"flurrying" poems
the hum of engines grows louder and louder like a swarm of bees in an angry hive
dotted lines **** past
tilting backward
aiming for the sun
-Ascent
white shelf stretches beneath
light streaming like a flashlight in a bright room.
“Would you like something to drink?”
-Flight
stars above, clouds beneath
a world of ant-like people beyond
a blur. Lights flash to reveal flurrying droplets
the glow of city lights illuminates civilization
a bump. A rush of wind.
-Descent
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
Your deep oceanic eyes dilate
Leaning forward to get that first kiss
He lingers, but you don't wait
Something he'll fondly reminisce
Fingertips trailing his collar
Your hands trace whats unknown
Just as the world becomes much smaller
He pulls you close and let's out a moan
Through his deep gazes you giggle
Your flurrying lungs won't rest-
You can't breathe it's simple
This happiness involuntarily expressed
The smiles never seem to abate
The moments together are pure bliss
The sudden unfounded belief in fate-
Begins from looking straight into the abyss
He makes you tremble and shiver
As he laughs avalanches into you
You begin to feel like a river
You're swept off your feet without clue
And then you panic
You start to realize
You're falling quickly
And he won't be there
To catch you
In between kisses
and laughter
You tease him
"Show me your *******
And then your tone changes
And you say
The forbidden words
And you can't take them back
So your eyes begin to well up
And form into pools, into ponds, into lakes, into oceans
And you're drowning
In your emotions
The sweetness once upon your teeth
Disappears from his soft touch
He seeks you for his own relief
You're both eachothers crutch
Weeks pass and your oceanic eyes
Constrict in the mirror
With bloodshot moons
And panic attacks
You can't breathe
it's simple like that
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 2:19 AM UTC
the sea grabbed bodies, theirs and mine flaming foaming tendrils
ahold of the drifting timber trying to keep gripping, hanging
holding high salt stripped throat shouting Unhand Me, Body-
You'll not have us tonight, but the sea made belly sounds,
bleeding even the pilot, head slipping to the murk my blood
the envy, finally fell out inside and I sank to the floor with the timber and rope-the final moments of vision the setting horison the eye and perhaps an illusion; not-blak sails drifting steady my head vapor shroud eating the sun I fell into the lap of my love, my Mathilda- royalty to seakelp and fog looking on both irises jupiter and mars and thanking the stars furyos vixens above and she stood and she smiled not-blak sails- I admired her silver linen train but a din like desperate men shouting loosed me from my vision; they had seen the sails and all surrounding the lot tantalus's envy the pilot's hands raving Not today! Not today! They feared hotel raft a permanent lodging, jumping, frightened, killing themselves their poor salt-seasoned hearts drifting again more than them no signal observing the sails flurrying trumpets it might see us-it might, it might!
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
___I am sand___ _- drifting formlessly, settling briefly;
dusting edges traced clean by housekeeping’s judicious forefinger._
___I am sand___ _- black with iron and ****** wrath;
shattering glassily against a wine-stained ceiling._
___I am sand___ _- my trespasses turned to pearl;
rippled and flurrying, wedged between sandal-clad toes._
___I am sand___ _- porous with desire yet disarmed by possibility;
a fortress on the brink of invasion by the sea._
___I am sand___ _- recalled to the desert, claggy with melancholy;
a loping caravan of travail, westward bound._
___I am sand___ _- measureless and infinitely uncontainable;
sifting from hour to hour...and life to life._
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 3:40 AM UTC
The feeling of disheartenment thickening on the inside until it reaches your throat.
No longer can you stand it, like barb wire around your neck. You can't breathe by the feelings that have consumed every last inch of your body.
Paralysed, you can't move! Your thoughts run wild within your subconscious, images flurrying; changing continuously until you no longer see what's before you.
Your heart shatters into devastation, the realisation of the cruel surroundings in which you have succumb.
Tears pour down your face, with each trickle you cling to yourself The desperation in your cries, no one hears your plea .
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
My overweight little old dog
Nudges my cheeks
Out of sleep
Waking me
In a way Telling me
He's about to **** the house!
Quickly now I take him out
To the Front patch of lawn
Now frigging covered in freezing snow
The early morning storm, winter-silent
The sky thick-grey with flurrying
Falling snow
**** It's really coming down
Hard
To believe, almost apocalyptic
Snow in Sin City!
Someone tell Trump this is "Global Warming”
A desert dressed in glowing snow.
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 11:35 PM UTC
The static bubbles and
melts into the ears. A
radios noise blazes up
within the summer’s
fading hot spell. Red hues
across a setting sky.
The buzz of mosquitos matching
the electric hum
within the drive.
A bird as quick as life
itself flies by.
It can’t help but
stop and listen to
the newly discovered
tune. A beat so alien
to its blue feathers,
it is more than music.
It is the underlying current carrying
each note.
The white hot electricity
hidden with each lost
drop of the bass. It is
brand new, yet familiar,
like the honey bees in the
spring time, scurrying in
then flurrying out
with the breath of autumns
crisp wind. The spark
of a thousand ideas shocking
the chilling summer air.
The car drives away, the radio with it.
The bird flutters off
humming its one way tune.
A leaf who's lines
are memories blown
by the winds of time.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
isn't it just hilarious how I don't even know how mentally old I am like not in a haha i'm a kindergartner type way but more of a i still haven't found myself type way like the fact that i need a kind of alone version of hide and seek to find myself but i'm still not done counting off yet and i don't know when i will be because things keep changing and flurrying around my head like lost and gone and happy without me and happy before me and four years and seventeen hundred miles and razors and flowers and drip drip drip i don't know where i'm going i don't know where i'm steering and i told myself i wouldn't panic *i won't panic I WONT PANIC I WONT PANIC* but i do anyways and the culmination of all of this is just the beginning the beginning of the end and i can't even see past my own breath and even that escapes me and i just wish you were here you with your hugs and you with your whispers and you with your comfort but you three aren't and i'm stuck in the middle of a mud puddle a mile long and i don't think it's ever going to go away so maybe i should just resign myself to sinking
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 8:06 AM UTC
I miss the
memories
when little
things made
me happy,
why? I am
beginning
to forget
beauty,
from
now
on,
I will
take a
pause
and
remember
what I
love,
moonlight
and cats,
tea,
palettes
and
diaries,
moments
of gentle
kisses
and roses,
I want to
tell you,
do you
ever
know the
feeling
when
you find
a painting
In a gallery
and your
eyes hold
dear this
small
universe,
where
you are
left to feel
this sense
of being
lost,
a being
dismembered
in an ocean
of wonder,
I feel as
If though
I tire of
societal
conventions
on how to
create
conversation
with people,
anyway,
I am so
lost in my
thoughts,
the world
I paint
becomes
a part
of greater
ones in
the tides
of my mind,
while my
surroundings
are calm,
even though
I see people
walking past,
then again,
isn’t silence
a way of
music?
I believe,
you should
embrace
something
that is far
from the
expressions
you have
known,
the chaos
of lips
flurrying
end zone
sentences,
we should
break the
period
and begin
with a
blank
canvas,
color the
beautiful
something
that is you,
I want to
throw away
unrealistic
ways of
how
people
should
look,
does
a white
heron
ask for
smaller
wings?
I wish
to fly
and
reach
the skies
of a milky
heaven
of clouds,
oh, the
places
I can soar
to in the
highest
mountains
of my
dreams,
perhaps,
I will hope
to find
you, and
we will
share the
company
we love
dearly as
ourselves,
for the ones
who love you
unconditionally,
the ones who
will pray for you
and the ones
that allow
their hearts
to unconsciously
whisper your name,
these are the ones
to keep, for they see
themselves in your eyes,
we hold the stars,
wider than the night,
In the evermore of us,
I wonder, will the
most beautiful
moment in life last
forever? the heart,
lost in reverie,
says, “yes”.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
*Awake to promises , dreams
and ambitions , to coffee
and dark bread , to life's intangibles flurrying about
my head
To the truth , to the rain of
depression fought by a pharmacological
roof
A morning ode to dark clouds , knowing full well that
sunshine hides in the background*
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
*Tendril-wafted dunes
of barren sands waffle,
swirl across mindless mile
upon mile, in every direction-
your face appears, a horizon away,
there is little comfort found
in its accompanying echoes.
Drifting sticks caterwauling,
wail on, in the pitched wind,
stretched by distant recollection-
stylus of a scribe named Regret;
each flurrying breeze shifts
turns over and over a new page,
taking with it freshly shed tears.
Foetid droppings steaming out
of some wastrel, desert vagabond
provides a vivid reminder
of how it can never be again,
to kick it away -- desolation
could only deign contaminate
these well-worn wandering shoes.
Head facing forward
wherever the nose points
except in the back of the mind
where gentle oasis burbles-
each leafy frond conceals
intimate moments now buried
within the unmindful desert's belly.*
●○
°
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
Tendril wafted dunes
of barren sands waffle,
swirl across mile
upon mile in every direction-
your face appears a horizon away,
there is little comfort found
in accompanying echoes.
Drifting sticks
wail in the pitched wind,
stretched on distant recollection-
stylus of the scribe named Regret;
each flurrying breeze
turns a new page,
taking with it freshly shed tears.
Foetid droppings
of some wastrel desert vagabond
provide a vivid reminder
of how it can never be again,
to kick it away
would only contaminate
these well-worn wandering shoes.
Head facing forward
wherever the nose points
except in the back of the mind
where the oasis burbles-
each leafy frond conceals
intimate moments now buried
within the unmindful desert's gut.
_________✒
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 2:25 AM UTC