"exactness" poems
"There is a stillness that floods the moment"
a sky full of stars
***~~~
for you, poet, you
~~~***
*there is a stillness that floods
that exact moment,
the cutting chord moment,
that oddly has no
resounding chords
~
a stillness
that, simultaneous,
happily, sadly, accepted, lost,
all immediately,
by its very knowing
released acceptance,
for that is when
depression and joy,
a 1-2 punch of
raging quietude floods
the exactness of that moment
~
this shock of the calmness,
albeit brief,
jolt of kind,
jolt that slow mo's
pulsing prior air gasping
~
it comes when thinking*
done,
*it is done, yes done and I am undone,
having surgically cutting off
a limb, never bloodless, but
still relief waters flush the wound,
a granted, gifted joy floods,
permitting its escape tween the sutures,
in exhilarating exhalations
~
throw it down,
your extracted best,
lift up,
the fleshed out silhouette,
present it to the court and corps,
a farewell glance push,
finger caressing the send button
with ****** anticipation
for the lovely loving,
a vintage of the pre-regret
of completion
~
the poem is done, gone, ****** eliminated,
the light of eyes so peculiar to that moment,
when you have birthed a new born poem,
an acknowledgement of the stillness of a
closing loss,
the parting, the coming,
of a
peace of you
must too, be noted,
all deserving of equal rights*
~~~
July 12, 2015
NML
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
443
I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl—
Life’s little duties do—precisely—
As the very least
Were infinite—to me—
I put new Blossoms in the Glass—
And throw the old—away—
I push a petal from my gown
That anchored there—I weigh
The time ’twill be till six o’clock
I have so much to do—
And yet—Existence—some way back—
Stopped—struck—my tickling—through—
We cannot put Ourself away
As a completed Man
Or Woman—When the Errand’s done
We came to Flesh—upon—
There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought—
Of Action—sicker far—
To simulate—is stinging work—
To cover what we are
From Science—and from Surgery—
Too Telescopic Eyes
To bear on us unshaded—
For their—sake—not for Ours—
’Twould start them—
We—could tremble—
But since we got a Bomb—
And held it in our *****
Nay—Hold it—it is calm—
Therefore—we do life’s labor—
Though life’s Reward—be done—
With scrupulous exactness—
To hold our Senses—on—
3k
Glad to see you, the ORANGE hatted man said to the YELLOW shirted Person seated in the FULL Reclining Chair, WHICH *By the *way, was ONLY in the Half Back Position. Being in the Half-Back Position allowed the YELLOW shirted Person to respond in Just a Slightly UPLIFTED EYE ANGLE !! And, the ORANGE Hatted man, Peering Down, with Head ***** Gave EACH of them an EQUAL Opposition Eye Angle of 22 Degrees EXACT ! ! Now, to Verify the fact of Equal Opposition, the PROTRACTOR MAN arrived promptly on the scene to Evaluate the Situation.. He (protractor-man) Had , for the Very FIRST-TIME, been especially Called for this HISTORIC Moment . YES,,YES,, For the very "FIRST-TIME" Equal Opposition between an ORANGE hatted man and a YELLOW shirted person, USING the Measurement of "ALL-MEANING", *THAT IS:: "The Protractor of Life"... This Historic moment would forever be Relished by Another Member of THE SOCIETY , BUT it was up to the Assigned Protractor Man to Assure all Interested Parties, That the ANGLE of Exactness was * C O R R E C T ! ! OR....it wouldn't COUNT ! OH DEAR GOD,,"THOUGHT" the assigned Protractor man, Let my Measurements be CORRECT ! ! The ORANGE Hatted man continued to Patiently Peer at the YELLOW shirted person seated in the :HALF-BACK * Position in the Full Reclining Chair.. A Trumpet Blast form a BRONZE Bassoon,, announced the arrival of a SPECIAL LADY ;Fully Gowned in STARTLING PINK AND Glimmering WHITE PEARLS , adorning Her Neck and SUN-KISSED" DIAMONDS flashed from her Fingers. In her Right hand she firmly grasped an envelope. She Careful in her opening ,as if it were a SEVEN-SEALED SCROLL ** Pulled out the PURPLE with GOLD INLAY INSCRIPTION ,"CERTIFICATE OF APPROVAL " FOR THE Magnificent level of ACHIEVEMENT by the ORANGE hatted and YELLOW shirted man ,VERIFIED BY AN "UN-COLORED " PROTRACTOR-MAN" "HEAVENLY" PRAISES AND ACCOLADES FILLED THE AIR** AND A "BOOMING-THUNDERING VOICED" "NOT-EVERYTHING WILL BE IN......."B L A C K & W H I T E " ! !
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 3:26 AM UTC
*"Though the mills
Of God grind slowly;
Yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience
He stands waiting,
With exactness grinds He all."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow*.
The Mill
The grueling weight
of happenstance,
A millstone for to grind,
It deflates the ego
And shows us
Where we're blind,
It renders flesh a ruin
Obliterates the mind,
We leave our idols desolate
Leave the ties that bind.
Under painful hardship
We release the very things
Which put us in the circumstance
And caused the suffering
We leave behind our craving
For wealth and diamond rings
Everything exalted
All exalted above God...
That means EVERYTHING
Whatever you adore
On this temporal earth
Whatever gives you pleasure
In which you find worth
These very things will shackle you!
You'll find out they're not free.
They are just the Golden Calf
Of base idolatry.
But the millstone slowly purges
Turning hour by hour
Turning the wheat kernels
Into useful flour.
And so I am refined
As I surely must
Put to naught my flesh
Make powder all my lusts
For I am as ashes
for I am as dust.
SS (C) 8/23/2017
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 1:43 AM UTC
The human being is an inherently contentious creature.
Seven billion rock-wall eyes;
Eyes staring belligerently down seven billion sharp noses;
Noses affixed to seven billion faces;
Faces covered in creases and scars,
Framed in unruly hair
And outlined in stark exactness
By the flames cowering in bipedal shadows.
Into the human heart is chiseled "inexorable".
We are an incongruence:
We row up the rapids,
Scale the waterfall
And taunt the oily heavens from atop Devil's Tower.
We will always get what we want,
Whether it involves killing the albatross
Or playing Gondorff's chess.
Whether we wrest it from Gaia's grasp
Or that of our more miserly peers.
Robert C. crystalised our resolve.
The riot gear-clad Blue and Green with timers in their throats
Stand abreast.
Chanting "Listen to Mother. Mother knows best.",
They begin the forward press.
When an impish grenade leaps our way,
We fling it back between mouthfuls of chips.
The barricades erected
By Mother and ourselves alike
Are many and implacable and incessant,
But they will be broken and overtaken.
They will be broken and overtaken by us,
The humans,
Because we are.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
Grace Before Meals
Sunday afternoon, a year ago.
Early but late afternoon, end of July sun still high enough
to provide a loving and kind warmth through fractus clouds,
But doing double duty and
Supplying continuous eye candy via
riots of razzle-dazzles glistenings upon the prima facie of
my friend, my boon companion,
my bay.
Sitting on a weathered Adirondack chair,
grayed like me, a solitary outpost,
our third Musketeer,
it so belongs where I find it, in the corner of the yard,
hard by a white picket fence and footed by
an out cropping,
a patch of wild grass uncarpeted, we are aligned,
the chair and I, in so many ways,
we accompany each other
beach-facing, one unit,
designed by man but
nature-made of, and signed by her in a cursive, gentle script as follows:
**Quiet, please, for this is
a place of our mutual
quiet contemplation.**
These regal chairs are tinged with green moss stains,
as I am tinged with silver streaks
so we laugh at each other
and we laugh together,
delighted to share
the grandeur of the pleasure of
the exactness of this precise moment.
The bay claps its waves
in honor of the symmetry
of the trinity of man, wood and water,
a more perfect union
My woman calls to me,
supper is ready and
I smell the onions and the raisins
and the love that singes our shared salted air
With deep regrets and promises solemn,
Adieu, Adieu my friends, bay and chair, sunlight extraordinaire,
wait for me!
This poem but my R.S.V.P.
an oath of return sworn,
for I am man, placed here only
to sing the praises of my earthly delights,
my truest friends,
I sing of thy grace,
Grace Before A Meal
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
*though the mills of God grind slowly
yet they grind exceeding small
though with patience
he stands waiting
with exactness grinds he all.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow*
for the wicked there's comeuppance
yes, for plagiarist and troll
it may not be in present tense
but evil has its toll
for the greedy human tyrant
for the fat politico
the rich are as a vagrant
trudging through the snow
****** Pol *** Stalin
Napoleon's Waterloo
in disgrace and fallen
into hell's external stew
the world is a millstone
it grinds fine, or so it's said
born here crying and alone
finally we're dead
don't envy the deceiver
or those who perpetrate
they'll be the receiver
meet poetic Fate
God has a sense of humor
those who blot society
may end up with a tumor
in the end will not be free
those who think they're "first"?
pity the poor fools
they're actually cursed
to be the devil's tools
there's no skating through this life
they will all be doomed
the scepter is a poison knife
the coffer is a TOMB.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 11/23/2015
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Old story man goes to work woman stays at home sounds like a downer for the woman it can’t be
Further from the truth and women are as great in the work place but man can’t or at least be as
Successful in the home he is an initiator she fulfills only woman can tilt her head and smile its radiant a
Guy would look goofy he is the essential steel but for feel the greatest need of human kind the woman
Delivers her voice is power it addresses in the most cogent she is natural man will have to work hard and
Then still possibly blow his top the woman knows the courses that are obvious and all so the subtle
Those that disarm gain with a style that everyone appreciates a taste a flair that is winsome you free fall
Into luxuriant grace that lifts you both to a place of nobility it’s all natural she possess riches that are
Uncommon but they pass without notice because she presents simple promise uncomplicated available
An open what is there to resist you’re in her natural element no wonder they have been called blessed
They use the blessed to maneuver their the most gifted creature for the fact of completing man that
Enriches herself to build others where they fall short what greatness dwells there in simple acts she can
Be breath taking just by kicking off her shoes putting on a man’s shirt how stunning again you see the
Flow she is given power of exactness don’t believe let a woman walk by se what I mean they carry
Unspoken magic that can’t be duplicated you can only say thank you Heavenly Father where would
I be and how incomplete I would be without her in my life well that’s my ode to the wonderfulness
Of womanhood so many abuse cheapen and disallow the greatest gift man was ever given
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC
There’s a need for severe repetition
And when objects are out of position
A ritual practice
Restores the exactness:
Obsessive compulsive condition
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 4:35 AM UTC
"Though the mills
Of God grind slowly;
Yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience
He stands waiting,
With exactness grinds He all."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
The Mill
The grueling weight
of happenstance,
A millstone for to grind,
It deflates the ego
And shows us
Where we're blind,
It renders flesh a ruin
Obliterates the mind,
We leave our idols desolate
Leave the ties that bind.
Under painful hardship
We release the very things
Which put us in the circumstance
And caused the suffering
We leave behind our craving
For wealth and diamond rings
Everything exalted
All exalted above God...
That means EVERYTHING
Whatever you adore
On this temporal earth
Whatever gives you pleasure
In which you find worth
These very things will shackle you!
You'll find out they're not free.
They are just the Golden Calf
Of base idolatry.
But the millstone slowly purges
Turning hour by hour
Turning the wheat kernels
Into useful flour.
And so I am refined
As I surely must
Put to naught my flesh
Make powder all my lusts
For I am as ashes
for I am as dust.
Write of Passage aka
SoulSurvivor
8/23/2017
Mar 23, 2022
Mar 23, 2022 at 6:43 AM UTC
Woman Completes
Old story man goes to work woman stays at home sounds like a downer for the woman it can’t be
Further from the truth and women are as great in the work place but man can’t or at least be as
Successful in the home he is an initiator she fulfills only woman can tilt her head and smile its radiant a
Guy would look goofy he is the essential steel but for feel the greatest need of human kind the woman
Delivers her voice is power it addresses in the most cogent she is natural man will have to work hard and
Then still possibly blow his top the woman knows the courses that are obvious and all so the subtle
Those that disarm gain with a style that everyone appreciates a taste a flair that is winsome you free fall
Into luxuriant grace that lifts you both to a place of nobility it’s all natural she possess riches that are
Uncommon but they pass without notice because she presents simple promise uncomplicated available
An open what is there to resist you’re in her natural element no wonder they have been called blessed
They use the blessed to maneuver their the most gifted creature for the fact of completing man that
Enriches herself to build others where they fall short what greatness dwells there in simple acts she can
Be breath taking just by kicking off her shoes putting on a man’s shirt how stunning again you see the
Flow she is given power of exactness don’t believe let a woman walk by se what I mean they carry
Unspoken magic that can’t be duplicated you can only say thank you Heavenly Father where would
I be and how incomplete I would be without her in my life well that’s my ode to the wonderfulness
Of womanhood so many abuse cheapen and disallow the greatest gift man was ever given
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 5:31 PM UTC
Deep green
Brown, blue, gold flecks
Explode from inside the green
The flecks, they lay immersed in the green
Floating, dancing
These green eyes,
Her eyes,
They stand open
Wide
Huge on a tiny, precious face
They stare
Then they dart
Taking in the room
Watching
Questioning
Long, dark eyelashes outline
These deep green eyes
And they flicker
Down
Up
Down
Up
Her delicate curls are pulled back
Carefully, lovingly
Into two messy pigtails
Her lips
Full, pink, soft
Slightly parted
They lie silent
Thoughts begin to flood her brain
Words begin to overflow into the depths of her mouth
Soon they reach her tongue
Sliding, slipping
Begging to be free
But no sound escapes
Quickly, her lips close
Tight
And these lips
They hold off the wave
Yes, her lips are
Still
Pushed together
Firmly, determined
Her hands
So small, so fragile
These hands
Grasp at the edges of her shirt and
Slowly, gently,
Peel it off her skinny torso
Leaving her chest exposed and
Cold
Deliberately, her fingers undo the button
On her tie dye jean shorts
And her shorts, they
Fall
Cascading down
Landing in a pile at her ankles
And her hands
Those tiny, fragile hands
They clench into fists
And those lips
Those full, pink, soft lips
They press together
Harder
And those pigtails
Those carefully, lovingly placed pigtails
Are violently ripped out
By the hands of a monster
And now
Her curls
Her delicate curls
They plummet down the sides of her face
Settling against her cheeks
Shadowing her eyes
Those deep green eyes
That squeeze shut
As the voice of the monster cuts through the air
And on her command
His fingers
With painstaking exactness
Burn their way up her calf
To the inside of her thigh
And still
Up
Farther
They go
Yes, she closes her eyes
Her deep green eyes
And her small hands
They unclench
And then reach up
And cover her ears
Just like that
Her world turns dark
And silent
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
The petals lay on the marble table top in the garden patio droplets of rain bejewel the petals
Moist as the mourner’s eye she now immortal is beyond my knowing it as if you write with a
Lead pencil of strains of gold the steerage of a great ship slipped beyond earth’s earth bound
Harbor the lights are dim these peeping tiny wonders contain the exactness of the richest soul
The voice was textured velvet it spoke and then lingered longest on the heart’s ear where it
Reverberated gently down the corridors of the soul in quietude she can still be heard it’s heart
Felt there is no agony just pleasantries assuage with tiny burst of light that vanquish the dark
You can feel the softness of her soft free flowing hair you stop in amazement and realize you
Don’t have a care there is nothing to compare it with love bows down it pulls earth and sky low
You feel yourself slowing to accept these bestowing gifts the tangle of nature so rare leaves you
Left staring this uncommon daring life proceeds beyond the vale the void immerses you in
Liquid joy the window rattles in the wind blown storm and you find comfort in this uncommon
Character you spill out the door and follow the wondering wind her essence imbibes your
Conscious and unconscious knowing you have found the spring of everlasting water it gently
Flows from Heaven above and she rides its crest intact in the total entirety of being and
Thought the wasteland dissolves as paradise further advances at each place it touches magical
Electric vibrant and alive all you have to do is walk to the table and with mortal fingers pick up
And tenderly handle the petals and the cage of death will open its dark closed door will
Immediately brighten with the soul immortal you will stand at the threshold of glory there you
Can commune with lost love
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
obviously chappy has a different connotation
(slang meaning for the orthodoxy resumed
in dictionary, i.e. bow-tie synonyousness)
in English language, etymology to no other
borrowed word from South African...
chappy just means a pigeon-walk of groove
when listening to Brit-Pop, or cheeky post-punk,
a bit like imagining a bowler hat on your head
while walking down Oxford St., so that's that
chappy; pigeons are naturally gifted in head-banging;
you're a chappy if you donned Ben Sherman shirts
without a belt, wearing jeans, styled on
an Oasis hit single... premature Quadrophenia
attainment to fit it... that how i define a chappy...
the zenith of Brit Pop, Ben Sherman shirts loose
over the waistline of jeans and sport sneakers,
and an Oasis single as the baseline for the heart to thump bu boom...
a real life chappy was this kid in primary school,
Tom... the exactness of what later became a metrosexual...
prior to that they were called chappies,
Ben Sherman shirts not tucked into a stiff pair of jeans...
you never could imagine an Englishman so under-dressed,
he must have come from Manchester
as was the obvious answer back then.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
Ever so defined, ever so perfect.
The epitome of exactness,
The symbol of creed,
The measurer that keeps
Everything in place.
Now, the real question comes into mind:
Am I speaking of
A mortal man
Or
A transcendent piece of definition?
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
I have seen such suffering,
I have lived such sorrow,
raining down like ash
to smother tiny voices
and small bird wings.
I ask why, but the answer
is never clear --
revelation is not my
epiphany.
How can this happen?
Why does this happen?
Such pain --excruciating
in exactness --
unrelenting in its
unwanted gifts.
I have seen such suffering,
I have lived such sorrow,
raining down...
Jun 14, 2011
Jun 14, 2011 at 11:03 AM UTC
they want to read you and not think, so too they want to read you and not see, they hardly care for punctuation necessarily used, so who's out there to please? n'ah really, i was onto something, i meant that if the Kantian thing-in-itself was applied to the cartesian expression, either thinking-in-itself or being-in-itself is jested at, then we can explain the freedoms of disobedience and obedience, truthfulness and falsehood, and the parody of paradoxes, as highest claimants the claimants: (singular plural) choice - whereas will (plural adjective congregating into singular) is always a butterfly fluctuation of measuring an exactness akin to dating and remembering 1066 the battle of Hastings.
mingle Kant with Descartes and you get thought as the
per se existence - splitting into either fact of coining
phrases or robbing someone: no doubt (existential
good faith) and certainly no denial (existential
bad faith) - mingle Kant with Descartes
and you get the twins
cogito ergo sum mingling with noumenon,
and thus somewhere along the line
you get to see the membrane of the zygote,
like the thought behind a criminal life
where the life is unexplained because the thought
of such a life is "easily" accessed,
so too in reverse, i.e. being a councillor
or a clerk makes such thinking easily explained
for the prop of the life lived "easily" justified via
the person trading tomatoes or lamb shanks
to keep you unthinking in a bureaucratic role.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
The old man asked if air weighed more than gold,
if truth held sway over deceit, the last time I knew who I was,
recognized myself for me, not as a tool of greed,
but who I am; my truth, my love, my hope, my laughter.
I considered my obligations as a warrior,
a father, a brother, a son and a man… judge, jury
and executioner… Lift my spirit in laughter and love,
bring me to my knees beneath heaven’s beam;
I’m weighing my answers like a ******
one eye upon the scope, the other, my motive.
Man and mankind, far from home, carrying out plans,
half duty, half flesh, standing bone-deep to my waist,
the exactness of a worship I cannot recognize as good.
In the bony sand, the original cradle embracing me,
kissing my eyes with wet lips, my ears with truth,
my body, with the throbbing of a most private flesh;
a forlorn inhalation stains my finest hour.
The old man extends his arms for me to enter...
or shatter. The choice is mine.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 9:13 AM UTC
bah bah black sheep... ok... the black sheep knuckled you to sleep
and now you’re asking for directions using a map and not a satellite navigation
across europe, esp. tremendous in germany near dortmund
and the rhine cities getting confused... but that’s no reason
to drive with ease from new jersey to florida with a glum pickers' pride
en route... i can play the ‘i spy with my little’ game into midnight passing me and spare myself inventive optics -
like shadow like hallucination in consistency, both flimsy,
i can recognise the real filth from packaged recyclables
from the orient.
well there’s that and there’s old russell the schizoid affective
outside tesco drinking a bottle of old speckled hen
and talking about snowfalls... 3 / 4 years ago last time i spotted
saint clause... i slipped and imagined myself breaking a knee...
didn’t happen... what happened was was a clearer truth:
why this fake image stimulant... i cant’ watch the stars
but have to subconsciously watch candy crush?
it’s **** i want the days within the insignia of war,
i don’t want my subconscious patented with candy crush,
i want the stars to remain... better an autocrat than a technocrat...
at least a human face... adolf touchy-feely,
here we go...
i imagine all those rivers of heraclitus concerning a coordinate
known as a waterfall... and post-humous exactness expressing peace...
then i spot picasso on the roof outside my bedroom window...
i support his elevation through evangelicalism from halo to angels wings...
you know what the three wise babylonians said...
you scared them to egypt you idiot announcing reign of the ditto,
you scared them them with myrrh, melchior you’re already close to malachi,
that will do... look at it... it’s babylonian already...
it’s a babylon of orthodox christianity (greek / russian), catholicism,
protestantism, baptists, pantheists and other offshoots
like being mormon!
well you can never make an omelette by the dozen involved
without asking the thirteenth egg: chicken or egg first? crucifix?! oh.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
The wind, the wind, the wind; a bugle for the hours of our darkness puffing the moon to radiant madness like bloodshed leaking upon the soil.
We detect the method in our folly, but douse truth like a candle flame. We rigidly seek out bereavement to the tempest’s howling shame.
The wind, the wind, the wind weeping a blanket for such coldness, a mantle for our threadbare shoulders, its agony holding in our disgrace.
Costumes litter our doorways year round; masks of suffering to cover the mourning in our eyes, as phantoms to fold over our speech.
The wind, the wind, the wind; the sign language of exactness blowing from hand to fist, from our breath to bereavement.
© 2010 by mark prime
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 12:07 PM UTC
Why is it so difficult to maintain
And to keep maintaining
An equilibrium?
Why is it so impossible to be
A little of both,
A little of none?
Why is it so, so unthinkable to have
That stability
That acceptance
That sheer pleasure of
Not having to lose one in order to keep another?
Why can’t one be
A pivot?
Why must there be
A victor?
Why must an
Equal
Always become some sort of a
subordinate runner up
For you to prove your own worth?
Do you see competition
When you look at your own
Virtuality
In the honesty of a mirror?
Do you wonder whether the
Fragility of the glass
Prefers your face to that of your reflection?
And then,
With all that might
You pretend to have to the world,
Do you pound down on
That very same glassy frangibility
And
Break
It
For a supposition,
For an assumption
of inferiority
That the crystal did nothing
To prove, provoke or propel?
If not, then why are you
Shattering
Both, the glass and the reflection?
Why are you so eager
To run away from the exactness of your proximity
To the glass;
from the equality of your peer?
And why,
Why do the actions of the image
Bother you
When it actually does nothing but
replicate your own?
Why does the shattered glass
Create no shard of
The solidity of your soul
When its only sin was being
A pivot
Between you and your compeer.
Why.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
when i've tripped a star
whole over night
the silver flinging
of its crispest muting has
a daughter shed
of lightness
eyes its
their
teetering upon
perfectly easy winking
and her hands are so
they feel like
like when
night is so long
and hot it
stifles moving into
a pinch of stillness contained
by the exactness of my square room
struggles to retain
that lovely burning
o' 'er
splendor splitting
wings so gentle
i painful pinning
have neatly to keep
their body's wonder
to my sheets
sweat so glowing
as like the yowl
of dying day
it cleaves easily
darkness
and it rises 'pon
love after
love it
soars
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
you will only look for which road i have
passed, with girth of oceans startled
to hip-curve, bow-legged darling
hiding behind pretense of rose frailty.
when words ripen, they fall.
from vaudeville of fools to silence
in all its exactness, i take my place
amongst people in stations, machines
adorning rotundas, courtyards to a flourish of twilight-bells, the men with retinas spry behind cloaks of smoke—
plain, **** drunkenness assaults
the billion-blooded sea, each line fraught
with inebriation: a god is borrowed with
what light fruits from a slow nature, quick
to burst and torturously maimed in stride.
fated to arrive at one morning —
being in total placeness and making merry
once again, the dreary face waiting at
the portico of days collected.
when these words start to wind-hover,
a string of birds will appear clearer,
mounting umbilicus of lines.
as in hounds shear the metastasizing dark,
going back to chagrined kens,
i make truth out of the tragedy:
trace the source of this stream and find
my trampled body, floating with
the sandalwood. when the still, clenched hand clock-punches,
make real the insignia of my arrival:
words start with limbs to cross
this scalped Earth which moves suddenly naked, leaning in, gropes you
in stillness, resuscitating the moon from
the working of insolvencies we rear
in derelicts of days.
drags it closely to ends — left trundling
in woe's wearisome vessel. and if in
this newly thatched home it screams,
let this voice deftly shred
so i may once more lie straight to your
half-illuminated faces, a call i
only hear.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
What precious stones have fallen
to ripple through the unknown.
A wilderness of insects,
the minute exactness
of wing intricacy
tick ticks in the undergrowth.
In grass by the footprints of man
the whole world has grown
around sure infant heels,
its earthy shadow lingers
as first perceptions of death
are weaved gently into fables,
stroking our children's sacred brow
wisely with sorrow - Where
did Grandpa really go? Yet
on the fringe of morning,
the shrinking world falling
back around our footprints - They wonder
with reason, posing their first questions
of God.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
My cushions bow where I've taken sleep
And tossing sheets along their creases
Sameness come the time I upright-
-To the days I reap
Same hours fly and crawl eavesdropping on my mind
White flowers pigmented by waters where they drink
I endure until I can retreat
To long suffer a recess I am always close to find
The springs in my mattress know my weight
Their creaking a sound as lullaby
To rock me in same exactness played-
-In every end of day
The flip side has married wooden frame
Coupled till the death of mine will break
Wrap me with pleated lily craft-
-So we can always stay
Same hours fly and crawl eavesdropping on my mind
White flowers pigmented by the waters where they drink
I endure until I can retreat
To long suffer a recess I am always close to find
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC