"estuaries" poems
I am hungry
and it is reflected
in the contours
of every inch
of skin
every cell a-flutter
tiny wings and heartbeats
activated within
right down to
the ribosomes and
kidney-shaped
mitochondria
right up through epidermis
woven as threads
of softness penetrating
your inner hard, dark parts
causing them
to melt into
my light
I am craving
to feel your
absolute heart's
raging core
my aching flesh burning,
my heart, wrapped in
a love
so pure
My need to be
devoured surfaces
in smoothness,
at a glance
You feel it acutely,
no room for doubt
or subtle chance
I am ravenous
for muscle-worked arms
(arms that could easily
try to break)
to be supremely
gentle as you part
my thighs like the ocean
and sacredly partake
the slickness of your tongue
in my feminine grace
the stains of my love
drenching
your noble face
your eyes on mine
as I sharply breathe
need to hold your
head stroke your
hair know that for me
the king takes off that
garland of gold
breaking free of
all symbols of status
the only real treasure
the queen who
gives to him,
and who he now pleasures
and I let myself be consumed
with the reverence
of a psalm
my love pouring into you
healing your hurts,
like a balm
in this private landscape
we are the most
ferocious of tender
estuaries
in an eternal vista
in this hour of somewhere,
the sea hauls us in
like ancient creatures,
bringing the fossils
back to life
in lustrous foam
as they
inch their way
into the spirals
that we
feel we could
call
home
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
unsure, uncertain,
of the laws invested
in the realms and reams
of poetry ingested,
am i addict,
or supplier,
retail consumer
or
wholesale supplier,
a mom & pop candy store,
or a metastasizing intelligence
that takes any thing, and all,
a solitary letter,
an instance of a sighting,
a gasping palpitation
and reformats it into
a hehe literary madhatter^ piece
you supply, I demand,
I supply, boy oh boy,
do I ever, but you never,
come to me directly asking,
write me a poem, thick or thin,
witty fitty or an overly looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong
e~pistle (a/k/a e~pistol)
yet the trade goes on and om,
the marketplace never closes,
except when periodically the
gatewaykeeper is slow to pay his bills,
and the trading centres are global scattered,
young entrepreneurs try to sell a single
piece, as if it was breaking news history,
and tired old men, review their lived,
eager to memorialize, so it's ok to forget,
in retro!spect perspective,
the mirror who cannot lie,
states affirmatively, you are
both ****** and dealer,
a corporation scientific
of ancient biblical origins,
a psalmist, a deacon,
a lyricist, but thankfully
not a singer,
an essayist who writes best
when ****** by tawny port wine,
who snatches inspiration with
equality of equity,
(wait! that's wrong,
the equity of equality,)
where he can
find, ***** city streets, the deaths
of heroes, the sunrise calm miracle
he drinks in daily, by rivers, by seas,
by estuaries brackish, and streams
of watered purity, the riveting bays,
the individualized glisten deflected
into my eyes, that each
contains one pure blessing within…. nml
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 9:24 AM UTC
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
I'm poring over your words...
Sophistication beyond compare
I can only savour in gulps
Such fantastic fare
•••••
Your stars are sculpted out of porcelain
Whilst mine, white washed vinyl
Your haloed moon, commands immediate attention
Mine only hovers...
As elliptical paint over stencil
Oceans of yours brim full
Catching the shards from the noon day sun
When mine suffer from receding tides
Turning into stagnant estuaries
where water hardly runs
Myriad views from snow swept mountains
You paint perfect with delicate pairings
Stuck with a view from a porthole
Sometimes all I see,
are the vast expanses of tumultuous endings
•••••
Still poring over all of your words
They all weigh much
but soar like feathers on birds
Artform fit for gods beyond compare
Drowning in the magic...
Of your incredible fare
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
A stapel river flows in Hyena
pack,
rivulets of laughing
data.
Twist a turn to deconvolute destituted
band.
From arterial ort to capillary
place
respires a quantal
love.
Quid non quo
flows,
trickling down in plain
flat,
in crevice crag, filling just
enough.
Fresh down to Mexican
border
town, in flooding estuaries, in fanning
delta,
it breezes meta confidence within six
Sigma.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
Hazed by the dire rope of death
A subtle incandescence flickered
A white light glimmered like ****
Whilst hushed peaked a snicker
Her smile an adequate sedative
Terminating vivid estuaries
A moment equally competitive
In other eyes deemed honorary
Mi corazón happened upon felicity
Blessed be this origin of jubilee
Freeze we shall in fair amenity
Beneath this fine cherry tree
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
ugly men on the way back from work
watch the summer dress and the small body within
walk with the breeze down the steps,
down from the station while
the trains pull away,
their carriages carrying the sea and the low-tide estuaries'
breath within them
and they watch the dress and the body and the breeze
cross the road into
the sun swallowed supermarkets
and the ugly men walk home
beneath retired balconies
and the slow
beginnings of evenings.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
As the light made islands on the water,
ethereal bubbles frozen with warmth,
tucking tired beaks beneath wings, pigeons saunter,
into sleep, on tesselated petals, going forth.
That summer aura which sparks from you and thrums
moving dials to a sanguine solstace in me.
Hitting cold skin, the blood rush is autumn;
cathartic capillary trees with loose fingers and red leaves
and in these veins speeds my guttural london estuaries,
to syncopate their tide beats with yours.
Those mediterranean wine filled arteries
will encompass my imperfections to pearls.
From my idealist sonnets hearts you come
fixed on air, a changeable paint that can't run.
Like newborn fern fronds you unfolded your words
cut with castanet syllables peppered in.
Sentences ushered on as pacified herds
breathed out plumes, rippled fire, wind-thinned.
I then learned a beauty untamed, is a beauty rare.
Those eyes indeed are coffee dewdrops pierced by sun.
Those lips are pronounced like unbroken waves that tear,
on the cusp of unspoken words braced for freedom.
Core bright, i see the rose through the street's ornaments.
From the slight rise of your nose to those angular cheekbones,
further a picture of stunning complex arrangement;
identity of locked cogs, in you, are the pieces of home.
Islands on the canal of time; forever moments un-faded.
We aren't seen in a new light without becoming more illuminated.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Maybe water runs uphill
From the ocean's bursting treasures
Of salts, silts, sands
Marshalling at the estuaries
Spawning rivers, as pioneers
Oozing into coastal plains
A brackish caravan rolling
Inland to new-found-land
Beyond the rule and will
Of the tide's spill where
Drought and dry spells
Sweep like wraiths
******** on thieving winds
Throwing heartless dusty curses
Picking off stragglers
In slacks and backwaters
Or caravanned through known channels
Paying taxes to the thick-rooted soil
For passage upstream
Past thirsting leaf and bough
Every mile hard-won
Til the watershed haven
Of bog and lochan
Corralled safely among peaks
There to farm the cloud and mist
And to see blossom, in good years
A deep harvest
Of cold, clean snow
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 11:29 AM UTC
All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them.
How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection,
Prove its sanity through continued suggestion?
Deductive insurrections stirred in memory,
A rumble, causing sediments to crumble,
Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble.
Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors.
"Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns,
Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns,
Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows,
And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap.
It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains,
The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins,
To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed,
To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains.
"Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated.
He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject,
And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion.
I thought it was done.
The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Evening cleats The Bay,
As cavalcades of passive argon, sulphur on
the ogham slicks,
to treacle ways toward the seeding
cooling of the hours,...
The sleights of crimson, fringe
the bruising cower of the West, to
brightly die behind the leathered hill.
From a wrist of tallowed amethyst,
a Tiercel purls a last ellipse, and in
his sinking helix ships, the Sommes
of curdled estuaries, to brood
the closing Mill....
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
A fecundity of plight precipitates
And as each second lapses
The vibes ascend
With theatrical depth
Though steadily she refrains
To refine her adamant tones
Whilst I dissolve
within estuaries of helotry
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 3:51 PM UTC
Inspired by the dream of the founders of city
Collated by planning of leaders and mayor,
Built by the muscle and sweat of believers
A Masterpiece fashioned for pride and for care.
Magnificent structures of bridges and tunnel
Faultlessly conjoined by highways of God,
Dreamt by the forebears of knowledge and passion
Crafted in concrete and sculpted in rod.
Towering edifices scything through city
Asphaltic motorways curving with grace
Estuaries bridged by elegant girders
Created by vision with tears on it’s face.
Fashioned by strength and belief in the promise
Fashioned by fortitude's strong hand as guide,
Crafted by people's belief in tomorrow
A Vision for Auckland and nation with pride.
Marshalg
With the Wellconnected Alliance.
AUCKLAND N.Z.
(Inspired by the animation on a good Mayor’s face)
6pm,14 February 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
The birth of our day.
All fresh and touched with
The Master's hand
in dewy majesty.
The shell of sky
wet with foamy clouds.
The earth awaits wheeling birds
to rest again - benign in the
trees of their birth.
Burbling and raucous
in their boisterous
roosts.
Cacti creep along the
last vestiges of the
velvet night.
A coyote laughs.
He makes his lone way
up the still, starlit, streets.
And all is embraced by the
embarking orb emanating for eons
from the eastern estuaries.
I write upon mornings
because they are the marks of time
upon beginnings.
The new year begins at midnight.
But the new day?
ahh... the new day begins
with the
SUN.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/29/2015
all rights protected
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
aloof alphas attack!
banal betas boom, before backing
cautiously, creeping
down, defensible dark
estuaries, estranged escapes
from fierce fiery-eyed
giant gators gathered,
hard hearted hedged
in impossible illumination, irate
jowly jeering jaded jackals
**** **** **** …
let loose low laughs
making much mirth mercilessly
now none need nourishment
oblivious obvious, overt
a putrescent phalanx,
quite quintessential a querulous quorum
a quatre
raucous resounding raptorials retreated
subsequently seizing sizeable sarcoid
sections in scissor strokes
total tormentors, that time twists the
ugly utilitarian
veracious victory
works the wild
yearning as
zealots
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
As I pond-
er the stream
Of life, I brook
Our oceans
Lost, our rivers
Unexplored, estuaries
Untravelled, tributaries
Unseen; our courses
Diverged, our ways
Parted like the Red Sea,
We drifted on the tides
Like ships caught on waves
Carried on torrid floods,
Riding the cascading torrents
Over strange uncharted waters,
And yet if our paths ever flow
To meet in some channel
On a distant shore,
Expect no tears,
No weeping,
I won't cry
You a river
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
My words, they flow like estuaries,
From my fingertips to the seas,
Spindly, twisting, winding veins,
That run through evergreen plains.
Each word is rich with emotion,
Like the countless fish in motion,
Some vibrant, some dull, some,
Alive and some, floating with bellies above.
When thunder roars and lightning strikes,
And the Heavens in the sky start to cry,
My feelings they overflow, flooding over,
And all around must take cover.
For the once beautiful waves, are now,
Violent, destructive, and they plow,
Mercilessly through the haven in my heart,
Wrecking my world, part by part.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
***covered with sarsaparilla and sage
you untie the laces
just as the mountains crumbled
streaks of lightning shape your face
opportunity knocks for you
upon estuaries
the mystic spoke
through me
was this the space
her ***** bouncing
and you're already ready to give up
the movers need better timing
simplicity is welcomed
our fate created by our own ignorance
in the lashing out of anger
strangers dance
making maps through the sand
poor men weep in silence
for their longing is asleep
interlocking aspects
upon the drastic sea
i collect pens
connecting signals
i am standing
jumbled in a pool of muddy sheets
what a tragedy
is this love
his mission was to listen to her
i say wait a second
how dare you judge me
who can be your enemy
in a world where all is one
release this lonely song
your world is learning how to dance
goddess, yes its painful to retain all these words
in the eye of ecstasy
you once shone like an emerald
and now i only wish the best for you***
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
Melody in the flow
drenched in this shining blue
weather beaten, still appearing new
ever engrossed in a deep
humming meditation, to achieve
its goal, to meet its beloved,
the vast ocean.
the way it goes, serene and hypnotic
*steadfast,
stimulating,
stoic*
molding itself as per the terrain
finding the way ahead,
whatever be the hindrance.
Love is such a great driving force
and it has no boundaries
demonstrated to us, from the deep ocean core
to the vibrant scattering at the estuaries.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
~
*Two ways to connect
May be caused by the New Way
But the end of the river
In estuaries
Lost in all
In the room of my old heart
Both can go away from an angle
Or come from afar to meet both
Can make an angle
We are a form of both
Living in harmony,
In the deep Sea of Love
Frenzy to create the New
Let me come back
Again and Again
As in the new form
Of my old Soul*
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
Tones of depreciation eject forth estuaries of spittle
Causing unsought billows of panic
Why can’t society be more appreciative
Instead of dejecting them
And divesting them of criticism
Communication is significant
Yet people omit it’s qualities
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 9:45 PM UTC
Me, up on the snow-rock white glacial cliff hedges mountaineering my way in the moments-after-twilight-sweeping-black. Execrable cold, a death-making quiet, Not a seal, not a hare - this Earth of gelid death. I climbed out above the snow Where my expiration left sinuous brandings in the copper light. But the Weddell was siphoning the darkness to the katabatic deep valleys - piceous lees of the brightening umber - cleaving the moon in two like the split eye of a winter lynx. And I saw the penguins: Little specks of black in the limitless white - fifty together - obelisk-still. Their inaudible coo, they sat motionless, nearly mute, With creamsicle feet and amber-eyes, incomparably mum. I proceeded: not one chirped or swiveled its little fur cap. Black silent fragments of a black silent world. I hearkened in the barrens of the desiccate plains. While the wooly bears came from the sea to see of the silence. Slowly edges oozed out of the darkness. Then the moon ivory, porcelain, azure erupted Quietly, and halving to its heart and shot mist, shaking and the ocean opened, crying blue, And the giant mountains lunged-. I stopped Scrambling, as if up from my voice at the mouth of a nightmare, down towards the snow-rock, from their glacial sheaths, And came the penguins. There stood they, still-, silent, in the river of blue light: Creamsicle feet and amber-eyed Thwacking the ice in a grand fête While everywhere was gray and rimy. And still they did not speak above a breath, Not one squeeked or cawed, Their nestled shining beaks dug into the polar rim, Low into the valleys, in the blue shimmering rays - In throngs of the congested cities, living among the years, the faces, May I some day greet my memory in such solemn a world Into the estuaries and the azure-skies, curious wooly bears, Listening as the ice tholes.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 4:40 AM UTC
and then again, I am the same tree on the same hill
look you have seen it
here,
your eyes close
shutting feathers down of egrets
lounging in morning fog
tall nudging of estuaries
of reeds, foxglove-purple glens
here,
your eyes are closed
the white is peeking in from the edges
soft memory
plump and poultice
the egrets blush a ruffled wing
unsetting setting dust
the yellow fog claved the fold
martyred the morning
before it began
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 4:08 AM UTC