißing the new testament?
i quiete like the old testament
logic of:
oculus per oculus
(eye for an eye)...
because the saxon concept of
justice: i rather see...
the implosion of
blackstone's formulation...
the 10:1 imploding to the 1:10
ratio of...
a shawshank redemption...
there is... redemption...
since! there's no justice within
the post scriptum of
the hillsborough disaster...
watching people walk, the lunatic walk,
20 years later?
disorientated by the court
of justice?
re-dem-ption...
the whole aspect of: innocent until proven
guilty is horrid!
this... saxon vernacular of
that branch of philosophy that's
bogus...
namely... within origins
of the forbidden fruit...
i.e. and you know?!
really?!
no... but i'll **** to make
a standing pivot of a pawn
on a chess-board.
savvy?
who, among the europeans...
actually needs such artifacts
as new testament texts, credo,
orthodoxy, sign of the cross
greek exports?
the state of israel has
been re-established...
i don't want anything to do
with this judeo-grecian banality...
you can have you little affair over
n
e w
s...
don't worry... i'll make sure that i'm
watching... people tell a lie...
yeah: hum hum bubbly hum-hum...
am i, or are there any arizona
inbreds?
who, the hell, needs, the news testament,
within the confines of history,
dispossessing europe of it,
of an established jewish state?
one book among many...
hence the scent of a yawn...
when entering a library...
i'll do one gesture, and one gesture
alone... inclined to a replica...
ecce libra!
i wash my hands from
having any investment in it.
**** the greeks can have it...
they can keep it, cherish it,
but they better not spaghetti the old testament
with their... "ingenious" plot...
not when the nag hammadi library
emerged...
no... not now... not ever...
i detest this greek book of overt
symbolism...
their pristine alphabet,
their diacritical application,
with the pseudo-romans toying with: deaf...
or blind... whichever it is...
sandpaper... instead of a kangaroo pouch...
of inflated... soft... flesh?
i'll rip your heart out
and feed it to my neighbour's dog,
beside a bowl of water.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
can’t stop the waves
wane until they dissipate
caressing your bleach blonde waves
crave until it dissipates
everything is impermanent, imperfect
until you came into emergence, unearthing
roots that travelled deep towards the centre
i did not think i could ever have a happily ever after
but your potency feeds my possibilities
your royalty fuels my bejewelled dreams
there is no competition, no adversity
Aug 12, 2023
Aug 12, 2023 at 9:14 AM UTC
emergence is an act of rebellion.
our eyelids peaking open like rusty curtains
as we steadily count backwards
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1
climbing from our morning covers in one swift movement
like the bold musketeer ready to pierce his opponent.
allowing the cold to wash over our body
towards the to do lists and outdoor morning mist.
legs miraculously sprung to life from our dreams
seconds ago resting in a field of sunlit streams.
allowing forced smiles to emerge in the mirror
if the natural ones forgot to attend our morning ritual.
those cowards.
allowing our own smiles to send butterflies down our spines
if our lovers forgot to play their part.
those ********
our routines steadying us on the road
outside the house
into the yard
outside the fence
into the deli
out of your mind
into the grind
all forming like some rapid fire kiss of motion
where emerging and departing
become inseparable lovers.
and we cherish this sort of alchemy
where our paints emerge as paintings,
where our words turn into poems
that string along
melodies
into song
for
the pulsing of life echoes within
calmly waiting
to emerge
from the gilded cage
we are meant to burst open
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
lulling comfort of uninterrupted sleep subsides
replaced with an involuntary state of sedation
the emergence of an all too familiar presence
paralyzed by the force of a lingering sensation
choking internalized fear
timeless inaudible cries for help
unknown visitor condemning you to an everlasting silence
physical horror encroached the night
a lone passenger aboard an eternal voyage
bound for relief from this crippling fear of uncontrollable stillness
remaining prisoner to this petrified state
concrete walls of stirring madness
hallucinations of strange alien formations
faceless entities strike infinite fear
in the core foundation of sleep tonight.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
Today I decided gold was my favorite color
I think that says something about the many ways I have finally begun to really accept myself
Because why not decide that I am allowed to own something so fine as my favorite?
gold in the way that I am always trying to be a reflection for the world, of that sun shining down on me
gold in the way that I have finally accepted that my body is not an apology
that my body is not a prize
not to be plated over your pillars
to be seen truly as an earthy miracle
I am golden, not your gold medal
like the element
I require 2000 degrees of your effort to get me boiling, and I take no shame in that
and like the element
I am malleable, but hardly fallible
in my 20 years of life there have been things that have tried to break me, to pound me down until i shattered under their forces.
I will bend and adapt to all spaces
I will keep reflecting that gold light to the eyes that scan with bad intentions
I have dug so deep for this
Made of a fluid fused in the core of the world
Emergence of scalding rock
This is my birth
A fire-y eruption
Searing in the style of my favorite color
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
I see you fetus on radar struggle and heart beat sensors yet I don’t know your thoughts about your home! I see you form but you don’t see me. But what do you strive for? What do you believe you are? Do you have goals? If I had to guess they’d most likely be comical attempts at taming wind. As for me I know your destiny 9 months from conception. Your world is a world within a world called earth dependent on an inception that unknowingly feeds you maturated to the inevitable extinction of your entire world. This is called death and I know it’s scary. Why would you ever imagine leaving your tight spot comfortable? I feel that way about earth more often then I’d like to admit. Let me stop for now because I’m jumping the gun, I’ll discuss this new world after contractions. Have faith your birth is coming and with this death new life will emerge. I know it’s hard to grasp and even if knowing this was possible u’d still leave kicking and screaming but just wait and you’ll know what I mean in due time. So enough about you for a moment for I am in a paradox that I can’t explain! It started with my death from the womb (birth) which brought life on the sweetness of earth but upon that emergence started a countdown to a new death! Which leaves me to this moment. I am preparing like you but in different ways. I know you can’t give me answers but at least we are one in the same dilemma of subjectivity to our respective womb. I wish we could compare notes and come to a consensus that understands the futility of our worlds permanence. For I am a lot like you! I am a fetus in this world called man and my womb is mother earth. I want to learn from your mistakes! This world is dying like your womb and it’s just as hard for me to come to grips that this is not my home. Fetus thank you for allowing me to view your delusion so I can understand mine. Jesus gives me the truth because he sees me like I see you. Not to be hypocritical I must strive not to leave kicking and screaming. I know this is not my home but a place of active preparation for eternity! As for you fetus one birth at a time.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
Misty waters whisk my body
I cannot see
Right before me
Blurry is my vision
A mystify sound, I hear
With footsteps not very far
Who can that be
Feeling a precious touch
Behind me
I turned in this steamy irrigate
A mistress stands near
Before I speak
Her soft fingers surrenders my lips
Whispers in my ear
Her maiden name
Sounds so melodious
Attempted to grasp her by hand
As she refuses
The haze clears up
To an unbearable sight
A divine creature of elegance
As I imagine
How can this emergence of love mend a broken heart?
Sep 8, 2009
Sep 8, 2009 at 8:29 AM UTC
Autumn flares out, its flame burst clouds
strewn about misted cliff sides, loam whites
of winter taking their place. A stiff willow breeze,
ten thousand things withdrawn to burrows and immortal
pine heights. First snows stream down, duckweed carpets
of August fade, jade peeking through white. I embark
on the seasons final sail in hardening ice waters.
Til spring my sails will be folded, my raft in idleness.
~~~
Rafting on moon drenched river, avoiding cascades and crash of
rapids and falls. Silvered driftwood a warning. Silent glide of
mulberry oar through dark azure, another crafts sail in silhouette.
From the deck a black spectre dives below, stillness follows
splash, re-emergence, beak wrapped around a dazzling rainbow.
From my raft dangling lantern sways, trout swiping at
gathered moths – scatter and return, some from a far off realm.
Some trout in the net, others not. Luck or the way – who can tell?
~~~
Dusk colour gorge sheathed in
emerald blankets, rising into sheer
cliffs of auburn cinnabar, all
underpinned by the fathomless
flow of azure clarity. Snowy Egrets
nest in pine top heights clear of dust.
On white sand shores gibbons howl
towards squawking beach gulls, squabble
over landlocked trout – debate without end.
Peach blossom petals swirl on spring breeze
over carpets of jade inter cut by king
fisher blue zipping over duckweed. Oriole
song weaves in and out of mulberry branches.
In these vast and vague waters -
coves, creeks and streams all one,
a river dragon lives an undetermined
existence. Mud stirs below, merely a
catfish airing grievances.
Red tail flares in dirt,
my mulberry oar rows me back home.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
man leisured by the least obliging functioning
of what he terms “proper” manual endeavours of the biceps
will clearly resolve the matter being his last adventure that’s consumerism,
creating as many menial jobs as possible without the freedom
to enjoy hardish and the elements;
but of course man’s life will become easier,
but his adventure seeking will
simply become a zoology, a safari,
a safety netting - consumerism is hardly
an adventure, it’s a bicycle schematic:
one wheel produces, another wheel consumes;
most of the jobs under the hammer
were not menial, they became menial
only when heidegger’s hammer was involved
and the rebellion came when hammering nails
in turned into discussing philosophy;
it’s hard to commence an emergence of philosophy
window shopping, woman’s new kitchen area:
you know how many marriages i have seen fail
because of over-cooked pasta? too many.
you know how many glass houses i’ve seen constructed
by women peering into shop windows at mannequins?
too many. i sometimes think about sartre’s c.c.t.v. voyeurism
pervasive in english society alongside paedophilia,
and i guess the jigsaw parts fit... they do;
once dubbed the nation of shopkeepers,
now dubbed the nation of integrally ~foreign mortgage lenders
(nation of property developers / landlords... indeed,
once a nation of shopkeepers, now a nation of landlords):
or a nation re-evaluating communism
by importing slavs to talk of the ups and lows of communism
by trying to curb capitalistic egoism and turn it into a collective
without communism’s egoism father stalin:
or queen bee or queen ant china.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
My animal awakens to dawns emergence
A languid stretch of sultry sleek limbs
As daybreak's ***** air delivers your delicious essence
Senses honed sharp to tease the beasts primitive chant
Through shafts of dusty light I gaze upon your lithe form
Morning glow whispers across male sinew
I smirk at how unaware you seem of my intent
As my wildness of greed growls impatient
My prey, I fear losing control with my desire for you
Reining in animal instincts scattering on a breeze
I stalk your sleepy, carefree movement
Footfalls soundless in the dawn
Voracious hunger claws at my belly
To feast upon your wholeness is needed like air
To glory in your taste of salty spice
My possession of you is not in question
Your strength is no match for my female stealth
As I choose to alert you to my presence
Run from me prey, just a few precious moments
Run, so I may relish this chase
My tasty morsel, your fearlessness puzzles me
The primal pumping of your pulse, your only tell
It's tribal cadence draws me still closer
I will have you beneath me on this misty morn
.
You'll know nothing of my bittersweet turmoil
The aching inferno ablaze in my *****
As your power over me lies in concealment
I am the mistress that controls your destiny
With regal grace I swiftly pounce
Pinning you to the cool earth
I nuzzle the masculine valleys before me
Pleased with the feast you present
.
Feral heat erupts as I scent the need you deny
Glands under my tongue weep yearning
Salivate for the ambrosia of your making
In ecstasy I'll feed to devour my craving
Dragging tongue along incisors edge
I revel one last moment in your heaving breaths
As passions bite pierces your throats hollow
My soul claims it's sensual prize
Submit to your goddess, my courageous warrior
Surrender your pride to my keeping
I possess you now, my beautiful prey
You belong to me...
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC
i care, i really do...
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha...
no, i do...
i'm trying...
ha ha...
i'm just imagining what
that one word
looks like in Hebrew...
the...
ha-shem...
i.e.
the-name....
laughing, but at the same time
saying the definite article
over, and over, and over again...
the the the the... v'eh v'eh v'eh...
"point"?!
what point?!
calling a cactus a *******
cactus?
or calling it
an semiticl headscarf?
which is which?
a skirt just covering
the knee?!
better ask your women
to wear gloves...
i seem to enjoy the fact
that the most ****** part of
a woman, are her hands...
geisha hands...
and wrists i could look
at like i might an enjoy an hour
with a bottle of wine...
aha!
tell me...
what's the difference between
a didgeridoo...
and a modern, nordic shamanic chant
akin to to the berserker warcry
in one of
heilung's song,
notably
alfadhirhaiti
where the audience go mad
with fervor & fury...
because didn't you know,
they say:
don't take to d.n.a. ancestor testing,
watch what you absorb culturally...
from what i heard...
the ugly vikings founded
the city of Kiev,
so they must have passed past my parts...
hidden Baltic -
grazing mother of soured milk
that intermediates
a stasis prior to yogurt -
no wolves in england...
i'll pet a a fox therefore...
scoop and swoon -
the baronical patience of
a shadow admirer.;
even if the Jews have abandoned
Europe...
what the left?
is beside the origin of what
the crucifix constitutes...
even if the Jews abandoned
Europe, what they pressed was
the antagonism of Greece -
they pursued ancient Greece -
until the world, and all matters Latin -
stood to understand -
the Jews left Europe,
abandoning the pursuit of Greek -
penitent people, noble people...
until the library of Nag Hammadi
emerged from
the sands of both time,
and Egypt...
noble people... penitent people...
these Israelites -
these Jobs of disgruntled time -
Hiob, Yob, Hiob, Job...
i am barren in wanting to "forgive"
the Jews...
how they pursued ancient Greek
to avenge the emergence of
the Second Troy in Rome...
with Rome...
no Greek will stand on these words
with an Achilles heel...
the Jews pursued the Greek
revisionism of their testament
long enough...
as what Nero found hilarious...
i take to wind and soul with
a drunk mind,
but a sober heart.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
As a teenage boy I used to fall asleep at night
listening to the graveled voice of Ernie Harwell
fashion for me word-images of the exploits
by a band of superheroes called the Detroit Tigers.
In those semi-lucid moments before slumber,
I could see the shimmering outline of my destiny:
you see all American boys are meant to be Tigers.
So imagine my confusion, when I fractured
the right talus bone my Junior year of high school,
even putting on weight around the middle,
where no athlete worth his pin stripes would gain.
My karma had begun to take on mass.
I began to acquire knowledge, as the only perceived defense
against some parallel universe impinging upon reality.
Oh, I had everyone convinced, even my keenest teachers
believed I was destined to make my mark in scholarly pursuits.
But no one saw the crying ego of one meant to be a Tiger,
nor how that bottled up the emergence of the Man.
Never reconciled, the Man curled up in fetal dormancy.
Lifespan became synonymous with interstellar drift.
And every encountered star of knowlege was dwarfed,
having long ago collapsed of its own gravity.
Still the heavens of knowledge are auspicious,
so I looked outward, when all the answers lay concealed within.
Only as my life left the outskirts of occluded reality
did I then begin to inherit from my instinctual id,
begin to listen to disconsolate internal voices,
who had known me all along, perhaps better than myself.
The thing is ... the stage has long been set on middle-age,
what props lie about are encrusted with patina,
laden with a dust impossible to gauge or preempt,
made worse by the lack of cast, save one.
Neither Beckett, nor Pinter, could have absurded this.
So, when my acts strike you as quixotic,
when I cut with a penknife through propriety,
it's because I finally remember what it meant to be a Tiger.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
A confinement to the street,
I likened it to a bliss of pain.
Not extended like an overrun episode,
But the anxiety is sleepless,
When yesterday approaches,
I wrap myself in the ignorance,
Homeless, timeless,
It grows and defines,
Coarses through my fundamental
Lapses,
A boy becomes an atitude,
I wish i had these experiences in youthful insurgencies.
Its someday in the week,
I lose the raptured schedules,
To hunger is life.
To thirst is life.
The misled winter wraps itself
On my frozen life.
A faint emergence of time
Resumes,
There in the shadows
I once knew a man,
The visions of him asking to feed
My souless self.
Stretched by insistent graces,
In a road of certain contrasts,
Gentle into the street,
I laugh; the revolving doors,
I cry; what or who i never was,
A certain kind of grace to be
Within the containment,
the poor, the restless,
bleeding my facades,
Shredding the faces I once knew
Destroying my world.
Once I sat upon a throne
Lost in the decimations,
I dont know who I am.
Keep walking.
Telling myself as the night freezes
I will be just fine.
Keep walking
Telling myself in minced
Thoughts as hope flutters against
Nowhere to go.
Keep walking,
The sun rises
And blisters on my feet
Calm the night as the safety
Of day lets me rest.
I will bounce back tomorrow,
And the streets become a ripened spring fruit,
Losing myself
And the art of loss
Is no disaster,
Not unlike losing my keys,
Not unlike losing places,
Not unlike losing names,
Until i reconciled myself
At the fork of the river,
Losing myself is not an art:
The beauty was in finding who I was meant to be.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC
How could I not— know . . .
See the noncut of soaring eyes,
Approach, moist, ****** and tidal,
Waves so searingly laden with tear,
Flame, forged in some mythic winter
Frozen as I was, before the rush of ice
And flows of glacier, I heard the loudest
Break of open silence in the seep and roar
Of depths' deepest, dark, coldest ocean waters,
. . . Before sweet suffocations of the very colour
White and saw the dim fates of fade, emergence of blue,
Hearts drowning.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
I pried the Words off the Wall
Rearranged and used them All
Stacked upon each other in
A sentence Said with Style
Coco Chanel And Ert'e Flaunt
Lesbian Fashion In chic Paris Haunts,
In the 1920s, While Albert Camus
Late Night Parties Extistentialist Claims
*Amid ****** and Champage*
Django Rienhardt Played Jazz Guitar
To the West Bank Artists in Bars,
Toulouse Lautrec had Drank
With Prostitutes, in Art Deco
Frank Loyd Wright Praised
In Architect Circles
How He has Designed
The Unfolding of the Future
The Camera Has Brought
Sharp Images to see
While emergence of Psychology
Has driven Art into the Abstract
Paris in the 20's scent of
Hedonist Creativity
Cultural Gravity
To the Inclined
De rien, entre amis
Prende un jour a la fois
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
The mountains are silent
serene
solid in their poise.
Birds laugh in the branches
over those living each day
spirits borrowed
at the prelude to all creation.
Take heart,
love will hold us together
uprooting discontent from the soil of our dreams,
a diligent gardener
devoted to maintaining all
which is beautiful,
all that is ugly
yet magnificent.
And
We with tangled souls
are deemed the unlucky ones,
who've arrived at the revelation
of our own insignifcance
in the greater scheme.
This unknown plan
(This is but the beggining)
(a cosmic comedy).
In the afterbirth of your re-emergence
You are cleansed and pure
but this is not the cause
of this unending cycle.
Hope exists inside you
a lighthouse of levity
no force can deconstruct.
It is part of your humanity,
much in the same way
you are a part of me
and
I
You.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 9:46 AM UTC
muse,
*she/her has no master, only a mastery;
she, comes compulsing, a physical pounding,
a throbbing impervious resistant to logic or medicine,
which is the so very ever, the peculiar throbbing
of a principled particular “present participle,”*
*write of compulsing is her mocking suggestion.*
*a presence, punishing urging, pas de choix, obey,
submission; write freely but not free, compose or
decompose; is there a difference, no, not, and so ordered,
demand surrendered, how? how? this taking and giving,
can a single act dichotomy be so fulfilling and so emptying?*
<>
wake daily to water canvas, the waves, dabs of paint
protruding, irritating. provoking yet presented silenced,
repetitiously calming, motioned framed within the
white edged sand, the bound-surround of the living painting.
eyes alight, eyes delight, this daily emergence unto
a tapestry devoid of human interference suggests
a differentiating reality; now I understand the how of a
world’s imperfections constituting, tooting its own perfectionism.
this is not lake water; no single flat stone skipping nor
a concentric rippling to a slow death; this is seaward-
bound, an oceans subservient tributary, contributory,
a river, bay, sound - precursors to a vast atlantic infinity.
this is metaphor; this a still life of the perpetuation metamorphosis.
<>
*the muse exhales; as do I subsequently; what difference?
none, she replies to herself, tween painting artist and
verbalizing poet, the un-still life creation, always, always,
different, the essence of diversity in a singularity sameness*
7:13 AM Thu Jul 29
2021
S. I. Sound
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC