"endowing" poems
I picked up flowers in my garden before first days of autumn, dried to save them from black magic of winter and cold breaths of sky. I put them between warm rays on my windowsills in arms of cozy home to bring spirit of life forever in their bones. I saved compositions of their scent on my lips, so you will feel endless, enigmatic, healing symphony in my kiss. I will leave sweet taste in your mouth little by little until dark mirror of your thoughts and wounds break into innocent fields of flowers full of butterflies and indispensable, clear-eyed raconteur of happiness speaking in every fragile petal silences your fleeting and long-lasting demons endowing your shadow with seductive light, tiredness with aliveness of grass, broken dreams with ubiquity of creation, fears with ineffable tranquility. This is how I love you. I will save you from the worst. I will never let you die inside no matter how cold are your days. I will fill your soul with air of metaphysical love of past eras and magic of innumerable, free-flowing joys not based on any circumstances. I will fill your thoughts with romantic myths and insatiable fantasies and old-fashioned poems. I will cover you to sleep with my dragonfly soul no matter how cold life could be.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
Mystique
- a framework of doctrines, ideas, beliefs, or the like, constructed around a person or object, endowing the person or object with enhanced value or profound meaning: "the mystique of Poe."
- an aura of mystery or mystical power surrounding a particular occupation or pursuit: "the mystique of nuclear science."
the mystique of Poe,
the mystique of nuclear science,
don't you see the irony extraordinaire,
the perfect intersection of
human and science?
atoms of a poet.
what, who better to
radiate
the profound complex meaning of
mystique
smile while
commencing the
delving, inhaling,
comprehending,
subsuming the
aura of human cells
odors of the atomizer
flavors mellifluous
chain reacting
the set theory of all my senses,
at the ultimate overlapping
of the primordial intersection
of the nucleus.
I am the living scientific proof,
the written poem,
the
realization of mystique,
the enhanced value
of the human you.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
November calls to me
in moaning wind rattling doors and shutters
bending gnarled weather scarred oaks
November calls to me
in blue gray mists
swathing forest and morning meadows
endowing them in aura of mystery
November calls to me
in icy drizzle
flooding like tears
filling me with hopeless despair
November calls to me
in dry rustle of dying leaves
echoing voices from yesterday
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
1257
Dominion lasts until obtained—
Possession just as long—
But these—endowing as they flit
Eternally belong.
How everlasting are the Lips
Known only to the Dew—
These are the Brides of permanence
Supplanting me and you.
1.8k
I write poems for people endowing love,
It would be comforting to receive one instead, for a change
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
the closed span of this month
spent furrowing through sleepless,
shuffling pages form walls, cycles of
break n' fix. waste of words. all
chance, all change. spent out.
there is, again, grand weight,
and, yeah, i've felt heavier. no
amount of lifting changes this,
though. drowning conversation.
leaving qualm. endowing closure,
coarsening topologies, maximal
saturation. finally, my rusted
thought process found ideal space.
or the delusion, at least.
meanwhile, the rain falls on, and
serves as reminder that this world is
built to dissolve & reassemble,
always permuting componency. &
all i want
is to be a reason
or some warmth, at least.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 4:37 AM UTC
it is the clouded day
that drives me to your side,
in search of the colorful flame
you spark in me.
in fickle inconsistent light,
i feel momentarily illuminated.
and it's enough.
but unknowingly,
[or knowingly],
i have walked into my own winter.
the clouds are thick,
like a grey blanket made of wool
that has been pulled over
my eyes.
but it is your warmth
i'm blinded by:
radiating in the slight distance
always between us.
i let it take my senses from me,
and i am hopelessly lost--
constantly just out of reach
of any sort of spring.
i am lost, hopelessly lost
in your colorless eyes.
so i read you like a map;
endowing the twists and turns
of your body,
as if the road to my happiness
were printed on your skin.
i can only imagine
how those roads might look
if your limbs became intertwined
with mine.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
I have tried to give birth to a new and improved version of my vision
Exulting blips of exactitude and ambition
Flashes of pretension on a screen of pending dreams
Lacking mobility and projection
Inertia writhes
I'm mainly advertising trying to sell and intrigue
To those who have enough eloquence to persuade my predilection and schemes
Endorsing me providing lifelines and pure consciousness
Lacking the force of extorted themes and exulting worthiness
Cleansing my mind of the mocking bird's trash heap
Help me dissemble the falsified declarations and professions of fiends
I want to be pristine
I beg thee to teach and galvanize me
Endowing me with inexorable sight
Keeping me keen and full of bold might
I am willing to fight
Bring me to the surface of these turbulent seas
No need to mention my frailties and anxieties
All I ask is a breath from the surface of true realities
The urgency constrains my needs for rejuvenation and appreciations
For all those little beautiful things that once meant the world to me
Like pink carnations
Sleeplessness morphs into spells of insomnious hauntings
Stunting my contractions
It's completely and utterly exhausting
A labor deprived of true initiative and wanting
It may sound silly but everything is contradictory
It is these pains that leave me incomplete, ineffectual, and in paralyzing omission
Excluded and feeling great depths of oppression
Despairing and kept in solitary confinement
Suffering more than I'd like to profess
Distressing the matters that cave into my chest
An infiltration of insurmountable anguish
Abolished
Untouched by a shoulder or hand of accommodation
Is it selfish to push for this magnitude of isolation?
I crave cultivation
I want to grow into the Giant Sequoia
But the fires of self doubt leave my branches in ruins
Smoke signals sending sirens
A constant affliction
It's all my own doing
Contingency pleading for nourishment
Somehow knowing thee and ye could constitute for something of legends
Tell that to our reflections
Or maybe it's the fear of fire that terminates our pregnancy
Causing us to introvert instead of projecting
Withholding both you and I from mastery
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC
The clock strikes midnight,
signaling us to lay our bones to rest.
As I head to my bed,
and he to his,
I want nothing more than to lay down beside him,
with his arms wrapped around the small of my waist,
and to sleep.
But miles of bustling roads separate us,
leaving us with nothing but the
emptiness between our sheets,
the stillness of the air casting down upon us,
and a sudden infatuation with the clock’s sluggish ticking,
counting down the seconds, minutes, and hours,
until we can be together again.
Nobody said this distance would be easy to endure,
but this one thing I know is for sure -
my never-ending love for you does come easily.
So close your eyes,
and rest your mind, my love,
and as will I.
The sun will surely rise,
giving life to a new, endowing day,
and this enkindled flame will never cease to exist,
because for a fire to flourish,
it needs space, oxygen,
not constant suffocation.
Distance will make us stronger, darling,
I promise you this.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
“I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky, And the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.”
– Allama Iqbal
In September,
the harvest moon,
named by the Algonquin people.
A gift to the earth;
endowed for corn, beans, squash, sunflowers,
and received in bright
thankfulness.
When, finally, the time arrives
for an autumn moon
to take its place between the earth and sun,
swooping as close to earth
as bright fireflies filling the sky.
Lunar scheduling;
a time to deliver scoops of light to
the shadowy earth.
Human faces staring upward
at the inky sky.
Stars dimmed by the golden moon
that shines on prairies, sand, on city streets;
glowing its song of moonlight;
offering a nocturne to the silent ground.
Each upturned face,
waiting to be christened with moonlight;
a conduit of heavenly fire
that moves from face to face circling
in contra dance around the rocky earth.
And each up tilted face
in Calgary and Cairo, Belarus and Brazil,
rhymes with golden light.
As the moon glow wanes above, it waxes here below;
endowing our faces with moonlight, a celestial loan,
leaving the moon with only orange and red,
while September yellow clings to us on earth.
The sound of light brushing our faces,
settling into place,
with sweetness of chamomile,
fragrant with the end of summer.
Whispers of the autumn equinox,
and the earth keeping promises.
Soon we must return
the borrowed lightening,
the buttery splash,
to the orange-red moon.
And we pay.
Not with regret,
but gladly.
All we who have seen the hushing of the moon;
we hold forever in the particles that make ourselves,
the seeds of moonlight.
Pieces of the moon.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
Stubborness was a trait defined acutely at your birth. Some rogue star endowing you with a will beyond my own. Till now. Each stagnant pause, each inaction is infact an action forging reactions upon me. Sealing a resolve upon my heart to forsake you. All that remains is the molten wax with the words inscrpited access denied. your new monker imbeded upon my skin. And it seeps darkly red in every corner displacing even the last hope. My heart star has faded.
And i dont care. Are you satisfied now?
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
Life is so delicate,
Delicate to such as a flower,
Endowing it's beauty to others,
that they may understand the truth,
that there is no such thing as a dull life,
but truly, colorfully made as
delicate as can be for you and me.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
...The icongraphy of stilled objects
in the motions of prayer.
As if moments were embodied...
unwilling to relent their solitude.
Their reason for being to remain
forthcoming, endowing their space
of presence with grace.
The icongraphy of stilled objects in
the motions of prayer...one can
sense infinitude lapping their staying
power.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 1:27 PM UTC
Just be merry because the sun is shining just for you
Just be merry because the moon is sending love to you
Just be merry because the wind is lending breath to you
Just be merry because the water is quenching you
Just be merry because the fire is sending its warmth to you
Just be merry because the earth is endowing you with a home
Just be merry because the space is just letting you be
Feels grounding.
Aug 23, 2024
Aug 23, 2024 at 1:25 AM UTC
Her wild flowering
A visceral encountering
Of delight empowering
A mystical memorizing endowing.
To meander life’s mess
Love thyself
Through mental cluster
And cleansing filibuster.
One’s learnt to let go
Couldn’t her though
A memory & lasting glow
I’ll cherish so.
Keep a treasured encounter.
Oct 14, 2021
Oct 14, 2021 at 7:03 PM UTC
Stubborness was a trait defined acutely at your birth. Some rogue star endowing you with a will beyond my own. Till now. Each stagnant pause, each inaction is infact an action forging reactions upon me. Sealing a resolve upon my heart to forsake you. No defence, no apology. And i refuse to forgive without one. A bitter betrayal. Left my war and fought your war so hard for you. All that remains is the molten wax with the words inscrpited access denied. your new monker imbeded upon my skin. And it seeps darkly red in every corner displacing even the last hope.
And i dont care.
Are you satisfied now?
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
Art! True treasure of all entity thou art
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes
Who brings the raging enemies to its knees
And create thyself delicious meal
In thee lies true knowledge of all inventions
Unto poets heart, showing thu great addiction
Unconquorable is thy deering-do offspring
Who wouldst not desire one or many of her offspring?
'Twas you that made mother and child dear
Many a man thou didst respect and fear
Even the great artistc being thou created
Not forgeting your endowing clemency.
Surely, thou art true treasure of all entity
But thy mystique existence needs some clarity!
#McNaevets -2033
Copyright.. ©
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
Death is not a cursed, bleak end.
No less holier than Life
which does give us birth
against our wills.
Should this be called _mercy_?
Lovingly, it devours immense
those illusory grandeurs
as conjured by Life.
It doesn’t coerce into being
_existence unsolicited,_
granting— endowing –
as if in good will
a sanctity so close to nought.
---
What in a life compels thee
to sink miserly into a banality so wretched;
to lose thyself in an aimless sail.
When death does come—
Embrace thee undoing with open arms.
A willful end weighs as much,
as an otherwise nihilist birth.
Truth be told.
_“No life is more sacrosanct than its very own death.”_
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 6:13 PM UTC
the leaders of tomorrow bravely take to the dais
justified their precious life,
liberty and pursuit of happiness -
stolen under their figurative nose)
asper an unparalleled heist
recouping quintessential basic human rights,
and will NOT yield an inch
(or any other minuscule amount),
if for no other reason
(and many more valid claims prevail)
such inalienable American birthrights
(codified decrees endowing freedoms -
tattered to shreds via frenzy of bullets)
guaranteeing harm inviolable unjustly out priced
sacrificed by lax second amendment spiced
within wanton murderous sprees wherein assassin
literally calls the shots (supplanting
assigned storied halls with din
of fire arms (acquired
from pennies on the dollar,
or bartered for a bottle of gin
within the underbelly (viz black market)
of society, where trigger happy jinn nee
as slaughter sans killing fields mount
with resignation vis a vis
tocollective shrugging shoulders prithee
and upend safe havens i.e. storied academic re:
deuce sing self preservation (UNFAIRLY)
to activist minded students tree
ting each day as a survivalist course, thus WE
as coined on legal tender (E Pluribus Unum)
MUST unite against love affair with pistols, no matter
one or more mere mortals
think Matthew Scott cray ZEE!
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 1:14 AM UTC
There is something
Violent
About everyday life.
And no one talks about it.
Maybe they don't feel it too.
But sometimes I wonder if we weren't made
For higher stakes than this.
I wonder if everyone struggles with it like I do.
Something unspoken and ugly hides beneath everything
Pale and waiting.
At this point, it isn't even grief.
Just silence.
It gets into the cracks and crevices of all the mundane little moments of existence.
It is something
I have tried my whole life not to listen to.
It sounds
Like the opposite of the rain falling
Like the opposite of nature.
And it never stops.
It can't be banished
Only covered.
It has no time of day
No schedule to keep.
Sometimes all of a sudden, as I'm eating a meal in the quiet
This feeling will creep down my throat with it
And spread roots of emptiness inside my stomach.
It isn't loneliness.
Sometimes I call it that.
But it's worse, almost.
Loneliness has an object, a purpose. It fills a need.
This creates one.
It has no anchor and no reason
It only is
And always has been.
As a child I spent so much time alone
And sometimes I would speak into the silence
Just to be sure I still could.
I'd hear my voice, feel the vibrations of it.
I'd know I spoke.
But then a moment later, suddenly I was unsure.
Suddenly I couldn't tell if I'd said anything
Or only imagined speaking.
And maybe this shouldn't have woken the creeping fear in me that it did
But I would get to shouting before long
Tears streaming down my face
Unable to prove to myself that I existed.
I would run downstairs to my mother
And interrupt her at her work.
Full of chaos and terror
I'd cry on her shoulder
In relief
Finally reassured, by her bewildered look, that when I spoke it made a sound.
This feeling
Is that feeling.
I think maybe I created it
And it has whirred around me since childhood
Latching onto all the small tasks of life and endowing them with fear.
It is a tiredness, a heaviness, a soul deep uncertainty grinding away at me beneath the noise of the world.
Tonight it is louder than everything else
And I'm writing
To ask it to stop.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 10:02 PM UTC
Pushing the ground away - with iron cutoff
The sough interlight of toller - outgoes
From islands - floating - in the choir
Collisions - of world state waves
Counteract - of contradictions
Forgot to remember - throughout from the depths
Eroded - fractures - cuirass of theirs - is moss
And shrouded - with sprouting - cold wrists
Dew trails - hands flooded -
To wash the soot of the blood from one's face -
Up to phalangeals - lacerated - spring of pyrexia
Mindbreak - helplessly curdled
Seeing - far-heading stabs to inhale
Trouncing to raise - the head up -
In the fratricide craving
Hum - and of body parts - ocean
Blind sea-gulls - skrike - and anthracites'
****** - is in embrace interlocked
Drogues - are not eaten to bone - and no brink-
Of - he-li-o-cen-tri-cly driven -
Mound - and weak swellings -
Nauseating headrush
Endowing to - entrails - of cascade
Dissonance - limbs - apart
Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 6:36 AM UTC
i didn’t want any flowers
i only wanted
to lie with my hands turned up
and be utterly empty.
how free it is
you have no idea how free*.
desert adventures on the **** of a camel
reins posses my sandy hands onward the dunes
gratitude warranted between cultural differences
i am free.
a sunset cruise along the seine
la tour eiffel illuminated my mind in the heart of the city
floating in the depths of enchantment
i am free.
elephant endowing hugs in the jungle outskirts
my neck is affectionately smothered for a brown banana
both part with fulfillment achieved
i am free.
gazing at the quintessential cappella sistina
divine history indefinitely controls my eyes
time ceases to exist in the atmosphere
i am free.
adrift in a crisp lake on the border of austria
bumps multiply across the plateau of my bare body
conscience motionless
thoughts unprovoked
i am free.
gliding above the snow-capped swiss alps
my arms extended to receive an embrace of happiness
only this moment is relative
i am free.
you can’t water dead flowers
be free.
*sylvia plath
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
There was a man who did not always know his name.
Sometimes, it would be clear as the day and the time and the place,
Sometimes it would be like a forgotten memory
Leaving traces but just out of reach of his mind.
How reassuring it was in those moments
For someone to call him by a familiar sound,
And to know that at least one part of him was fuller than the moment before.
But when he was alone
Or around those who knew him best and did not feel the need to remind themselves of what he was called,
There was a terrifying absence within him, which he was too prideful to admit.
In those moments, the place, the time, the day were as much strangers to him as another universe.
Grasping at them was futile, and only served to remind him of how far he was from the person who had a name.
He would choose to ignore the truth that someone who was him existed, preferring to absorb a meaningless present than to grieve for a lost past.
Those suffering moments between names were a chill which sunk deep into his bones, and slowed his heart, so that even the space between beats, between moments, seemed unspeakably vast, each a lifetime, yet never endowing the wisdom that years give.
Then, all at once, the lifetimes would melt away in one warm burst
As something or someone reminded him of himself.
And for the most terrible moment, he would know all,
Both what is was like to be full,
And what it was like to be emptier than the most infinite void,
Realization and loss would envelop him
And he would understand what it was to not be.
This was the most hideous moment of his existence,
So much the worse for the knowing
Of what had been the lifetime before.
But this too would pass, blown away by the new, old name, and soon, it too would be forgotten.
Then, he was just him, unaware and unthreatened by the memory of nothing.
And that was happiness,
That was beauty,
That was truth.
For the man who did not always know his name,
To know it,
Was absolutely everything.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 2:11 AM UTC
He is a novel.
One with hundreds of sheets of paper
Bound together
within two hard covers,
an unpredictable plot.
A novel that provides
Warmth and comfort
When read.
Endowing you with elaborate vocabulary
That can sometimes be hard to apprehend
One that can't be fully understood
Unless read to the very end
He is a work of solitary words
Put together in such a way
That somehow
Creates harmony
One that you can read
Over and over
And never grow tired of.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 6:36 AM UTC