"everpresent" poems
You carry your life on your shoulders; a swing in a park in a city, with a lonely, shadowy, ghost of you sitting so delicately. As people pass you, they stop and look, and words come to their minds such as "passion" and "sorrow," "broken benches," "spilled dreams" and they couldn't even tell you why.
You wear your heart safety-pinned to your sleeve; a grave declaration that you are not your own person. Someone has marked you, taken something without asking; this you show everyone, not meaning to, in hopes of finding a semblance of relatability. Was it normal, what happened to you? Is this a dark fog everyone lives in? You hope not.
You have an everpresent effervescence of the wrong kind. It's a nervous habit, a shuffling of the feet and a glance to the sky. It's the reincarnation of life before that day, with the tender rips of who you are now. One can only paint over paint so much; mix the colors, they will all become grey.
You've a vague sense of relief when you look around and see no one. It's a talisman, a testimony to your independence, and your dependence on lots of human-free air. It's the writing on your arm, words you shan't forget, words like delicate innocence shame tragedy naivete melody sorrow blame identity apology and the biggest, boldest of all heartbeat.
It's a short cry from here to insanity and you remind yourself that your heart beats in pride, in admonition to the evil. "I am alive. You couldn't **** me. You won't **** me. I have a heartbeat."
I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. And the little girl on the swing smiles to the sky, a premonition of her future, a confirmation of her strength.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
a community of wildflowers pretending to be roses.
befriending what we believe are better plants,
and covering themselves in lavender.
they dip their petals and spikes into ink,
and they pretend that they are feathers,
and with these feathers they pretend to be birds,
and being birds is the only way they feel free.
they are left uncared for and wilted down,
they are overlooked and thrown away,
they are called pests and flower killers.
but they are beautiful,
they are powerful and everpresent,
they are proof that no matter how much pulling them out,
cutting them down, and praying them away, wildflowers are here to stay.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
what am i about
giving you no gifts
unable to pin
my finger on a theme
phenomenal you
with whom i play away the year,
yearned love from a decade's dream
you've swayed into the real
to flesh it here and interrupt all Being
with a node of savvy personality
i lessen if i think my words can measure
that, how you emerge there, change
come across the shore of presence, waves of filtered seas
deeply you have gone and risen from within
expanding metaphor in a lambency of ageless gazing at the stars
and giving all a joyful undercurrent swim.
luffa vines abound, for future shiny backskins arching bliss--
shedding all, i snake my way around the roots--
the yellow sheen fades and pupils zero intimate
a finer lived experience... ripe intrusion truly love in tune with
tips of sneezing hearts, curling toes unite, shout
an intertwining pelvic orbit vaster space to yet unmake
unspoken pleasures wide in everpresent fontanels
the spectra plenum here again, next breath, ends of in, ends of out
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
Shaking hands
I turn to friends and weep
about the loss that did not even happen
yet
To me the everpresent threat of it
looms over me
and to get rid of it I really would
have to get rid of my own self
In my heart's shelf there stand
a thounsand dusty photographs of loss
Once tossed and smashed
I now feel numb when I remember
How those kids left
Bereft of all that usually helds up
a healthy rationality I stop
and stumble
Maybe -
a tiny flicker burning in between the dust -
maybe this time it could be different
Maybe this time
there will be clarity
and - rusting in the chambers of my heart -
the images will softly leave this rhyme
and drift apart
just like they should.
Just leave my heart.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
The first step is admitting you own nothing.
You have borrowed a vessel of perpetual motion,
transforming matter into joy. Or sorrow.
You prepare a lament for
every object being shrunk in volume
to the point of liquefied singularity.
Your soul resembles a berseked monach
harpuned by the overflowing thoughts
of a whole world outside his sacred temple,
rediscovering GOD through a moment of NO BIG TRUTH.
Every item is handelled with utmost care.
Every hour of every day carefully measured,
overligned, overlived, predicted,
enjoyed to the highest crest of pleasures.
The excitement turns you into a dormant rage
of two incandescent lovers, sharing their last kiss.
A particular moving object (which borrows your empirical mass)
runs away over roads and tracks and clouds and temples,
from the decay measured in seconds of standstill, if at all present.
You left the last version of yourself at the doorstep.
The footsteps on the street are an echo of
your forthcoming change. Your exhaltation.
How am I supposed to fight this disposition,
the everpresent catarsys in each corner of the soul,
as the end is postpond by the black guitar’s lament
in the indigenous version of history.
Sometimes things overlap without obvious reasons.
Sometimes the foundations of our sorrow -
buried deep into everday house hold objects,
is the only threat which holds the secret
to the way back.
To the memories bookmarked in your going-away-ness.
To the saved points in your story
(to which you could return back in case of a disaster).
Like a tale, in which the bad prevails,
but
as she lays in your arms,
in a particularly ephemeral moment
all that matters in the end
is the desired absence of space
‘tween the most lonely abbrevations of
the two of you.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
We're living a Dangerous Life,
tiptoeing on the Edge of a Knife.
What will come and take you in
The End?
Will it come from Behind
Or from Around the Next Bend?
Are We Here,
Really Here
Now?
...
The Everpresent Present
The Eternal,
The Undifferentiated,
dao
...
The Way of the Eagle
The Way of the Sun
The Way of the sweat
of the Toiling One.
The Way of the World,
The Way of The Track,
The Way of the Scorpion who rode
the Frog's back...
The Ways of Old We've left Behind
The Ways of New We must
Now design...
The Laws of the Jungle
And the Laws of Gods
and Men.
The Laws of Those Whose Land
We're In.
The Laws of Physics and
The Laws of Time.
The laws of lawyers and
of Organized Crime.
The Uncaused Cause,
...
And The Uneffected Effect.
The Unpolished Flaws,
And the Unfinished Project.
The Unwritten Rules and
The Unspoken Code.
The Unwitting Fools and
The Untraveled Road.
The Final Frontier,
And the Promise it gives...
The Things We Create
and the Life That Outlives...
The Dawn of the Century,
The Dusk of Mankind.
The birth of Something New,
Of a limitless Mind
Or is it really New?
Or was It done before?
And who is
the Ultimate Authority
on the Universe's lore?
And is Novelty
all that we aim to adore?
What about the Nothingness that came from
Before?
Did it have some Great Big Colorful Blob to explore?
Did We sunder the Stasis
forevermore?
...
Is there One God,
or an Infinitude?
...
What does it mean
to Truly Be
"The Dude?"
Or
Maybe the Many make up the One,
And from the One All
Things flow?
...
Have these Thoughts been Thought before?
How am I to know?
And
How about We Just Be
Good to Each Other
And
Help Each Other grow?
Feb 14, 2022
Feb 14, 2022 at 11:17 AM UTC
He is the sweet fragrance of a rose,
Smelt everywhere all the time
He is the Jasmine Breath
whose source cannot be found
I was a child...Searching for Him,
searching for this Source...
This intoxicating source of Love
I am pulled inside by its everpresent aroma
I swear this is what Infinity smells like, before it is birthed into form!
I could not find Him,
The source of my drunkenness
So I sat, defeated
With tears of sorrow and longing.
When The drop of love hit the ocean within,
Without warning, I heard a knock at my heart door
When I opened it
He said Hello!
all creation became a reflection
of the Flower of my Longing-
And the Source -
my Self
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
I've kept my pen in a cage.
Trapped.
Not to come in contact with paper at any cost
Like trying to hide the everpresent moon from a werewolf
Like hiding all your ***** from the family alcoholic
No use
"Resistance is futile."
I wanted to ignore the truths that never fail to spill out the second ink kisses the pages of my journal.
I tried to avoid the impending epiphany
No more.
No more.
And thus begins the tragic telling of a story
I wish to be fiction.
A story my mind hid from me
No Hero
No ever after
Only the end.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Oh, the days, the days.
The everpresent tick tock of that ******* clock.
I'll smoke a cigarette to pass the time.
I'll listen to the radio
turn on my stereo.
Pick up my phone,
There's nothing there.
Monotony has got me looking longingly
at my coffee machine
my guitar
my notebooks
Pens and Paper.
Books I didn't write
but love to read.
Applications that are half filled out
pills prescribed
uneaten.
Boredom is the worst drug I've ever taken.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:56 PM UTC
O' I can see that
things are much
clearer now
but somehow
I still don't like it
for your presence
is something
that I miss
seeing you move around
is pleasantly
destroying my ground
like how we have fought
and I thought
that I was an
absolute Messiah
but I was wrong.
You are the moon
that reflects the light
from the everpresent
Mata Hari
without you
my world is dark
and clueless.
Please, don't make another move,
may the constellation
soon collide
so that I can be with you
and shed the brightest light.
Forever.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 4:54 AM UTC
a shadow comes off her when she forgets
to lie in wait--as one when there is no
one.
submission as much as movement,
answerlessness in the praying--grace in
the lack of sign.
the tentative quality of the miraculous,
as if something to be settled on--what's
everpresent.
a pearl white necklace worked
backwards, soft round breaths on the
curve of her spine.
every pearl a grace period...Fur Elise.
Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 1:09 AM UTC
Time
A nightingale always one step away from your grasp
Uncontrollable and everpresent
a constant ebb and flow
from one moment to another
Testing you
Always one step ahead
Giving you the fleeting moments that you want to hold on to forever
Yet time runs
Unstoppable and mysterious
It shines like a beacon in the darkness
The most loved force
The most hated tyrant
A nightingale always one step away from your grasp
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 12:39 PM UTC
Walking down the beach,
And looking at the waves,
They roll in and out,
In and
Out
Like the ebb and flow of time
They flow,
A great cycle,
Everpresent,
We flow-
And wax-
And wane
People live
They contribute
Find a meaning
Then go on
Like the ocean meaning changes
Ebbs and flows
In and
Out
I must find my meaning
Among these flowing tides,
And when my tide goes,
I too must
Sail on.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 10:56 PM UTC
Calm
The Remnants of a Ship
Softly Washed Upon an Everpresent Shore
Daylights Peace
A Walk Upon this Tranquil Beech
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
i thought you were supposed to protect.
How can this much pain be explained with an "I did this because I love you"
if you love me so much give me an explanation.
why
why is this hole in my soul everpresent
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
()
I am always there.......never cold, or still...
i float...i roam with you in your journeys,
a torch for your dimmest alleys and
corners...i may flicker, but i never waver
.......i make sure you don't fall
into hidden abysses, or black holes...
my red-yellow flame has been
burning bright, since you were born,
i will fizzle out.....the moment you die...
........I am your God-sent candle,
i bring you clarity...and enlightenment,
everpresent......in your soul.......I am
always there with you.........in your
darkest hours........day or night...
Sally
Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
September 24, 2019
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 6:54 AM UTC
If only Kunta kanti had a camera phone
He would've captured many untold stories
stories of a sad slave girl sitting all alone
Sad stories of overworked slaves with worries .
Stories of ''Massa'' holding the Holy Bible
And in another hand the everpresent whip
There would've been images of souls no longer able
To work from dawn to dusk without a drop to sip .
If only Kunta Kanti had a remote controlled drone
Or a Facebook account to share stories and go LIVE
The world would've seen the master's no go zone
Where he buried the bodies of those no more alive .
Stories of the slave master's cruelty would've gone viral
And on the other hand exposed the ugly slave trade
He would've been seen as a vile man who lacked moral
Maybe a jail sentence because of the video Kunta made .
Maybe ,just maybe if Kunta Kanti had a camera phone
It would've caused a public outcry and a Black Lives Matter's rally
Al ,Martin Luther King III and all Black folks would've gone
The names and stories of all slaves would've been read at that rally!
Facebook #IvanBrookspoetry
twitter @ivanclappers
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
you always think
that the sun
is so much brighter
than you will ever be.
that your soft, sleepy smile
can't compare
to its gentle rays.
that it is everpresent
and stronger than you,
a blinding charm,
a stunning light.
have you forgotten that the
sun must always
fall before it rises?
don't you remember
the desert wastes
and scorching summers?
the mightiest of gods
are not
infallible.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
yet the days stopped turning to night
ever stretching
everpresent
I just wanted the sky to fade
Dec 19, 2020
Dec 19, 2020 at 11:16 PM UTC
when I remember you, it feels strange.
a feeling of still being in it. as if I never left.
or maybe I was never there
and this everpresent feeling is a feeling of nostalgia
for something that never was.
Mar 25, 2023
Mar 25, 2023 at 8:58 AM UTC
Others have a before, before the aftermath
A past to look back on, a child in the mind
They mourn their lost purity
The fleck in their eye gone flat
The dulling of imagination and sharpening of
The ache everpresent
But I have no before. There is no moment
No mindset to look to, cry -- bring that back
Bring me back to innocence! No, for I lack
That yesterday...
yet my today is not dull
And I’m not yet full
Of grey dreams, grey hairs, grey blood
My blood yet runs red
And for each drop I’ve bled
And for each step I’ve tread
And for each word I’ve said
And for each hell I’ve wed
There is no before. No past to look back on.
No virginity to mourn.
So was I just like this
from the day I was born?
Have I forgotten the taste
Of innocence...
Or have I, for everything, not lost it,
not yet been dragged to life by the sharp kiss of Reality?
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC