"encapsulation" poems
Everything has a connection,
for it continues with a punctuation,
as you wish for some clarification,
end up with water, that underwent dehydration,
that thinks of the beautification,
you lose time that has division,
you want to go on a integration,
but end up with encapsulation.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
The cheerleader,
Hearts goes to the highest bidder,
An encapsulation of beauty,
She has the license of beauty,
She elucidated my vague and indistinct dreams,
Her voice is mellifluous in my dreams.
Cheerleader is unaccustomed to mundane.
Her admiration full of gains,
Bloomleader is unprofane damsel,
She is immaculate even in tunnels.
Cheerleader is like an epiphany,
Enternity with her? Not still many,
The charm in her face us very potent,
My reasons are arrantly cogent,
Her presence chastise dolor,
Laughter with charismatic colour,
And as the emotion creeps on me,
Making me a sycophants to her knee,
The Cheerleader,
Her love is not a treacherous swine,
Her lips is exquisite than any wine,
Though is infatuation sound very lame,
My heart adores her with fame,
A pragmatic way to study her frangipani face,
I want to be the first in this race,
The cheerleader,
She with crystal teeth
And blue eye *****
I see her climbing on walls,
Auspicious love without any wit,
I realize I was only in a dream.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
the shortest poem
he will, he did,
ever writ:
every breath, every thought,
strained, purified, refined
to reach the goal stated,
A Purebred Heart
writing continuously,
the smile of the tasked
gives rise to endless love
now, de-masked,
all quested for
the encapsulation of
Purebred Heart
to walk with,
cleansed upon this
soiled Earth
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
There is a silent street
Where poets go
And a tiger color of light
Rains down, a search
That is never found
Via symbols at the end
Of literature and pages
Mere metaphors for
The creative process
Of image and narrative
The act of encapsulation
Experience, such a myth
Like memory, only a ripple
Of the original, so the authors
Glimpse something unreal
And seek to translate it
But the poets know, they
Will never come through
Their vertigo of dream
Writing in the wind
On the sand in the desert
Catching reflections in the river
Of the sky, the essence
Is forever lost, of each moment
Only we can approximate
In art, part of the beauty
Of creation and hunt persecuted
Through time, the testaments
OF sun, wheat, flower, pomegranate
Bumble-bee, united at the same
Address, of autumn on a terrace
Somewhere near you.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
at this time in the past right here
it used to be real
oh!...oh! for another reality
to leave this false perception
and go...go...go to feel the wind
on another's face
to see with another's eyes
how the colours appear to them
to hear what another hears
with an innocent ear
to feel the euphoria
that slows the world down
to have another's departure
from all perceived notions of reality
to a new understanding
another reality
where brief encounters with time
start with the embarkation of a sentence
that causes a curious disquiet
to race through the nerves
ricocheting in a vibrancy
of vatic vitality, a creative tension
transforming the cortex
creating new unforeseen images
a new reality where thoughts are visible
and circulate, orbiting moons around the mind
dazzling with a universal symbolism
that with a kaleidoscopic vengeance of words
scatters and amplifies the distinctions
of the senses, into a new reality
one of convulsive voices
oh! this new reality
it causes me to walk to a stranger
who is myself
and forms a true disintegration
of a controlled focus
on a beautiful disorder of
chaotic discourse of a volatilized impulse
of the emotions, where blood stains smile
lavishly with a different vocabulary
destroying a predictable reality
and forges a new one that entertains discovery
of other dimensions.. which are the figments
of another's imagination
it is solitary encapsulation of ideas
that glitter on my tongue
where conflagrations of burning water
swirl dramatically in difficult articulation
of the smells and rancid ***** stains
of the ordinary that tries but is precluded
from the stream of consciousness
rushing in a discord of sympathies
through the inner geography of my mind
and forges a symbolic relationship
with these inplosively brief encounters with time
causing psychic post apocalyptic
predispositions to a false mimesis
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
Americans live with fear.
Fear of being found out for what they are….an incredibly insecure people populating the most powerful nation on earth.
The power of Wall St. feeds their fear in the belief that the nation’s leaders and political machine have been bought and sold by big money.
In fact the only candidates registering positively in the current Primary elections are those who feed the fear. Trump feeds the fear every time he opens his big mouth.
Hillary engenders fear because she is a WOMAN who can, most probably, win the votes which will give her the Presidency in November next.
Americans fear the resurgence of Asia in China’s burgeoning thermonuclear militarist stance, the utter unpredictability of the simmering, India, Pakistan standoff
And the instability of the plump, demonic, demagogue armed with the atomic weaponry in the bleak wasteland that is North Korea.
Islam’s mobilisation scares Americans witless. The savagery of the Isis personifies all that is promised by an expanding worldwide Islamic threat.
And then there is Putin's Russia.
The encapsulation of American fear though, is painted graphically, starkly, by the nation’s absurd fascination, obsession, with the hand gun.
Everyone has a hand gun, in the car, in the office, in the mall, in the bedroom…..some even strap a hand gun on the hip to go to church.
Americans, first and foremost, fear each other.
Fear of the fear exacerbated by more fear.
Americans live with fear.
M.
Auckland NZ
13 February 2016
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
With all this glacial melting, and our own East Coast meltdown from our latest blizzard, I wonder how many Neolithic mummies might be found entrapped within ice sheets floating along our Jersey shore? And could these preserved remains just be displaced homeless, men and likely women as well, whose failed luck at Atlantic City Casinos left them in strange circumstance of frozen time encapsulation, only to become part of a future archeological find? To whom and to what advanced scientific methods, or perhaps retrogressive scientific methodology, will these corpses be subjects of, if found a thousand years from now? Can we predict no mix up of modern and long former species of man?Just say for instance, some pristine specimen of iceman 3,000 years or older is floating in an iceberg, down from Western Greenland and past Nova Scotia in a tidal melt that finally brings it to a flooded non-moppable place ignored by a present day, though barbaric governor. Then said governor is ambushed by its distressed and recently homeless victims mobbing and mopping on icebergs and struck by mop heads, just as this Neolithic berg is floating by with its' ancient hunter/gatherer Popsicle in tow. Who might know the difference? What future generation might be able to clarify the difference between the two, or might they even care?
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
Eyes like an open window.
Beauty like stained glass.
I look into your eyes
They long to tell me truths.
But your lips only spill a sly ruse.
Stolen in a moment of encapsulation.
Innocent for the entire duration.
Trust running down your face.
Eye liner that can't be undone.
Murky distaste what happened to all that grace.
Telling the truth can be tough.
Everything you are just isn't enough.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
I believe in poetry tho most do no not.
that it is a special social way of
communicating that kidnaps the heart,
seduces the soul, best when whispered,
tho the cadence is the key, lesser is the
volume
we do not teach our children well enough,
the hows of it, for if we did, the whys would
surely follow; no one can be a bully, or give
in to overwhelming sadness entire, if a line
of the spoken can yet bring forth a tear to
the most hardened of hearts
the high heat of the first sip of the day
asks for encapsulation, rememberance,
insignificant as it may be, it dislodges
the stale of sleep, stimulates the muscle
fibers of the tongue. snaps open our now
wide eyed eyelids, and lets us appreciate
a poem of our existence by its poking us
from homeostasis to, by the slightest touch,
the slow running of the tongue upon the
lower lip. the eyes filled to the brimming
by your beloved deep dreaming … and so,
we break our day into sequences of fragments,
though sometimes fractured and divisible,
if not even divisive, yet each a stand alone
momentary affirmation that though our
natural state is still homeostasis, it is the
highs and lows of our minuta of minucia,
that mark our minute minutes of never
ending poetical composition…
Apr 24, 2024
Apr 24, 2024 at 1:50 PM UTC
Dinner has been at its best
when It is enjoyed with her.
whenever she's at my sight,
happiness comes like a kid flying his kite.
and whenever I see
those deep brown eyes;
makes me see the whole world I wanted
A world without lies.
Without any doubts;
we roam this city of lights.
hand in hand,
as we walk this dark cold night.
Without any fear;
this love have crossed bounds.
my soul have committed;
first time, I have been this committed.
without hesitations,
we are encapsulated into one,
where every day is a new beginning,
I see how far we've gone.
And as we face tomorrow,
there would be bricks and locked doors;
I guess we don't need the key or any permissions.
we'd crash in, as you free me from this rough course.
With all your ways,
all the uncertainties we've laughed at.
my sweet young love.
my only dear, my other half.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Potpourri on the concrete carpet
how can this be held as beguiling?.
Even the willows sigh by the
increasing turbulence of the wind.
Legends so few of them,
stagnating without a hand to lift
their encapsulation.
Dreamscapes bygone
as sure as grief rotted down,
the nightingale stranded,
erstwhile finally.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
A key thinker
An intellectual
One who practices philosophy
The pride of the world
Lover of wisdom
The dream of everyone
He thinks with clarity
The admiration of every academia and common man
Resolving existential problems is his focus
Human conditions are his concern
Bringing to light those in the dark is his major priority
Other disciplines, he studies for evaluation and certainty
The protection of human interest has been his basic goal
To all unanswered questions he provides answers
He makes clear the unclear through rationality and empiricism
Burdenous are the misconceptions he faces
But it affects him not
Strong, agile and confident he stands when criticized
The best leader with zero mimesis
Good at addressing sociopolitical questions
He offers theories on profound questions
The idea of him as a king
Was born by a great thinker,
A mentor,
Plato the great
The dialogue in the republic has been his base
A ruler he is
Who possesses reliability
Living a simple and humble life willingly
Aims at discovering the ideal polis
Worthy is he, the king
An encapsulation of ideas he is
With confidence he defends them
His philosophical agility is beyond compare
Encouragement to the young minded he gives
Victory goes to the philosopher king
Congratulations!!!
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 5:42 AM UTC
I have given all I ever could,
I can give no more,
even mine life would not be enough,
mine possessions are worthless in this chase,
my words but hinder hers,
my thoughts cannot last but a moment without her,
my life has no meaning but her,
Her existence to mine heart is proof of the heavens,
Proof of angels,
and even proof of her,
she is a walking reminder that life is a test.
The test, infinitely cruel is to face than any is to resist her,
even when her scent is a trail of enchantment,
even when her face is so close to mine,
even when she uses me in manner to complex for this childish mind to understand.
I am but a fool in comparison with such an angelic life,
and it matters not that she smokes and drinks,
it matters not that she is entrenched in her insecurity,
it matters not that she turns to substance as if it were a solution to all meddlesome thoughts and reality,
she is still perfect in all her flaws,
in a manner no words or brushstrokes could ever do justice,
her perfection is in the smallest to greatest thing,
her actions always so infuriating with a sense of calm.
Even her slaps are but a gift,
her fights and anger so amusing,
her frustration creates a face more beautifully maddening than I may ever know,
Her madness she cannot accept,
no matter how her being is brimming with it,
her reasoning is not reason but madness.
It is as if she is a reflection of my lunacy,
a girl who so perfectly encapsulates what I desire,
it seems to be that god wishes me behold her,
so he could tell me I would never have her,
although I tell myself I cannot have her,
and if god is the true encapsulation of mercy I may even have her,
but I think not.
Her mind is sharp but not sharp enough,
for distractions are many and focus she does not have,
but that may be it her will or wish to succeed it is but second to the reality created within the enigma that is her mind , encrypted within its vault of freedom,
a vault which encapsulates her being,
her deepest desire and lust.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
Simple life, lived as a vintage television set
Ornate, one of the few luxuries exclusively for the well off
Useless.
Kitschy
A banal dream with pleasures devoid of an iota of venom
In a construct, a forsaken place, a planet without form
A perfect encapsulation, almost a replica
Of status, a microcosm
Head in the clouds.
Soul in the blood and bone
Desperate, claimed slowly by unrepentant chunks of flesh
I see the breeze on the horizon, sweeping through the fields
So I
Wake up
I never expected. It's not something I asked for.
But I rise all the same.
Once more, one more story to add to the pile
And as it turns out, I found the cure
Deep within the growths sprouting, and the sick smell
To rise once more
In the conclusion of it, I was an island to myself, but I felt at peace.
As my boots strike the sand, and my heart sinks a little lower
The pinch doesn't feel quite as real.
I could take some dedication to the facts that remain, as a claimant
Vigor worn to a shaggy pulp, my lungs crumble in a wave of synthetic dust
The scorn faced, the harsh lights shone on me, the blistering heat...
Unforgivable, as any reasonable man might conclude
I absolve no one of anything, but it all slips further from my mind, day in and day out
If I want it too or not.
To be so sure I'm awake...
How crazy am I?
The whole world breathes, exhales, in a layer of grey smoke, that soon condenses into clouds to shade me personally in my inaccessible fantasy.
The whole world's slipping further into those muted, docile gray shades.
A whole symphony of colors for these starved eyes
So hollow now...
Along barren halls, I'll run my fingers, across the faces of dead, rotted saints and take my gratification
In simple motions, drinking in the vibrancy, all the intricacy bleeding through the mock notions of simplicity
It didn't feel real then. I remember it all, in vivid detail
In those few moments, though branched and snaking through the tunnels of my fleshy wiring
I didn't feel anything.
The pinch doesn't feel real anymore
I can touch the sides of the sink.
My fingers, with gentle pressure applied, can sink into my skin
It only seems to matter when I touch it...
I stopped bothering doing it, a long time ago
It slipped from my memory
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 5:18 PM UTC
A heavenly glimpse
I saw you, spinning there
In a field against the 3 o' clock Spring sunshine
Hands outstretched at either side
The encapsulation of pure bliss
The rays of sun illuminated the slopes and curves
Of this angel dancing before me
Cicadas and crickets played their symphony as you danced
The dandelion wishes were your partners
I called out to you in pure elation
And you faded away with the breeze
An aberration
A figment of my imagination
Are you alright where you are?
Oh how I wish you were here with me
Death has robbed me of my heart
I'd give anything to see you dancing in a meadow again
Without a care in the world
Death, give me back what's mine
I, a selfish girl, want nothing less than what belongs to me
And she was my love
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 9:42 PM UTC
I dream of peace and just assurance.
I have stood for it all my life,
with constitution and vigor.
My hope and that which I have defended,
stood bright and noble in the light of love.
It has been as I have seen him
true,
honest,
quietly brave,
a perfect encapsulation.
The wind has not shaken him in his innocence,
he shall stand beside me in nobility
unscathed.
I will defend this glory.
In innocence and grace,
as a child, you stand and walk.
I will work this day in your honor, with ease.
We will watch you in all you stand for victorious.
Together we are ready and true, within and beside you, our hope.
Innocence tempted,
standing unprotected,
with all hope inside, and promise.
All that is of value, tested, to be refined.
The day has passed and that which was gold is a fooled fool.
Standing in temptation as many a desperate ***** desire,
unquenchable.
We cannot lose hope, this is a test.
I must continue, to put you forth to your destiny.
Leaving the darkness into arms much worse, knowing betrayal.
You will go to glory but I must forsake my own, crippled.
I am destitute, in my flippancy,
I realize that sin is a filth not able to be removed.
But I know the code,
the law of fire and grace,
I can use it to my advantage and forsake the trials,
and continue in love, but what love is this?
A mentor lay in my path.
The show must go on.
It is loss to move on,
it is loss to forsake,
is is loss to do nothing.
No bearing of truth do I have now in this gift of victory
unearned.
Move forward to prove. Fall back to loose again?
Or loose all gained by grace's ennoble gain?
He washed us white as snow.
Works or Love?
Entwine the two...
We will carry you, the broken of my deeds,
from white to grey to white, through blood and fire we go,
as you have shown us oh mighty man,
now wasted.
For this is the way understood.
I see you on the edge, not swiftly turning.
What's that you carry?
The wreck of the mighty's ambition.
For it was not just the faithful
who brought me home,
but the vision of might and of noble in glory.
The glimpse of both from which I strayed in vain curiosity
broken.
Now mending myself and you in mighty ambition.
Noble, faithful, and true we carry on.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 12:39 PM UTC
tenet fingers could ed braille,
hard-skinned fingers
could read nothing,
but morse-braille...
and then there's stenography...
why o why
is the diacritical tilde
( ~ )
used to vacate either m,
or the rattle-snake, trilling,
rolling implosion of the shape of R?
sure, b as 6... p as a copernican
north-by-north-west d...
P as chiral narcissus 9...
A as lambda (Λ)
and suma summarum:
a return to Phoenician
jurisprudence and lament...
or rather lamed, subtle variations
circa 90°...
E, I, K, V...
how much of injustice
is grounded upon the "logic"
of stenography...
which could introduce
tilde to replace either M, or R...
thus said...
compared to braille,
and the simplified braille via morse
encapsulation? stenography
is cuneiform by comparison,
what's the point of shorthand,
when certain cases are delayed,
and delayed...
and 20 years later on deathrow,
enough time to see Johnny Cash
die of old age... and still waiting...
needless to say,
braille combined with morse
makes more sense than
stenography...
almost as if...
you're begging to see a man
possessing a chronology of
20 years of sight,
attempting to discourage
braille writers from owning
punctuation marks, instead,
focusing on spacing...
of man's notion of serving
justice... culminating in the nonsense
of stenography...
with either M or R,
marked by a tilde...
should a blindman write
in braille... what the stenographer
writes in resurrected Phoenician...
as quickly as...
a death sentence becomes
a liberty,
for poor Xavier...
than the upper tier of
zoology, lodged in a life
measured by: x cubed...
man has another name
for passing law...
namely... imbedding itself in delay...
once a life, reduced to the frivolity
of micro-aggression,
culminating in, waiting for a bus,
five minutes late...
that death that sloth
that slouch, that... ******
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 8:56 PM UTC
Planet Earth . Creation . The perfect storm ? Miracle encapsulation of biochemicals or delivery from the Heavens above ? Millions of cells replicating upon organic matter no larger than the head of a pin ..The origin of life itself resting beneath our own skin ? Blood of mammal , hemolymph of insect , nerve cell of amphibian , skin cell of a pig ..The heart lung blood barrier of man , capillaries in the gills of fish .. Our gift of memory , albeit a curse at times , thought of mind and creativity .. Lust for blood , consumption of flesh , dominating spirit , insensitivity . The hand that reaches for a flower , a fist driven into the face of an enemy ..Filled with love , life , intrigued with the mystery of creation one day , then hurtling over a cliff to your death the next ... Trillions of cells evolving , mutating , networking while the hallmark of life on Earth is busy de-foresting , polluting , selfishly consuming ! .......
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
It's hard to imagine a world without you in it.
The sun still rises. The day is still filled with seconds, minutes.
Should I not have reprieve rather than be sentenced to grieve?
Why don't I have to tell myself to breathe?
The sun still rises. I still **** breath. And, grieve.
There is nothing left but this chiseled granite.
I wish that it were I there decomposing in it, death sublime.
Or perhaps we both could lie there, intertwined
Forever;
Together
Enshrined.
Sep 20, 2021
Sep 20, 2021 at 10:00 AM UTC
cosmic voyager
prototype soul
break free
from
its
cocoon
encapsulation
witness
morning
in
the
milky way
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
Therefore, I opted to
reduce heavy sedation
within unsuspecting reader rabbit
summarization superseded elaboration,
less reason spurring salacious secretion
i.e. a-z expletive epithet, et cetera laced
verbalization crucifixion subsequently,
neither nameless nincompoop (me)
crossing verboten drive,
nor this ditto anonymous
poetic purveyor to burden heavy
onlookers with elegiac colluding bugaboo
even daunting grizzly Adams,
endeavoring exclusively exercising
"E" valuation in futile attempt
to express mild exuberance
entailing English language.
Essentially erudition wrought
elucubration, ecstatic emotion,
enunciation, enumeration, eradication
narrowly avoiding writer's block
concomitent ebullition, emasculation
exacerbation, exasperation,
stepped up escalation elevation
malignant hypertension, encrustation
elementary (my dear Watson)
extemporaneous embarkation
severely affected non exlax induced
emergency enema evacuation,
but not even for the grace of dog
unstoppable elimination, ejection...
exhausting excavation
water closet expedition
elucidation, elation, edification,
vis a vis emancipation,
despite literary emaciation malnutrition
near extinction yours truly,
nonetheless... faint eruption
eureka *********** elongation
emanation awoke new edition
regarding neigh saying kid on the block
elicitation, elocution, energization,
eroticization, estimation, excitation
activated skeletal echolocation
eye opening entrepreneurial effectuation
analogous TVA electrification,
hence enervation equalization
relieved self cannibalization
thankfully discouraging envenomization
invariably in conclusion,
no exaggeration pronouncing
exemption verdict against
my extirpation sore disappointment!
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 12:29 AM UTC