"fruition" poems
Your my universe. I hope you know,
Your the earth beneath my feet
Supporting my every need
Your the sun high above
Refreshing me every morning
With your warmful glow
Your the moon above my head
Illuminating the way
Your the stars shooting across the sky
Attempting to reach me to make
My dream come to fruition.....
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
A dream dreamt for a millennium
Everyday oozing away as I badgered and prayed
For one splendiferous day
To feel limitless and ecstatic in my cranium.
Suddenly, my dream came to fruition
All this time was worth the anticipation
My brittle bones became strong through elation
My every cell frenetic with love's constitution.
The dream fulfilled
Vanished without warning
Soaking my heart in distrust and mourning
Creating in the center of my mind an emptiness so still.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
Enchanted by spring’s
rustling whispers
... whistles swirl
in the pungent springtime breeze;
steeped with a bedazzling
cadence
heart dancing
to a hummingbird’s
whirs
waves of breath,
of little wings waft,
whooshing throughout
twining honeysuckle lattice
a
tiny manger
beset of hidden gold
precious speckled eggs,
silver lining of smallest hopes
fruits of fruition
continuum beheld prize,
concealed in interwoven rootlets;
potently perfumed flowers
while away
the waning dark hours;
swollen full flower moon
waxing yellow,..
heavenly fragrance
sweetly-scented suckled nectar
the one with eyes of a child,
wonder ― hidden inside,
marvel in the light of grateful eyes
imbibing an unholdable moment's
spellbinding elixir
... poetry alive
air so poignantly perfumed
with blossom
moonstruck
by spring’s frolicking cadency
a reverent moment's
edifying intoxication
a sobering beauty that just is...
someone ... May 2017
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
Polished and refined,
With death I have found
A life below ground
A place I can call mine
Destruction and evil deeds
A breeding of pure hate
Is all that I can create
Out of all these heartless seeds
I punch them in
To the deep sullen dirt
Water them with vengeance
And a sprinkling of hurt
Tonight is the night
I find what dwells below
I don't have a key
But I can bargain with my soul
As I place it into these seeds
I am but reeds in the grass
I'm letting go
Only Heaven knows
The blackness of Hell's wrath
I plant my lifeless soul in this plot
To groom it as it grows
So slowly that nobody knows
It's the place the devil goes to rot
Watered with tears, warmed with fire
And as time stands still, never changing
This fruition of evil continues growing
Until the depths of hell can go no higher
Then it will bloom
A flowering gloom
Growing out of control
The ground will harden
In this here garden
Fertilized by my soul
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
Soul to feed,
from origins
of the first love,
not greed,
not of nutrition
but fruition,
and of need.
Starts with belief.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
I can't write...
I have a stash of twenty drafts, bearing a couple of lines each
I can't crack...
Every draft seem to have developed a shell I can't breach
I can't gather...
My thoughts so I could nurture these drafts to fruition
I can't think...
The clatter in my head meant only to deafen
I can't fathom...
What went right from what had gone completely awry
I can't find...
Much needed sanity to let soar and fly
I can't cry...
The tears I've beckoned for so very badly
I can't scream...
Only muffled gurgles of notions drowned at sea
I can't see...
The bigger picture...that consumed us both
I can't hear...
Except for the dreaded voice of reason that I loathe
I can't piece...
Together one decent little write
***I can't breathe...
I can't breathe...***I'm losing this fight
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,
I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!
Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,
I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!
For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,
Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!
Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,
A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!
Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,
Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,
Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!
Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;
I finagle in my filigree!
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
The invitation had arrived and I was over the moon
It is really quite a mouthful, and it is coming soon
The Second International Gender Non-Specific
Inter-Denominational, from Atlantic to Pacific
Freshwater Synchronized Swimming Competition
It's been eight years since the first was won by China
It was held in Illinois in a place known as Medinah
Turns out the swimmers used were just not what they seemed
The chinese had a total of nine atheists on their team
So, the time has come to try again and bring it to fruition
The I.G.N.I.D Freshwater Synchronized Swimming Competition
No date has been decided yet, due to issues with each church
So, even though the invitations out, we're still left in the lurch
Saturday is out because the Jews are all at temple
Sunday, the Christians all must set a good example
Friday, cuts the muslims out for they are at Mosque praying
So we've four days to hold this meet, is what I am now saying
The Chinese team is back again, but the Atheists are out
The team's made up of Christians and two Jews who are devout
Their working on a movement that involves making a cross
The Christian swimmers get it but the Jews don't give a toss
The team from Israel's withdrawn because they are all sitting Shivah
They had a coach drown last week, he hit his head while in the River
The Arabs won't be back, you see they're not interested in the least
They get confused while under water and don't know which way is east
The I.G.N.I.D Freshwater Synchronized Swimming Competition
Will take place in the New Year, we just need to get permission
The Jews won't swim with Muslims, and the Sikhs are up in arms
Because swimming with their daggers may cause other swimmers harm
But, we've got a great location at the lake up at the park
We can use it when we want to , but it must be after dark
Remember keep an eye out for a poster where you pray
We don't know just when we'll hold it, it may just be today
This is your invitation and the event is coming soon
It is really quite a mouthful, and it'll be held beneath the moon
The Second International Gender Non-Specific
Inter-Denominational, from Atlantic to Pacific
Freshwater Synchronized Swimming Competition
See you there...
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
We women fold linen
some believe we live solely in the kitchen
we are a force of nature,
we nurture children, we are driven,
we kiss things better, we matter.
We women hold opinions
we women mould opinions,
where else but in the kitchen,
nurturing, washing, listening,
dishing wisdom with love.
We women are cloaked
in many roles,
politician, clinician,
villain, lover, mother, cook
smothering all under our cloak.
We women suffer more
due to our nature, we're also tougher
than a right hook!
Duck next time women are driven
to anger.
We women are the ignition
of life, love and understanding
we go by many names,
Mother, sister, aunt, wife and nan.
Our own name lost to time.
Would I want to be a man?
No.
We women are fruition,
we are magicians,
we are are giants in our own right.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
I tied together
a few slender reeds, cut
notches to breathe across and made
such music you stood
shock still and then
followed as I wandered growing
moment by moment
slant-eyes and shaggy, my feet
slamming over the rocks, growing
hard as horn, and there
you were behind me, drowning
in the music, letting
the silver clasps out of your hair,
hurrying, taking off
your clothes.
I can't remember
where this happened but I think
it was late summer when everything
is full of fire and rounding to fruition
and whatever doesn't,
or resists,
must lie like a field of dark water under
the pulling moon,
tossing and tossing.
In the brutal elegance of cities
I have walked down
the halls of hotels
and heard this music behind
shut doors.
Do you think the heart
is accountable? Do you think the body
any more than a branch
of the honey locust tree,
hunting water,
hunching toward the sun,
shivering, when it feels
that good, into
white blossoms?
Or do you think there is a kind
of music, a certain strand
that lights up the otherwise
blunt wilderness of the body -
a furious
and unaccountable selectivity?
Ah well, anyway, whether or not
it was late summer, or even
in our part of the world, it is all
only a dream, I did not
turn into the lithe goat god. Nor did you come running
like that.
Did you?
6.6k
thus by prosecutor charg-ed, with this crime so heinous~ed,
the judge insisted on a super speedy trial, this, a special case-d
"can't wait to hang this ***** be~deviler,
got me a jail, second only to hell,
if he thinks his hifalutin lawyers will get him de-roped!"
I plead guilty to save the state some moola,
avoid the expense of all the attendant hoopla,
but in my tired defense, I said little but this,
it was god who cursed me with this word-ly power!
now I ain't saying I was naturally bad,
but who are you to judge me so harshly ,
when all I did, with a tool god~given, was,
tell people how beautiful they are, so close.
never far, from bringing them forth to their fruition
so my intentions were good, tho my goose is cooked,
loonily, this I truthfully willingly confess, though just as bad,
I was lazy, I was negligent, I am now hell-bent for many
infractions, the greatest, chiefest of them all, was all the times,
!!!!!
***read a poem much beloved by other's on this blue earth,
weak from jealousy jealous, I never...reposted it! for their way
much better than mine, and I was too selfish to praise them,
so I expect I won't be too lonely in perdition, just another poet***
!!!!!!!! addition
*so children, teach your children well
a poet's hell will slowly go by, if they
fail to repost them hundreds of poems
that mak'em gasp~laugh-just plain weep,
for that will really **** (sorry lord) the one
true judge wh gave us this wordy blessing,
and is eagerly awaiting us special*
sinners
and that just might be my one true name…
(Oh sinner~man!
where are you gonna run too)
[{(]})]
p.s. this poem readily available to be reposted ('jes a 'gestion)
even
plagiarized elsewhere, but remember, when you, who stole it,
somebody's a~watching whose
vision is unimpaired.
plus, I got new software invented by Ai trained teachers,
so so, easy to find ya...
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 5:14 PM UTC
The farthest man made object in space, Voyager 1,
is over 20 billion km away from Earth.
On board is a phonograph record, brilliant gold,
containing sounds and images of what life is like on earth,
A message to whoever is able to listen, a literal shot in the dark.
On it is an inscription that is perhaps the most beautiful sentence
I have ever read
TO THE MAKERS OF MUSIC
ALL TIMES
ALL WORLDS
a time capsule, a gift, from us
To anywhere and everywhere
A hundred years from now or a thousand
Our belief that no matter what time
Or world you belong to, melody and harmony and rhythm, can bring us together, can communicate.
On the cover
Are figures, explaining how to operate this record
Hieroglyphics from what by then
Would be ancient history
Messages in binary, the 1s and 0s
Our position in the universe marked by our distances
from gigantic pulsars, the star map to our home,
the creators of this message
There's beauty in this marriage of math and art
Code and music
As a way to communicate with the universe.
Some of the images on the record are
the most beautifully simple ones,
Of us, humans, drinking and eating, laughing,
of animals, nature, food and architecture.
Then there are images of our scientific observations,
mathematical calculations, our discoveries,
Like a child showing off
Look, look what I can do!
Black and white and in colour,
Pictures, proof that we, indeed have lived and achieved.
The music, classical, our very best from Bach and Mozart
to Blind Willie Johnson's Dark was the Night.
But all of this can only matter, can come to fruition
if someone exists to receive it, and is evolved enough
to comprehend what it means.
But that's the thing, everybody knows,
That's there's a slim chance of this record ever being heard,
and it's much more possible that the Voyager will simply end up as floating debris in the cosmos, but it doesn't matter!
We just want someone to know that there was a species of bipedal, intelligent animals on this blue planet,
no different than finding graffiti in alleys that read I WAS HERE.
WE WERE HERE, WE EXISTED.
And it's all about that hope, the hope that someone will see us,
our pictures, listen to our languages, our greetings, our music, and remember us, even after we're long gone.
Or perhaps we will one day be interstellar space faring people as well, following the path of the Voyager, doing what we do best,
Explore.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
I can't shake the feeling of being lost
My mind ponders future dreams
But none have come to fruition
What do I have to pay, what is the cost?
I don't want to create elaborate schemes
But I don't want to lose my ambition
Every opportunity, I seem to exhaust
It has become a common theme
An almost permanent condition
Every line has been crossed
My life is breaking at the seams
I'm ready for a new transition
A different disposition
A lasting vision
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
Mindanao rain
drain a mind:
rain, mind an a, o (or lack of
the voweled demarcation)
a man rid
or
a dim man in
a man;
Danao
sings something
blood writes heavily
we have many cicatrices
mind
the
now
arid mind
man rid of
a, o — vowels to
fruition a total emphasis
and man
in a drain, no strong aid
in rain — in the
eyes of
god is the
true
anon man
in the rain
amid rain-moan
or nomad in rain.
a **** I On,
you
complete the atrocity.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
Saturate and brimming of my hometown Boston,
of its sunshine Marathon peoples and bomb images,
my heart fracture rend.
On the third day—resurrection of all my sadness
came to me, feeling fresh and born to fruition,
so this grew.
It grew and through my tears coming,
I stood to witness two loving sparrows
on a window branch.
My sadness at some abeyance, studying and curious
I was of her--all akimbo shivers and rock-in-roll, of him--
flying feathered stone, rolling from branch to branch
and coming home, repeatedly.
Circles flying within moving circles!
Did something happen
with the last jiggle of her branch?
Did you see that? Science says
what they were doing—they had finished.
(But what to believe of science?
It calls their loving--mating rather).
Now to tell you—the sequencing was this:
when I was full knocked down
on account of my grief,
and I hardly had strength to go on,
a Beatles song flew in and gently pierced my heart,
singing to my ear: *Why don't we do it in the road...
no one will be watching us...why, why don't we do it*
O, Spring Life of Sparrow surprises!
Open road, that budding tree,
any new notion is something grand!
How do I say now? That you two
were most helpful, your innocence
forever abiding?
Fly off Sparrows, forever prayer!
I speak this with all my love.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
Reaching a goal, victory in sight.
To be up on that stage, oh what a delight.
Years of hard work coming to fruition.
Now it's time to start paying back tuition.
True character formed, wisdom and knowledge.
Let me tell you what I learned in college.
Forget the status quo, this is all about you
Get up off your couch and create something new.
Success takes hard work, that's not news.
Remember that when you hit the snooze.
So step up your game, get right to action.
Put in the work to find satisfaction.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC
How wonderful it is, I say, to the retreating
yellow form of your feelings I mistook
For Infatuation, you’re a romance heckler
far and far away from
Accepting fruition within classrooms and
being labelled as an angel.
And it was within forbidden hell of
euphoria, I found
You nestled in the society’s psyche
neither content or calling
For help. Neither did you neglect the
pink spectacles of the society,
Even found yourself moulding and moulding
into a fungi green
That I could not recognize, within that
half-sanctum, half-oasis I found you
absentmindedly
Bathing in, you were already out of
its waters.
And I was no longer seeing you within
the dry desert or the sibilance
of my desires, but instead
in cement woodlands and
Within artificial communication and
Intimacy I gave willingly.
Now how does it feel, to have your
heart in one piece,
How does it feel to not use
whipped cream to fill in the
Cracked, salty sections of your
own ***** that,
Out of confusion, continues to
play its favorite song but
in all the wrong beats.
Somehow within cacophony I found
you, nestled, comfortable in
Bogus, fraudulent wings of a former
angel- who now weeps under our
Feet in theory- Somehow, somewhere,
I lost you within an epiphany
That reeked of bliss and pleasure-
Somehow, we end up losing
Twins of the heavens when all is well.
How wonderful.
How wonderful it is, I say, to your
lost, secretly-weeping figure
That I can’t tell whether transparent or
yellow your figure is.
But I keep speaking-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To love the first angel I’ve set
my eyes upon-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To lose an angel, no matter how
phoney, to a social heaven.”
- enriko. aug 5. 11:45pm
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 12:32 PM UTC
I have no idea
What brought me here
To this place,
This mystical temple
Of a sacred space
But here I stand
And my arms
My heart
are wide open
Raised to the heavens
As I pray
Open to receiving miracles
Open to the wonders
Of this love
And I wonder
What an alternate universe
May have brought
But it is pointless
For I am thankful
And happy with what I have
I am happy
To have been created as me
To have created and still
To create
And I am elated
To a heavenly sort of place
As my heart I do consecrate
Raise my eyes to the stellar fires
Bless each and one of my earthly
And unearthly desires
I pour the sacred water
Upon my head
Feel its coolness
In the sparkling night
I feel the divine essence
from above
Bless my spirit, Bless my soul
I thank the Universe
For keeping me whole
For making me a woman,
A mother
A friend devoted
For staying real,
not sugar-coated
For being blessed
A sensual creature
****** delight
a powerful feature)
I am thankful for my strength
And intellectual liberty
And for my constant fight
To keep myself
Free
And, most of all --
I am ever grateful
For this divine opportunity…
Ever humbled, as it is
Bestowed upon me:
To experience
the profound inner light
of my own emotions
to give myself a gift
of utter devotion
to allow myself
without inhibition
the freedom of expression
I was meant for
To come into
Fruition.
Yes, in joy
Yes, in wonder
I raise my head to the heavens
And take in the thunder
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
Our town was to have a rail-line
Circa the mid eighteen nineties
This story has surprised my ears
A local amateur historian apprised me just recently
Documents to support this claim are archived in Sydney
Not far out of our town
On a well know property in the district
Two surveyor pegs are still in existence
Marking the route the rail-line was to track
Though the Forefather's rail-line was never bedded down
The powers that be government leaders of the day
Shelved these impressive plans
They never saw the light of day
Ribbons of steel not coming to fruition
Leading to our town
Other town went ahead rail-lines were established to them
Out town alas and alack missed out
Look where Tamworth and Armidale are to-day
Rail being in their favor
Our town was left to languish and to be dispirited
Going no-where no-where to go
Our Forefather's now lay in their graves
Not quite resting in peace
Their rail proposal for our town unrealized
Good ideas die along with good intentions
Hence their unsettled repose
Our town could have been a regional town
Industry and population dotting the landscape
Rail would have assured our place
The Forefather's rail proposal long since shelved
Consigned into the passing vapor of time
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
My problem is that I don't follow my intuition, even though it always comes to fruition.
It took me some time to really you down. You had my head spinning, round and round.
Ignoring the clues and the giant red flags. I still blame myself for everything you did that was bad.
I trusted you with secrets, bit by bit. Was it all just too much for you? So, you had to split?
Why should I feel guilty for being ignored? I'm the only one wondering, should I have done more.
But that's the whole point of your fun and games. You emotionally strung me along like I was shackled in chains.
How many times have I apologized, for you hurting me because you're emotionally desensitized?
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
No one is here and I feel at ease;
I feel the recesses of my imagination
spring forward as ideas are at the
forefront of my mind,
yet I cannot put them down on paper.
I feel the neon pinks and blues and greens
that I know strongly resonate with me,
but to my dismay,
nothing ever comes to fruition
as much as I hope.
That cliché phrase of, “The sky is the limit,”
drowns me as I realize
parameters and prompts are what guide me
to what I truly want;
the idea of freedom gives me anxiety,
as I am a clueless ant on this plane.
As I look at a solitary trashcan
of impossible black,
this idea of suffocation
truly
encompasses
my mind, inescapable, unreachable, and unattainable.
Yet at the same time,
limits **** darlings.
With this seeming paradox
of open-endedness and limitation,
I set forth on my prompt,
however mundane it may seem now.
This task seemed at first simple,
but it proved difficult at times,
like most mundane looking venues.
My mind is not unlike
a checkerboard stone table:
cold and calculating;
I feel my imagination dies
when my fingers touch keys,
when pen hits paper.
“The sky is the limit,”
drowns me over
and over
and over again.
I look out of my peripherals
and glance at the red building signs,
wishing there was something
as obvious as that for a sense
of direction in my life.
My imagination truly hates me,
my imagination truly loves me;
it is an indecisive companion.
I wish I was alone, but my mind
wishes otherwise.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
our bread and butter...
*the web of stars,
the scatter of moons
and orbiting planets.*
the entire universe
harvested and crammed
into the metre,
of a poetic verse.
our bread and butter...
*harnessing the regal rays of the sun.
inflating the fluff of quiet clouds.
drinking up the winds of the weather.
revering the magic in the flight of birds.*
we fill our cups to the brim...
with fantastical dreams
and let spill
over parchment
the cornucopia of idealised words.
our bread and butter...
the incessant peeling and picking
on healing wounds.
of which we have learnt to savour...
*let bleed
the willing blood...
feed the seeds
with impending flood.*
nurture to fruition
thoughts stunted in discretion.
bring to light
thoughts hidden in the nether.
our bread and butter...
we dip...
the nibs,
of our word worn feathers.
let them sink,
shallow beneath the surface
to the sanctity of a familiar place.
*casting our trials,
and tribulations...
pent up emotions,
and what we think
unto paper
with the burn of
everlasting ink.*
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC