"facticity" poems - Hello Poetry

Huddling and cuddling I held you so lightly Do you remember those cold nights my child? You were mumbling and drooling, and cooed ever so slightly When I pointed at the moon, you looked up and smiled “Mooooon!” I said to you, to which you replied, “Mooo!” And then I laughed a little - and maybe - I cried We’d shared an experience so unfathomable in consequence And by naming it, to you I had lied Will you forgive me my child, for that cosmic crime? The moment when I stole that which shone in your eyes When you echoed my mistakes reverberating in time But ignorant, I wrapped you, so snugly in those dark skies Do you remember those cold nights my child? In this cold night, the moon has lit up full again Only tonight, our bodies share not this blanket of lights Disillusioned with disillusions we have become since then But still I wish to unwrap you from the words I write My child, I ask you, look up once more, But let not facticity blindfold your sight Feel that which language bids you withhold And play I pray with the rabbit that lives in the sky

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Jul 4, 2012

Jul 4, 2012 at 9:33 AM UTC

parveen-sagar

The Moon

Huddling and cuddling I held you so lightly Do you remember those cold nights my child? You were mumbling and drooling, and cooed ever so slightly When I pointed at the moon, you looked up and smiled “Mooooon!” I said to you, to which you replied, “Mooo!” And then I laughed a little - and maybe - I cried We’d shared an experience so unfathomable in consequence And by naming it, to you I had lied Will you forgive me my child, for that cosmic crime? The moment when I stole that which shone in your eyes When you echoed my mistakes reverberating in time But ignorant, I wrapped you, so snugly in those dark skies Do you remember those cold nights my child? In this cold night, the moon has lit up full again Only tonight, our bodies share not this blanket of lights Disillusioned with disillusions we have become since then But still I wish to unwrap you from the words I write My child, I ask you, look up once more, But let not facticity blindfold your sight Feel that which language bids you withhold And play I pray with the rabbit that lives in the sky

22

It was raining and it was morning. They sat in the car underneath a tree, upon a hill, overlooking the vast cemetery below. Clichès still have the potential to be beautiful, they know. Intellectual awareness allows for understood symbolism, the death of that which dies at a cemetery, the emotional downpour demarcated by rain, the interstitial distance of looking forward and down. Silence and language working symbiotically as a stratagem to both hide and reveal vulnerability. The clichè of their location works with the conversation. He is sad. She knows. She knows the emotional location he lives within, she purposefully disregarded his eyes, those eyes that have always stared at her from the mirror, her eyes. The eyes of those with hollow love for themselves. The selfishness of selflessness, the facticity of unfortunate neurological tendencies, the self-imposed limitations. They speak. He speaks. She hears him speak, she who is devoid of empathy, she reaches empathy through his words, she hears the thesis of her own thoughts, she cries. She cries because he narrates her perception of herself, through narrating his perception of himself, and she knows the meaning of it. He cries because it is his. He looks away. He says I don't want you to know the things about me. The things that are disgusting. She loves those things. It's not enough. She knows. She talks to herself, she talks to him. She takes his hand, they cling to the ephemeral union. It stops raining. They walk into the chapel, the ashes of those who lived resting upon glass bookshelves, behind glass cases. They sit upon a couch in silence. They collapse, against each other. Two women observe the marble of the mausoleum. They arise. The women are startled. The women didn't see them sitting; they were three feet away. He takes her home. They fade into wordlessness during the drive. They look at each other with desperation at a stop sign. She says goodbye. She walks away. They walk away.

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Apr 12, 2016

Apr 12, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC

darbi-howe

Saturday At the Cemetery

It was raining and it was morning. They sat in the car underneath a tree, upon a hill, overlooking the vast cemetery below. Clichès still have the potential to be beautiful, they know. Intellectual awareness allows for understood symbolism, the death of that which dies at a cemetery, the emotional downpour demarcated by rain, the interstitial distance of looking forward and down. Silence and language working symbiotically as a stratagem to both hide and reveal vulnerability. The clichè of their location works with the conversation. He is sad. She knows. She knows the emotional location he lives within, she purposefully disregarded his eyes, those eyes that have always stared at her from the mirror, her eyes. The eyes of those with hollow love for themselves. The selfishness of selflessness, the facticity of unfortunate neurological tendencies, the self-imposed limitations. They speak. He speaks. She hears him speak, she who is devoid of empathy, she reaches empathy through his words, she hears the thesis of her own thoughts, she cries. She cries because he narrates her perception of herself, through narrating his perception of himself, and she knows the meaning of it. He cries because it is his. He looks away. He says I don't want you to know the things about me. The things that are disgusting. She loves those things. It's not enough. She knows. She talks to herself, she talks to him. She takes his hand, they cling to the ephemeral union. It stops raining. They walk into the chapel, the ashes of those who lived resting upon glass bookshelves, behind glass cases. They sit upon a couch in silence. They collapse, against each other. Two women observe the marble of the mausoleum. They arise. The women are startled. The women didn't see them sitting; they were three feet away. He takes her home. They fade into wordlessness during the drive. They look at each other with desperation at a stop sign. She says goodbye. She walks away. They walk away.

20

The bones of our friendship accuse me, brittle; not gleaming, dull and dry, resonant of forgetfulness their facticity desiccating, chipping, drifting into obscure cracks in the ossuary of recollection. Each mute bone is a stick upon taught silence rat-tat-tatting a twisting wheezing death roll bones drumming for an audience of none, echoing through the past, oblivious to the cadence of the living. There is no salvation from the wheel. You turn and spin, a constellation in my memories. Rat-tat-tat Amogasidi! Do not be deterred. Align the maze. Open the door from Samsara! Rat-tat-tat.

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Jan 19, 2015

Jan 19, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC

rw-khalid-curley

Passage

The bones of our friendship accuse me, brittle; not gleaming, dull and dry, resonant of forgetfulness their facticity desiccating, chipping, drifting into obscure cracks in the ossuary of recollection. Each mute bone is a stick upon taught silence rat-tat-tatting a twisting wheezing death roll bones drumming for an audience of none, echoing through the past, oblivious to the cadence of the living. There is no salvation from the wheel. You turn and spin, a constellation in my memories. Rat-tat-tat Amogasidi! Do not be deterred. Align the maze. Open the door from Samsara! Rat-tat-tat.

18

When ancient Greeks dwelt upon notions Of matter and its nature, formulating philosophies Of physics to grasp and get a glimpse at the Universe, A single common inspired idea, bound them all in reflection: ‘Nothing comes into existence from nothing’. There had to be eternal surviving basic elements unable To be created or destroyed, continuously mutating to underline Apparent change, while composing all that ever was, is And will be. Omnificent and omnipresent in a godly manner. Evolution laying the grounds for rare creatures To grow into great thinkers, ponder and observe, Empirically prove the facticity of these elements, Philosophical atoms, scientific elementary particles. Notes on the elegant musical score Orchestrating the Universe, its dance and its laws. Indivisible, matter reduced to its core Permeating space and everything within. This basic notion twirls in my head Pervading my being with the awareness of its substance: I am part of all that exists and with it, I share my essence. A consequent conscious feeling of unity With the Universe, all that exists and the humankind. A sense of inevitable peace, While accepting to be a part of it all. Harmonic realisation that combined we are Nothing more and nothing less Than the Universe becoming aware Of Itself.

0

May 22, 2017

May 22, 2017 at 4:26 AM UTC

aurorakastanias

Indivisible

When ancient Greeks dwelt upon notions Of matter and its nature, formulating philosophies Of physics to grasp and get a glimpse at the Universe, A single common inspired idea, bound them all in reflection: ‘Nothing comes into existence from nothing’. There had to be eternal surviving basic elements unable To be created or destroyed, continuously mutating to underline Apparent change, while composing all that ever was, is And will be. Omnificent and omnipresent in a godly manner. Evolution laying the grounds for rare creatures To grow into great thinkers, ponder and observe, Empirically prove the facticity of these elements, Philosophical atoms, scientific elementary particles. Notes on the elegant musical score Orchestrating the Universe, its dance and its laws. Indivisible, matter reduced to its core Permeating space and everything within. This basic notion twirls in my head Pervading my being with the awareness of its substance: I am part of all that exists and with it, I share my essence. A consequent conscious feeling of unity With the Universe, all that exists and the humankind. A sense of inevitable peace, While accepting to be a part of it all. Harmonic realisation that combined we are Nothing more and nothing less Than the Universe becoming aware Of Itself.

29

Passage The bones of our friendship accuse me, brittle; not gleaming, dull and dry, resonant of forgetfulness their facticity desiccating, chipping, drifting into obscure cracks in the ossuary of recollection. Each mute bone is a stick upon taught silence rat-tat-tatting a twisting wheezing death roll bones drumming for an audience of none, echoing through the past, oblivious to the cadence of the living. There is no salvation from the wheel. You turn and spin, a constellation in my memories. Rat-tat-tat Amogasidi! Do not be deterred. Align the maze. Open the door from Samsara! Rat-tat-tat.

0

Jan 19, 2015

Jan 19, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC

rw-khalid-curley

Untitled

Passage The bones of our friendship accuse me, brittle; not gleaming, dull and dry, resonant of forgetfulness their facticity desiccating, chipping, drifting into obscure cracks in the ossuary of recollection. Each mute bone is a stick upon taught silence rat-tat-tatting a twisting wheezing death roll bones drumming for an audience of none, echoing through the past, oblivious to the cadence of the living. There is no salvation from the wheel. You turn and spin, a constellation in my memories. Rat-tat-tat Amogasidi! Do not be deterred. Align the maze. Open the door from Samsara! Rat-tat-tat.

19

Hold my glass Even if it is my third, sixth time whatever to take the mic I feel a catharsis coming up Why people need to take away my one and only guilty pleasure What is wrong with reading And writing tales in my phone? Do you think I do not learn anything from them? Not all writings are fruitless I am better than people who uses chapels as an internet cafe They scroll mindlessly in their news feeds Pardon your brainless child, God But I find chapels peaceful Your presence alone sings with tranquility And when it does, countless thoughts form in my head I cannot sleep in day nor night as long as I do something about them So with my fingers, I type So with my pen, I dance Even if I sound like a kid who rants a lot in the internet Even if I am still immature for the matures Even if I am still a novice to this billion-year old planet Even if I am perturbed in whether publishing them or not But to facticity When I was a mere seedling I am always obscured I did not lend my mouth to those who are in my age and even out of age that I find low-leveled to me I have no one to talk to but myself At least that is what my ghost processed I am not good at anything except for swordfighting It helped me unleash the monsters I have been not willing to let anyone see I am already abused for having a distorted mentality Now I am being abused by distorted reality Oh, am I haughty yet? Pardon my noisy, sleepless mind That will not let me speak out loud If you disgrace reading, try slowly, little by little first I am telling you, it is a nice picturesque to be in Paint your own scenery Contemplate the unheard Dance with any melodies of art Even if it is not by a stylus So tell me, why do I deserve that preaching When there are worse than me Have I done something to wreck your life Have I done a huge, lawless crime When I am just sitting through the Holy silence with a book in my mind

0

Jan 20, 2019

Jan 20, 2019 at 8:55 AM UTC

insertname

Cafe Catharsis

Hold my glass Even if it is my third, sixth time whatever to take the mic I feel a catharsis coming up Why people need to take away my one and only guilty pleasure What is wrong with reading And writing tales in my phone? Do you think I do not learn anything from them? Not all writings are fruitless I am better than people who uses chapels as an internet cafe They scroll mindlessly in their news feeds Pardon your brainless child, God But I find chapels peaceful Your presence alone sings with tranquility And when it does, countless thoughts form in my head I cannot sleep in day nor night as long as I do something about them So with my fingers, I type So with my pen, I dance Even if I sound like a kid who rants a lot in the internet Even if I am still immature for the matures Even if I am still a novice to this billion-year old planet Even if I am perturbed in whether publishing them or not But to facticity When I was a mere seedling I am always obscured I did not lend my mouth to those who are in my age and even out of age that I find low-leveled to me I have no one to talk to but myself At least that is what my ghost processed I am not good at anything except for swordfighting It helped me unleash the monsters I have been not willing to let anyone see I am already abused for having a distorted mentality Now I am being abused by distorted reality Oh, am I haughty yet? Pardon my noisy, sleepless mind That will not let me speak out loud If you disgrace reading, try slowly, little by little first I am telling you, it is a nice picturesque to be in Paint your own scenery Contemplate the unheard Dance with any melodies of art Even if it is not by a stylus So tell me, why do I deserve that preaching When there are worse than me Have I done something to wreck your life Have I done a huge, lawless crime When I am just sitting through the Holy silence with a book in my mind

45