"explorative" poems
I would've loved to meet her.
The sweetness you spoke in her honor.
A gentle breeze in a month of freezes.
Electric, connective, explorative.
I would love to meet the next.
The sweetest of peas.
Only bluest when being overly fruitful.
Reflections of trekking tower of the familial tree.
Expectations of expecting in introspect.
Forgive me for being greedy, wanting to be involved in your life.
Forgive me for involving my love.
I shall let the resting rest, the ones that need rest to get rested, and give my mind and soul a rest.
Ifeanyichuku Okoro © 2023
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 12:59 AM UTC
Lovely skies
Dark with clouds and rain
Leaden skies
Lead, Pb, Plumbum
Flat diffuse light, photographer's dream
Latin 4 lead = plumbum
We plumb our psychic oceans' depths, as the sailors did
With lead on their sinker lines
We plumb our depths if we choose
When we are earnestly explorative
Reflecting, meditating, in our psychic plumbing
Pb: the ugly duckling brother of glowing gold
Au of the aura Aurum
Both are soft, malleable, unassailable, & so helpful
Gold like Thor the glowing hero, lead like Vulcan the sooty artificer
We have made one the hero, and misused,
Demonized, besmirched the metal lead
Is it lead's fault we have put it in our paint, our gas?
That we made it accumulate in our fish, like fools?
Without lead, your car would not start
Imagine going on your trips on a mule
Or trundling down the road in an ox cart
Do not denounce lovely lead
Gravid, protector, quiet engine starter
Gently available to you to plumb your depths
Before your chapter's demise
Leaden skies
Lovely skies
Gravid with rain
Keep me grounded, serene and sane
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
a voltage feeds my mind
like that of a brief rainfall
where there is an asterisks
of insignificant social commentary
whose reality pertains
to disproportionate events
whose commission
makes a profession out of trivia
which is no more ******* durable
than accumulated dispersion of adrenalin
that of a psychophysical explorative
exploitation of unrealized
perpetual fermentation
that seethes with the singeing smell
that accompanies its lie
those demanding untruths
that lock each and everyone
in a burning prison of panic
a prism of unfocused
visionary liberation perhaps to some
the realization of the cosmos
that lives within the poets interior
a mighty roar of space
waiting to be filled
with visions of future worlds
of future social commentary
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
Translucent, red traffic light
Belongs so comfortably
No one made a fuss over its colour
Just an instinct for the shade
The perfect pigment
No hustle, no alarm
Being the man who ponders this
Am I not allowed the breeze or the brevity?
Are we blessed to fidget the cigarette?
Cursed to be tense
I imagine a mellow, white man
Prancing on a set of traffic lights
Naturally pristine and silky
He plays in an explorative band
Rock and roll on scalpels
So smooth, that breathing
Not a single itch
I’m going to achieve such a feat
One day
I’ll be a queen *****
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC
Unable to get into the Monet show,
Too many people there, too many cars,
We spent the Sunday morning at Bowl Pond
A mile from the Museum, where no one was,
And walked an hour or so around the rim
Beside five acres of flowering waterlilies
Lifting three feet above their floating pads
Huge yellow flowers heavy on bending stems
In various phases of array and disarray
Of Petals packed, unfolded, opening to show
The meaty orange centers that become,
When the ruined flags fall away, green shower heads
Spilling their wealth of seed at summer’s end
Into the filthy water among small fish
Mud-colored and duck moving explorative
Through jungle pathways opened among the fronds
Upon whose surface water drops behave
Like mercury, collecting in heavy silver coins
Instead of bubbles; some few redwinged blackbirds
Whistling above all this once in a while,
The silence else unbroken all about.
“Monet” by Howard Nemerov from The Selected Poems of Howard Nemerov. © Swallow Press, 2003.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 12:35 AM UTC
At first,
Love was captivating.
a beckoning temptress
with lips whispering compliments
and desires and promises.
And then,
Love was unbridled.
a stallion galloping across terrain
the wind in his mane
vivacious and carefree.
At times,
Love was insecure.
spilling tears and confessions
fearing scorn or withdrawal
twisting with pain.
Of course,
Love was confident.
beaming with adoration:
ostentatious jubilance or
a quiet security.
Strangely,
Love was alone.
ripening and explorative
discovering the importance of
Self before other.
Perhaps there’s no one True set definition
and those who try
to grasp for dictionary restrictions
ultimately fail.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 5:18 AM UTC
I've felt like a sailor a lot lately
An explorative scientist of sorts
Documenting my interpretation of life, into the void
The worst on these pages exist in the concrete world
But it's possible they could never be read
If a tree falls in the forest...
I mean
If a tree writes you a love letter in the forest
and seals it with liquid amber and pine straw
and buries it, snug under deep roots
Does it make a sound?
Can I tell you the truth with telepathy?
Can I hear yours?
If I dig a hole deep enough can I find the words you'll never tell me?
I'll close me eyes
and wait for a sign
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
All that glitters never meant much to me,
Petals fall & fade, withering along with time like its temporary immortality,
Money joining suit in its temporary fervour, but never buying love as the Beatles crooned.
So let me tell you what does:
The look on your face when I've made you happy with a surprise or two;
The sound of your laughter reverberating through the air as I cowl in my witty silly remarks;
The mental connection that pleasantly astounds me with every thought-stealing line and mirrored gestures-humour-reaction-action;
How your words has awaken the inner dormant writer/poet and inspired to put my venomous quill to paper again;
How you make me feel beautiful, appreciated and respected, just the way I am;
Your empathy and understanding that chase the dark clouds away and silence my demons;
The way we make love with the glances we exchange in public like there's no one around;
The way we make love with our bodies, explorative archaeologists tracing each other's landscapes gently-sweetly-devilishly;
How you claim my arm across, intertwining with yours, caressing it as if it's a part of you;
When your palm holds my face lovingly while we exchange sweet kisses, nibbles and all;
Blowing soft breaths onto our goosebumpy skins, whispering how much we love each other;
Cheekily stealing smooches at traffic light stops which never seem to be long enough;
Resting your head on my sturdy shoulder as I cushion mine into yours, christening it with my lips,
As we serenade that BSB song transporting me back to 14 again.
And the realization pierces me through like truth always does:
That I would not trade any moment, any era, any wish, any desire
Than the one right now with you that has headily grasped me so:
A dizzying cocktail of drugs that is you.
Shalini Nayar
31.10.14
(c) 2014
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
The journey here was entrancing
and the state of semi-consciousness
induced by the wavering waters
has been stretched out to theme the weekend
Helped occasionally by smokes of something special
we’ve been coexisting in harmonious condition
of pure laziness
Our biggest achievement walking to Palm Beach
Which we lengthened creating circles around
Before realising it was in fact in front us
Since we arrived
Our companion Cecil has been guarding us
Whilst we sleep in the shade
And leading us on the way to the local fishing village
Where we’ve adopted the Ugandan pace of exploration
And have enjoyed the local tastes
Sessee sounds like we are walking through natures ****
The birds making out in trees are plugged into amps
Whilst the crickets chirp in competition
And the chickens cockadoodledo
The birdlife is vastly variable
and the bat in the bedroom an unexpected guest
Perhaps explaining the piles of roof debris upon our beds
But also accountable to the bugs gnawing wood
The dead frog in the shoe was an unwelcome companion
and upset the pleasure
taken from a lone explorative beach strole
paddling upon white sands in the shores of Victoria
But it was soon forgotten with a game of smackabum
and some drunken discussion
trying to distinguish Wafargi from Farigi
The Waragi has hit our heads
Needless to say next day our hurts are hurting
and we’re frowning at the fishy friends
accompanying us on the journey home
….nothing a rolex (or two) can’t fix though
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
Must be a leader, a go getter, a finisher,
must have wifi...
Enjoy coffee and tea
more or as much as me!
The outdoors, adventure and explorative nature
are mandatory.
Never curses or calls me names.
Must be fatherly material, with a wild side of child.
Must love God and Jesus.
Also have 3 passions besides me.
My future man shall support me and his dreams.
I'm really not asking for much, the "musts"
are top of the list!
The last wasn't all bad,
but
this list was created from his mistakes.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 7:22 PM UTC
I have days of light... days when the sun shines with splendor, highlighting the majesty of the mountain range. A warm gusty wind barrels across the open prairie, sweeping locks of auburn hair across my face and touching my heart with the knowledge that I am completely, painfully alive. These are the days when I am awed at how quickly love can blossom in one's life, and I hold this fragile, young, new love with hopeful tenderness. I stand captivated by this beautiful existence that I have been ****** into, and embrace the explorative adventure that lies in front of me. These are the days that tell me to keep on living.
I have days of darkness... days when any sliver of hope is so far beyond my reach, I cannot muster the energy to strive for it. Days that leave me yearning for all things familiar; the comfort of being surrounded by those who know every broken piece of me, sometimes better than I know myself. I am swallowed by a darkness so thick, every star is blotted out before me. And I stumble: longing to trace my fingers across the grooves of an oak tree I have carved into my mind since childhood. These are the days that leave me weeping in the shadows, pounding bloodied fists on a door that will no longer open to me.
These roiling emotions as different as night and day themselves. There are days that I am more alive than I have ever been; and days when death itself would be less painful. But through every single one, I cling to my only constant: and that is the goodness of my God.
Yes, he is faithful and just. I know his mercy endures across the ages, his steadfast love never fails. I am promised that his plans for me are to prosper, and not to harm. These are wonderful truths; but this is not what sustains me. The truth is,
He is worthy.
He is worthy of so much more than I could ever offer; and so the least I can do is give him all of me. Today may be a day of darkness, but I worship in brokenhearted joy, knowing that the light of the world dwells within me. I am learning to let that daylight out.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 1:35 PM UTC