"enervated" poems
Goodnight.
The evening has arrived and the Sun has become weary
Goodnight
The stars have come to reclaim the deepest blue
Speckling across the dark wide blanket of the cosmos
Goodnight
The daylight has faded and your energy has been taxed
Perhaps it was a productive day....
perhaps not
But the evening calls and the night follows
The mysticism and superstition is heralded by cricket calls
Reality becomes enervated now, rest your head on the pillow.
Nirvana inside of the null............................
Finally, Goodnight.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
arms clasped around your knees
while your eyes overflow with dysphoria
and spilling those things called tears.
you begin to wonder when the walls started to tower over you
while kept under those warm things called blankets,
the only things that kept you warm
while your heart was frozen in time that had elapsed
these towering walls
seem to be looking down upon me
and they tell me I am enervated
as I am limp under those blankets,
the only things that are competent to providing me warmth,
as my heart cannot.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
I am wrapped in her algid arms.
I am lost in her evocative glare.
I stand, environed by the Keres,
Those dilapidated demons.
Azrael, my craven shadow, clings
To me as a vulture stalks its prey.
Thanatos does each step possess
Forward into this acidulous air.
Fissured masks release languid screams
That fall upon pallid faces that have
Long since wilted in her Stygian womb.
Enervated laughs drone in mangy ears.
I stand on the periphery of this
Asphyxiating cistern. I ambulate
Across this sable field that shall
Become the executioner’s blade.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Every day I reveal
I give a little more
something special, so real to life
a different side of life
those pieces of me no one can steal
every night I'm where it takes me
to where I find that part of me
that needs no excuses
nothing to change
nothing to add to
But what if it isn't the truth? What if I am a product of fear? When I look at my keyboard, I remember things I cannot say aloud. That is the darkness.
nothing to subtract
the fairy of all things sharp and dangerous.
a day in the sun a light
That casts no shadow,
Pushing through all darkness
To reveal the only truth
a smackeral here,
a smidgen there
i stitch into the weave
as my truth
as i can bare,
leaving me naked
and bereft
but as a milliner of words
so fine
I stitch together a tapestry
of twine
upon a silken bed of shadow
the words, they matter
on the morrow
Twisted threads of golden thought
weaves crimson tears
that taught
the one that orates
as they weave
leaves a pattern
that can't deceive
cleft, my palette
of words, sacred,
alone but not forsaken-
created, awakened and tasted
and i stop for a while
to taste the silence between words
the echoes of my steps
roaming inside a dream
Chinese boxes with corners that
domino like the seals
of envelopes, they
stick to sticky
seals of words,
telling of straw earth.
sinkhole, the word frightened me as a child
even now I tread lightly
allaying the inevitable
i tread lightly, lightly... allaying
the inevitable
babble of...
"lustful gushing
of wordlove
that cascades
from my brain
enervated, regenerated
obligated
to explain
the gears
and cogs
of this
clockwork world
write....again
and again
the never ending
refrain
oh listen to the silence
listen
between the words
from
the death of one breath;
to
the birth of the next
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
Like a stroke of genius,
of just plain blind luck
rising from the jungle floor,
the majestic rubble of the Maya calls,
at once the founder and judge of all Time.
First as the serpent whose plumes turn to wings,
then as the eagle boldly eyeing its prey,
and en fin! as the jaguar, sinewy and sleek,
El Castillo looms
against the hardened, sun-baked sky --
the shifting citadel of Kukulcan,
its shadow splayed across my days.
All of them numbered,
all of them too short,
*all of them fading
in the cold*, hard light of distant failure...
Perenially
built and rebuilt,
like the Church,
El Castillo stands
to meet the need of holy obligation,
to meet my need for initiation,
bounded only by the firmament and the underworld,
final triumph of the dead.
And so I stand,
alone upon the sacred causeway --
enervated, unenlightened,
the bitter taste of dust in my mouth.
Until I, too, will be turned
to stone --
the languid chac mool,
sated in sweet repose.
I will drift toward the sunken cenote,
drink deeply from its oasis of evening cool,
where the memory of man and grain and god is sung:
An anthem of order, power and vision,
the great Mayan hymn of meaning.
I will hear, at last, from the porous depths of Yucatan,
what it is to be called human.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC
I have written a million words and fought a hundred battles.
I have stood against all enemies in all corners of the world.
I have been an agent of destruction and retribution.
I have been a despotic symbol of unyielding authority.
I have been a god of war and slaughter.
But in the face of this new force I am powerless.
I stood against the atom bomb, and bent it to my will.
I broke the tides of imperialism and nationalism, and soon devoured them too, with my insatiable lust.
I have crushed all who have contested against me; no revolution has ever ousted me.
And yet.
In the face of this new force I am powerless.
My atom bomb is enervated.
My armies are decrepit.
My once iron resolution has melted to lackadaisical fancy.
My Tanks, guns, swords and bombs are nothing but flaccid instruments of failed conquest.
Because
For all my inimical **********
I am rendered prostrate before the empyrean power of joy immeasurable.
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 6:41 PM UTC
•
I enfold you closer to me,
And let you feel every melody,
That my heart produces.
Suddenly you got enervated,
Because of my monotonous euphony.
I wonder why would you feel like that?
When the only harmony my heart generates,
~> Are the tone of the sweetness of your name,
~> And the music of your love,
That carries me into the paradise land,
Which everyone dreams of?
I only love you,
That's why,
I will never mix others musical genre,
Into the rhythm that maintains the circulation,
Of love and felicity,
Into my life.
© Earl Jane
♥ E.J.C.S.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
Towering over the rocky shore,
mentoring the intractable,discordant waves.
Rigid and stubborn,over which the eagles soar
"They" come here for absolution,the murderers,the soothsayers,the knaves.
Tweleve kilometers away from the tower,she watched,
living in sweet sardonic solace,in an ancestral cottage.
how "they" climbed the crumbling earth,body and soul parched,
desperate to be purged,freed from guilt-driven *******
Ruminating over the storm swept silence,
she loathed man's dependence on belief.
Comatised, mentally enervated in its absence,
The belief commands discipline, our obedience.
Scrambling over the jagged rocks,
she climbed to the base of the dominating column,
A vulture sitting high above,looks down to mock.
the blinding circulating light,an eerie feeling she could not fathom.
Ascending the two hundred and forty eight iron spiral stairs,
as surreal force encompassed her, she instantly felt possessed, her mind awakened by last night's nightmare.
As she stood high above,adjacent to the vultures,
She acknowledged her mind grow vacous,empty , free.
There was something calming or demanding about this structure,
exterminating her inner thoughts and memories,reaching an ******** apogee.
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 12:52 PM UTC
The young poetess^ writes:
*Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.
Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!*
The old hoary replies:
Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.
We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.
Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!
Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!
Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.
You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.
We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.
You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!
We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.
Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!
Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
I take in the
Taste of prisms
With a tender tongue
Blue, violet, verdant green
Magenta marvelous
Yellow, mellow light
The flavors of the sun
Shining through crystal
Covering my lips
Cherry red
The Taste Of Prisms
Emerges
Energizes
Enervated inspiration
And the ecru canvas
Comes alive with color!
CREATE!!
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
One open can of
half empty **** water
popped the night before
for a palm of pills,
codeine and HRT
chased with Kamchatka 8-0
she collapses in bed
with hope in her head,
belly full.
Morning comes, her will is gone, she stumbles blind
to root her elbows at the window sill, still groggy
from the high of nighttime.
Noon comes and the clock stops, it's a road block
setup at the overpass and by the time
transference makes sense she's
spent her energy just shifting.
In place, enervated. A mistake.
A husk built of guilt and bone.
In a closed room full of blood and *****
alone. Atone.
In place, enervated,
elbows at the window sill.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
Ethereal echoes
Emerald seas
Nacarat skies
Misty breeze
Mellifluous is her melody
Majestic every scene
Serenity of Serena
Allure of Ausrine
I tilt my head in ecstasy
My thoughts begin to cease
Sand beneath my hands
Cold, calming waters,
Languidly caress my feet
And like a child running around
And like a child who knows no bound
At the end, is enervated
I lay utterly still,
In her embrace,
Exhausted,
Yet satiated
Satiated by her healing warmth
Satiated by her meliorating touch
Satiated so much,
I wonder,
If my heart could hold so much of love.
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 5:39 PM UTC
~~~~
Mind has grown
facing challenges
of others and my own.
Happiness diffuses
through the smoke
and peace refuses to
reside within me.
I have lived less, to
others it may seem
but my body is tired
by just the mid day
sun's scorching beam.
Where is the cool evening
I scream and scream
for I want this body
to take rest and breath.
Waiting for my lovely night
when I can smile and
be lost in sweet dreams.
~~~~
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC
It happened on one fine morning, as sun peeped into my hostel room
I pulled my sheet over my head and prayed to lengthen night hours
But alarm rang mercilessly ting -tong,ting-tong
Scratching my eyes, stretching my arms as wide as could,
I yawned and woke up to start an eventful day.
I felt enervated and body ache added to my stagnation.
I did my daily morning routines half heartedly,
as cosiness of bed was seducing me back to it.
I donned in my uniform, ran to the mirror.
I sensed an itching on my back, I touched it with my fingers.
Under- estimating it as a mosquito bite, I turned attention to my hair.
Suddenly I noticed a dew drop on my chest
Curiously I looked up to find any leaking in concrete ceiling
It protruded up here and there, without any order.
I felt like playing "connect -the -dots" during my school days.
I consulted doctor, he diagnosed it as chickenpox
and gave me sick leave along with prescription.
Those who were already immune to this, gave me tips to care.
Rest moved away from me with "respect" and wished "get well soon"
My father came to pick me from hospital.
I packed my things and got into the car.
On the way he brought me a basket of fruits
and fed my stomach full with advice.
My homecoming was welcomed by my pet dog's bark.
It got annoyed as I didn't pamper her as usual.
I opened windows of my sojourn kingdom.
It endowed me with a feeling of extending my horizon .
I saw dew drops on leaves, hanging down to fall,
dancing in breeze and sparkling in morning sun light.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
America is fuckin'
a bit its lips
are
America is
its tongue
the slippery
and sublime
it
so deeply feels
its throat
tight to fill pretty
her eyes
rolling wonderful
the whites
roundishly
enervated pink
with
a bit of sharp
a bit
of
glass
smoke and
pipes
her lipsfull
the meat
of ****
and
when you
push between their parting
emits
the frailest squeak
but
*** er
the she
wants to
please *** er
the fucc
er lips
the cooly mess
er cheeks
damson stained
and puckering to
kisss
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
The hand that once held
such divine power
trembles like a willow branch
weighed down by ice
and battered
by a rude gale
Pale skin
sun deprived
Only ever caressed
by the light of the moon
Have you seen the circles
underneath your eyes
Its no suprise
you threw away all your mirrors
so long ago.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
**** you and your conscious actions,
eliciting dreary moans from an already enervated alias.
you, who once exhilarated me,
now the cause of my exasperation,
will one day be the most glorious cause
of my most hideous downfall.
can i name your shortcomings, at least?
one, you take too long to make me cry.
two, no one ever told you to be so ******* quintessential.
three, can i hold your hand? no, it is too faultless on its own, i shant sabotage your look.
four, your facade is growing tired. make a new one. i like the expressions that dance on your face.
five, you knit your brows in a way that resembles a calf.
i cannot express more than five-
oh, hell, were those even flaws...?
**** you and your olive flesh
(so smooth, as if ivory)
and your cocoa eyes
and your coffee-stained teeth
and the way you praise God
as if you actually know Her
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
Keep pulling the strings,
Harder.
I've grown accustomed
To the painful yanking.
Take my shoulders
And tug them astern.
Back rigid as a board,
So as to never run blissfully.
Heave my head up.
Neck indefinitely stiff.
I'll never be able to gaze
Down at the flowers.
Wrench my lips further.
Cheeks excruciatingly tight.
So that I may amicably smile,
At people I'd rather frown.
Extract my laugh out from within.
Lungs enervated from
Emanating becoming laughs.
Which animate these artificial
Kings and Queens,
When I genuinely desire
To spill their crowns.
Force the tears back from my eyes.
As I stand reduced to a creature
In a frivolous sideshow.
Defeated.
Degraded.
Destroyed.
Master.
I do not despise you.
Neither pity myself.
You cannot dodge inheritance.
You cannot hide from the strings.
For we are born Puppets.
And become the Puppeteers.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
When my body and soul
No longer entwine
What will become of my spine?
Does it sigh solaced croon
A hymn-silken harpoon
Propelling me
Through
Threshold everlasting?
Or will it crumble by piece
Like moldy blue cheese
Marrow vinaigrette feeds
Famished nerve roots
And dirt
Absorbing lost life,
Fueling the Earth?
Perhaps a doctor
Will pass it along
Loaded syringe,
Silver and mauve
Into flesh as fresh
As death’s final breath
Enervated vertebrae
A-positive strong
Or maybe it retreats
Into shadows sea-deep
Steel-tipped discs
Flash of shimmer
As they sink
Footholds for lost souls
Sin-dark landmarks
Untouched by warmth
And
Unseen by stars
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
she is trying to write
her mind races through topics
through opinions
through objects
her eyes stare blank
at the blinding screen
her fingers hovering
wanting to flow- line into line
she is trying to write
yet there is nothing left
just apathy
no interest
her mind is closing
windows of the soul sleep
fingers lifelessly dangle
she can't write.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
It stood among no giants, no towers, no mountains.
Heedless to the wind, scattered without waving stalks and rusted leaves,
it chose to fall where it could not.
Jaded, perhaps, but not without sterling hands crafted to bellow.
A smattering of elbows chastised the woodpeckers pecking.
Ephemeral? Beautiful? Sober? Lassitude?
It fell among no gorges, no ravines, no swale.
Heedless to the rain, swamped in a dell without sliver streams,
it swelled up above the ratty woven sails.
Coarse, perhaps, but feather flew, vying for sky.
A copse of whitebark pine pillaged no battalions.
Mauve? Tender? Empyrean? Redolent?
It pattered among no small sorts, no ant hills, no chambers.
Heedless to the duke, sabotaged without sword, spear, stone,
it swallowed a hive of rabbits in no fields.
Desultory, perhaps, but not with quintessential ripples bent in space.
A harrowing panacea flourished in spindles of florid bristles.
Sempiternal? Susurrous? Honeyed? Irascible?
It churned among no whirlpools, no pots, no frosting.
Heedless to the maelstrom, sluicing in a myriad of slanted lanterns,
it chose to lure where it could not beguile.
Laconic, perhaps, but not without furtive gallows smoldering.
A candelabra of viridian mire spies spied genteel dragonflies.
Enormity? Enmity? Vestigial? Switchback?
It stood among nothing.
It stood enervated.
It stood.
It.
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 8:37 PM UTC
Fickle mind and tired heart;
I’ve been made a callous fool.
Nearer to my life’s depart,
Demons laughed and ridiculed.
Misanthrope…is this my fate?
Enervated and so wounded.
All in darkness I await (but)
Never finding my Beloved.
Desiccated is how they left me
Yearning for my weakened blood.
Oh, companion, can you see?
Unveiled remains my flower bud.
Come replenish my dried up soul
And show me Love is very true.
Night will come so make me whole
Hold me tight. Don’t say adieu.
And if you shall be the one, my dear
Veer off course from the uncertain.
Enlighten my heart of what is clear
And with happiness I will be laden.
Look to me with honest eyes.
Love me with entire patience.
Over-dreamt, and immortalized;
For you are my significance.
My dear, if you’re the one
Erase all fear and come.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
A narrow pathway filled with gypsies.
The demon dances on the tops of their heads,
While the devil waits around the corner,
his fiddle in hand.
Young, and beautiful with skin so fair;
A golden scarf taming the tempestuous curls.
Walking with the caravan, the road has become her home.
Enervated, but also inspired by the thinning soles.
She sings a tune that only the moon knows,
He will steal her away, to where the thorns and thickets grow.
The bottle cool, like the night.
Clouds hiding the stars, concealing the gods
So she brings the poison to her lips,
And removes the veil that separates the truth from lies.
She sings a tune that only the moon knows,
He will steal her away, but for now he waits and waits
While he hides.
Crawl on your hands and knees,
You will soon adapt and learn how to survive
Without having to stand straight and upright.
With each step she ages, and memories fade.
Her spine begins to bend just like the branches
Found deep in the forest, where she has decided to stay.
Alone in the night, alone in the day.
She sings a tune that only the moon knows,
And He has already stolen her away.
Her feet are now naked, and filled with the thorns.
A pain so natural, that it becomes comfortable.
He takes her in his arms, and her heart melts into the distance.
The curls have transformed in only a moment,
Wrinkles as deep as the river, and hair as white as the full moon.
She’s clenched in his claws, and caught in his grasp.
Everyday she does his task, with hardly any flaws.
Her song is now whispered, and is faint like the breeze.
But the devil has practiced his fiddle, and is searching
For a new beauty to charm, and deceive.
She sings a tune that only the moon knows,
He has stolen her away, Old Nick is the future she chose.
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 10:29 AM UTC
fast as a blitzen comet,
this dashing prancer
contra dancer
(i.e. Rudolph nary hoof) didst zip
with cupid ditty toward his ***** wife,
who loosed a suppressed yip
asper one discovering remains of the day
from the donner
(newt the majority) party whip
ping her olive drab camouflage attire,
as if she hapt to be a vip
endlessly congratulating herself
(and bow wowing her ego) bing awarded
the housekeeping seal of approval,
and expected me to tip
her gore gee us Martha Stewart déclassé
snoop doggy dog rendition
as she did slip
agilely (with broom and dustpan in hand) rip
peat head lee uttering
an apropos Mary Poppins quip
booting muck can clear across to Compton
(wherever that might be) pip
pin like a cat on a hot tin roof,
where no cure existed to nip
in the bud at this stage,
and rid thine beloved Narberth bride,
who caught a bout clean destine
feverish frenzy to make house beautiful,
oblivious to beseeching despair,
sans this husband who cried
plaintively imploring divine intervention,
lest extreme heroic measures
need be taken, thus guide
me asap before her blistered hands
rubbed red as tender (vittles) raw hide,
which could find her catatonic, doggone
ill eagle lee flying a boot
like a bat out of hell, and stupefied
hence, this urgent message typed out in a huff
for less severe invasive
experimental treatment truly tried
on this, that, or some other missus so and so
.....please pardon this abrupt end,
plus initial idea wide
lee differing from my initial intent won
during how to write an elegy to mister son
describing, how aye felt enervated with run
hills of beaming solar rays, oh how none
synthetic drug to bathe,
enhance, suffuse away mon
day moody blues,
and now...gotta tend tummy ***
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 9:21 PM UTC
ive been finding it hard to place myself
lapses of concentration
intentions dissipating in the moment of execution
staring into the root directory of my computer
unable to figure out where to go
i found something in sans soleil
a wandering drift of memories replicated in the sleepless dead
the empty motions of an enervated nation
at the brink of collapse
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 3:58 AM UTC