"furling" poems
I
__
i am so much smaller than you
and i can ever
believe...
and you are so much smaller
than you and
i know.
i sit within the winds,
those summer breezes,
some gusty gales, perhaps,
feeling
'the tug
and toss
of its fabulous force
rippling
churning
combing the thinning grey hair on my tired head,
my clothing,
so indistinct,
flapping,
furling,
floating, --filled with this seen-un-seen presence,
and i know
a am so small,
and my life so
ludicrous,
like the air
that comes
and goes
out of its own control,
but,
i am too small,
and unable
to stop this, its invisible assault.
II
__
when i am a-float upon
the great lakes, the oceans
the
rolling
rivers
i live
like a tiny slab of flotsam or
driftwood
sailing
slowly,
circularly,
(oh-so!) quietly
running,
reeling the peeling painted oars of my boat
against
the grainy flashing surface of the waters
rumbling,
rolling
away
this insatiable yearning
to go wherever it takes me to go, but
i know
i am very small,
and cannot control the eddy's creeping currents-
constant-currents
thus
submitting
my wayfaring self
to the
unfathomable.
III
__
these trees towering
above me
around me,
the sapling,
the blanketing
(in my lifetime)
blooming branches
creating
an emotional, outer, physical, inner, spiritual
dwindling
like the leaves left shivering beneath the cold winter's frost,
once casually
falling,
dropping,
drying up around my soul
slipping
into silent winter slumber,
to awaken
again...
--and then!
(to the dismay of my self-enlightened discovery)
i see
how small
i am
only to return again
from that brownish-moist
soil-bed
like a seed
beneath
the ground
never sprouting,
only fogetting,
the once and always forvever
and ever
the natural
insignificance
of being.
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
On this tan cutting board
You earn your corrupted name:
“Alligator pear.”
The serrated blade
Punctures your hide—a balloon
Under a pin’s pressure,
Shades of green furling out.
I’m sure you’d prefer
Vegetable status if you developed
Self-awareness; or maybe
You’d withdraw from knowledge
Of the human type.
I trust my cooking songs—
Slowdive and Chaka Khan—
Can’t hurt you anymore
Than your predestined obliteration;
Mastication via your domesticators:
It all ends in fertilizer.
(Where you began!)
O, avocado, phantom “fruit”
Born of the self-same Life Source,
Schopenhauer’s Will,
My transient enjoyment of you
Within this vegetable salad—
An Achaean enclosed by Trojan blades—
Suffices for a life of sanctity.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
"That's it! I'll take it to the scissors myself!"
Mangled, wrangled, tangled mess,
meandering tendrils coil and cross, clump.
Split ends,
knots so impossibly tied the eagle scout is left bewildered,
sun damage: fried, frizzled, frazzled, frayed.
Broken teeth in a gasping comb,
choking brushes enveloped in the furling mess,
hairspray, fruitless, face it:
(Another) Bad Hair Day.
"That's it! Today's the day!"
The call is made, the appointment scheduled,
you sit and wait.
X's mark the calendar, the day is nigh,
your do's judgement day is at hand.
It's time to settle this.
The day before, you wake up,
absentmindedly getting dressed, drudging through routine,
mirror's the last thing you see.
Crusty eyes suddenly open wide,
as split ends seal and knots unfurl,
sun damage heals and combs sing ceaselessly.
The day is met with a new life,
and the dark days of yore seem like a past life,
as this sunny day seems like all there is.
You laugh at what now appears to be such trivialities,
"Twas a bad hair day! And merely so!"
You allow yourself such a shallow deception.
Your hand grabs the phone, your fingers make the call,
your voice makes the cancellation--
"How could I have been so foolish to resort to such measures?!"
You hang up and scoff at yourself,
a hearty laugh in jest at such hastiness,
tossing and swishing your luscious mane to and fro.
You allow it to slip through your fingers,
on the cusp of the cure,
as the bad hair days truly outnumber the good (you know it to be so).
For the next day will come--
You'll greet the mirror with that heart-wrenching sigh,
in visible anguish at the chaotic mess that encroaches upon your head.
Don't let a good hair day fool you;
make the call.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
the driftwood fits perfectly in my palm
I unspool the seaweed from its taper
furling it about my finger
my marriage to the sea was disputed
with a tiny crab that day
gentle tug-o-war with my heart
and my eruptive roar
echoing his staunch request
to keep his algae blanket - and home
the equivalent of a cardboard box in childhood
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
Your are a flavour of mystic flow and justice
Resounding effortlessly in vapoured divinity
A channel spinning within your furling crux
Cheers to our cups of leisure and pleasure
I turn around and your warmth embraces
I'll wait holding the gaze of your bright eyes
I'll wait touching this revolving total eclipse
I'll wait as I sense our forbidden mind-scapes
I have sensed your whole when we are apart
A near leap to meet,cuddle and feel the vibration
Uncovering the glistening gem that penetrates heat
Fondling the electric ******** oscillations under the bridge
Here is my cup, holding a rapture of your breath
Here is my cup, melodically swirling in fine entertainment
Here is my cup,exhuming and exhaling our magical essences
Our cup it is! Cheers! As we sprout and bloom pleasantly
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 4:59 AM UTC
First comes winter. The hardest to survive.
Cold and barren; the frost eats you alive.
Branches of hope bare; leaves of love decayed,
Around your heart and soul, you’ve built a barricade.
Next is the spring; winter gone at last.
The time for new life, no longer bound to your past.
Resilience gave you another chance;
You refuse to look back now, not even a glance.
Now the summer, best season of all.
You think you've moved on, standing proud and tall.
Growing and blossoming towards the sky,
Barely remembering the last goodbye.
Darker nights now autumn is here,
Doubts create fog this time of year.
Leaves of joy and fulfilment are furling and falling,
Memories of lost love you just keep recalling.
Then winter strikes again, but not quite as strong,
You wonder why you still haven’t moved on.
Reliving every mistake and regret,
The frost bites your skin. It won’t let you forget.
The seasons repeat until you become winterless,
Your bark has healed, you are finally splinterless,
Life now a lattice of long summer, carefree spring,
But occasionally the autumn may sometimes creep in.
Or so that is what I hear,
But I still have winter as part of my year.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
Teetles tuppled storpidly, along the clurby path
Her toes gribbed at the plirky sand
When she lumbled swanuously round the ragthall pebbly wrath
Her stlilting head tipped back as she breathed the roopled frand
She trippered toinulously pausing at the gurgil streef
To drink slaverously from a Burbore skinned flask
Sea shells stolen plumberlingly from the Briley Heef
Dripped from her pockets as she svointered on the shubbled crask
And in her furling hand she snatched a Stoodle,
Feathered little spine smuffled from the wind so grabbily,
Its beak produced a little snawdoodle
And she laughed so jorbid and trabbily
“Little one, a seashell for you”
She exclaimed and stooped to pluck a sleemish one
And in the Stoodle horpled with a gentle twoo
And she set it in the blurkish sea, spinning loorfilly in the sun
With a sudden shloop
both shell and Stoodle were ****** under
so she stood waiting peering into the gloop
as the Stoodle sunk into the murky punder
Then up the Stoodle popped with sloopish swriss
But Stoodle it was no more, instead a brilly Havergrath
With grey silk back and wuverbul muscles twriss
A smarmy smile upon its jarby grath
And she smiled back at him
A korky, vubblious thing
And he flipped through the air with krim
As one only a Havergrath can bring
--Lily
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
White.. Doves Are My ..Shadows
All Color's Hued Within.. ..your
prisms casting no doubt to.. ..
There She lays In Sleeping
Greens furling about Her
Great Serpent slithering
stalking a darkly prey
already in mourning
great spirits balking
walks talk of surely
withering this way
fearing rememberence
of dying.. ..dear Blackness
Serpent's Heart of Loving
Our breaths cast away
in lieu of the fight's
in lieu of the flight
in lieu of the fear
of the..Shadows
in love..cast as
lights chill to
Soul's hued
with..eye's
lie to soil
a'bout
'your'
me's
see
E
Y
E
'
Dye'd
to
'I'
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 11:43 AM UTC
An echo of slants
A frozen stretch
Humming terra ensconces - you
Forlorn
Ever-crooked
A never-stagnant aeriform environ
Tugging and vibrating through root
Hairs furling densely about and
Through
Dirt clods
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
To flow
Lost in the mind of unattachment~
Relation floats to the top,
Bubbling in iridescent mounds.
Blood spinning full body,
Taken ancient ritual
To lands unknown,
Abyss flies,
High collapse,
Forms dissolve to absorb.
Human knows, mankind blows its ashes
Into the sea
Where fish nibble surface gifts,
Crawl to form surface, lifts
Familiar exotica,
Erotica basks
In sunshine frays,
Grays may blend broken rays
Off the pleasure. Desire
Bubbles & brews to the top,
Furling into forms to which our touch is born,
Our travels sojourn,
Ever sifting, filtering the moon & the sun.
Feeling joy form & torn,
The reverb sung & proverb born,
Chug on, truck on
Traveling Celestial Mist.
The smoke sends its message to our ancestors,
Thanks & quests, may we rest &
Face our tests &
Jump off the highest crests &
Flow down through the darkest depths.
Fearless, shall we be, tearless, never be.
The taste & the smell, Earth’s story we shall tell & retell to our kin,
Our progeny rebel against the story of sin,
Announce the return to our dance, making sense of the din.
We may collapse the columns, but in deep truth
The cycles form regardless of ruth.
With that knowing smile,
A goddess wraps her finger
Round his golden locks,
Open, as always, they dangle and glisten,
If we would listen,
The fear would instantly disappear,
Jeers against the queer would shift into gear
To endear us to the weird &
We would cheer!
The dampness will burn,
The heartache will churn,
Our souls still yearn for
That moment when we lose it.
The bruised tips healing in the instant,
The shock waves reckon this is it
& the feedback expatiates past the limits.
We already have the wildness,
The bliss of expansiveness,
Still spinning in the Spiral Ever Endless.
10/28/12
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
HARMATTAN.
How often stealthy rats squirmed about the
Hallway.
Harmattan blew colder than the warm heat of
My sitting room hearth.
I miss those awkward squeaks these days,
And the creaking errieness of my door,
Felt like,harmattan was inviting some
Saturnine stranger to cook my needless oats.
Festac streets at night glowed with misty fog,
Giving the streetlights this sort of luminous
Strangeness.
The furling greenness of my compound
Bitterleaf now overgrown,seemed to be
Peeking at me every night.
The profound sounds of night crickets and
Twinkling lights of those fireflies aided
Silence much less.
As for the night sky,ever pale as unseen
But felt sadness that failed not to hallow her
Majesty - the white-bright moon.
Yet the star studded few lines and boundaries - tall cranes and giant masts
All lost their formidable heights in the Seemingly hazy,plain clouds of midnight stay.
It brought upon my lips benign boils and made my nostrils as dry tunnels.
My eyes were constantly worried with rubbing itches that turned them slightly red.
Although I am all alone to myself most passing days,
To nobody's surprise - the harmattan refuses
To efface still.
- Jahmenmuze.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
These shoulders do not cry out
from the weight of the world
they ache in silence
from the weight of my soul
I carry the burden of sympathy
I gnash my teeth
I grin and bear it
all the while you ne're forget
what it must be
to live simplistically
the weight rolls off
and in jubilee you have forgot
the meaning of life
and sacrifice
what once was love
becomes a vice
unburden yourself of expectation
this selflessness nears expiration
furling your brow and struggle for leverage
try as you might the weight is not average
and in your final act of courage
you stand up straight
you carry the weight
because if not you
then who?
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC
Light illuminates
my dis-entombed thoughts
on gilded kite
prodding dust patina
mellow mote drifts lilt
hoping not to puncture the membrane
– I run –
attempted lift
fresh soil turns under foot
tread and gait escalate
pocked path reverberates
my insistence to avoid puncturing
Deceleration
Halted earthen assault
I ****** with machination the aerial apparatus
prior to complete stagnation
Decrepit deceit eschewed
Again – I run –
taut paper snap
sheet lift
weightless message intones
in knotted vertebrae, and closed palm
my chest lifts in unison
diaphragmatic sigh punched hollow
rhapsodic finesse
privy to atmospheric secret
my hand translates the ethereal
smooth fluttering undulations
oscillating tugs, dives, and slay
Calligraphic flourishes echo the linguistic menagerie
Byzantine illustrations
Pellucid canvas drunk with dye
Evinced in muddled thought
The ink bleeds down the twine
indigo echoes of entombed vein 'neath flesh
Translucent pulse haunts taut string
furling arc – tensed tissue
acrobatic hydrofoil
tugs – glides – taunts
Ostensible horror conveyed in clenched palm
The ether curtly responds
Swift redirect
Sliced palm
Tethered scream evocation
cochineal deluge concedes
Deep purple liquid clings
Congealing - between sodden twine and palm
Whispering currents furl saturated line
into fresh groove, disturbing the clot
The wound bucks as flotsam
Relentless onslaught
I yield -
I release you
Your ethereal message tattooed into my palm
Some things were ne'er meant to be restrained
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
your shoulder blades
look like wings
the way they fold,
flit and flutter
when you move.
crushing together
when you're upset
or angry,
moving farther apart
when you're calm.
but the only
time my angel flies
is in his dreams.
when he finally,
completely,
unfurls and
takes flight.
reality locks him in,
holding his wings
down tight with their
invisible locks
and chains.
he only sheds them
in sleep,
in the world beyond.
I lightly trace them,
going over them gently
as I lay beside
your dreaming form.
in the day
he looks so nervous
furling, half unfurling,
all day, looking every
which way in case of
attack.
but fly,
my pretty bird,
my beautiful angel,
show me what it
looks like to fly.
show me what it looks
like to not be afraid.
fearless.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 7:04 PM UTC
Written on the fingertips like morning dew,
The regrets of the night past.
Furling around the grass beams
Uprooting
The screech.
Moistening the ear canal
With slow dripping spit,
And the sun drags down the noon
Air goes crazy in the skull.
Haunting voices
Waits for the crack.
An escape
Into the sins of the dark night
Waiting
Hunger like.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
Leathery skin
furling by
the hides
of ideas,
to impart
the coyest
We are searching for dismantled cameras
with the flashy leitmotif disabled
in a disbanded cinema
And in the dark you ovulated, murdered
under the thickness of rough tree bark
Haul trunks of
a honky-tonk
dismembering
remembrances
rows of seating
Squalling, beautiful voices
throaty, tonefully sinking
in tune with imaginary keys
located in grey, clinking
between stained ivory tiers
and scuffed ebony branches
rending the reddest of heart-drawls
then plucking each riveted contour
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
I love...
I love the way you dress,
With frills and furling fabrics.
I love the way you walk,
With rhythmic sway and purpose.
I love the way you smile,
With half-curled lips, perked cheeks and laughing eyes.
I love the way you smell,
As if picked fresh from a gardens bed.
I love the way you talk,
So chaotic and disorganized but so sure of yourself.
I love the way you sleep,
Tangled in my arms, head upon my shoulder, soul upon my soul.
I love the way you kiss,
Quivering, curious, tender and wanting.
I love the way you make me feel,
Alive.
-
I hate...
I hate the way you dress,
With putrid colors and filthy earthen shapes.
I hate the way you walk,
With spiteful tease and slithering method.
I hate the way you smile,
With twisted jaws, and mocking eyes.
I hate the way you smell,
Like decomposing undergrowth.
I hate the way you talk,
So useless, so pathetic, so unsure.
I hate the way you sleep,
Leaving nothing but perfume on my pillow, taunting me.
I hate the way you kiss,
So distant, uncaring, so primal, so scarce.
I hate the way you make me feel,
Alone.
N.H.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
Doring — not much has changed since
you last spoke.
the children are still deep in the mud.
the bellhouse at Poblacion still rings
when it is 5 PM and the ubiquitous bazaar
sit on the cornerstones.
however, when the white angels began
latticing you to contraptions,
the furling scent of your homely perfume
has gone dithering. grandpa Mario's
revolver is somewhere hidden wreathed
under a wrestle of things we do not
use anymore — lottery tickets ( 4 AM, grandpa would fall asleep reeking of
ale as the lady announces frail luck
over the somnolence. kitchenware longs
for the ****** of your tremulous hands. the Lazy Susan is attended by only a bundle of rotten bananas, Mario's old
nauticals: whiskey bottles, scotch, goblets, unrest of glasses. we still
buy pandesal near Beng's piano maestro.)
nothing much has changed since you
last spoke. mother held your hands longer than imagined trill of Maya outside tightwire. it didn't flood in the swelter of
the cataclysm — years ago it was deathly silent when you were sitting on the rocking chair waiting for the flood to subside, your grandchildren laying cold on the aged floorboard, rescued by
zigzag of newspapers. it was the lightest
of darknesses. nothing much has changed
since you last spoke and in your
silence we heard the most immense of
voices. the streets remain pockmarked.
ocher pots festooned by wily flowers,
stems of hope. your hands tryingly gripping whatever
was brought to their splendidness
looked like forever smiles.
Doring — the nights are fuller,
my sweet old etcetera of chores.
we all lay quietly in the mud for now.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
You can take it all away from me
Unknot the stress
Carefully pulling apart the ribbon
That binds the destruction.
And then you tie it back up
Twisting and furling
Raveling into a broiling stew
A turmoil of contradictions
And we are back where we started.
Nothing ever is solved,
just thrown off the axis
but gravity will always come back to haunt us
magnetic orbs of chaos
stability only ever a fragile illusion
patiently waiting to implode.
We will try and float on
For how much longer?
Jun 8, 2011
Jun 8, 2011 at 4:37 PM UTC
sometimes unsure just where the
world spun: sharpness of
hour's turn, cardinal
direction. we found footsteps on
coasts, in leaf-litter, amongst
carpet fibre. our collective history
in flecks; discretised, normal.
ain't so strange, windowlit dust's
width your warmth felt, even
at metric distance. we were once
but a single heartbeat across:
wavelet, hangin' in the wash.
i want to fall asleep in
covers of snow, you and i
as tangled pile of bones. i want
our echoes intertwined in all
great halls. or
just
one
slow morning,
fog or no fog.
the world will spin under dark blankets
for all of our evers, at least. tumble n
fade.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
an uninterested archaeologist studied the bones of eight
dead citizens who had a gradually tightened their grips around our dreams, tapering
as furling curtains swathed the incoming light, swirling, forcing it into nonentity
one would steer the ill-fated course of all.
bury the hatchet that was used to hatch you
put all of your eggs into one spermicidal basket
only the heavy-handed preamble to my funeral
could weigh against such lofty comparisons
we commuted to separated isles, each with their own emulation of truth
with cathartic perspectives, trees wait to abed in your predestined lynching
placing viney nooses into mother nature's scrapbook, a cherished keepsake,
your freckled dna, an infinitesimal page in her tattered cookbook
only in an afterworld will you be allowed to read your book's foreword
know that there is no snooty producer to create for you a cash-in sequel
they all watch you from afar, hungry, salivating
failing to make a distinction between your life and demise
their story's nothing but an interminable sad ending
a null conclusion with nothing to conclude
it holds its breath, crosses its fingers
hoping again to come through
as I placed defeat to my temple and squeezed
I veered into a claustrophobic brick encasement
colored with lifelessness, detachment
and learned infinity is combustible;
an unfolding polygonal paper
forever unwrapping
I've walked with wrecked leagues
casually entered fiery caverns
and the chilling daytime before me,
never is it compelling
I resigned my mind, contemplated grave comprehensions
redid everything, coughing opuses, deftness, drugged insight
my tactics turned to taciturn. no one was conducting
the open metaphor of your eyes, rendering
internal captions. endless captive renditions
my adoration:
the thickly-caked rust in the kitchen faucet
if you catch my spotty, deposited
despot eyes in direct sunlight,
you'll realize their dimness
staring vacantly
into oncoming traffic,
looming passages
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
I look at you
and note
the way your shoulders extinguish the sleepy light
your freckle sitting just so
below unaware taunt lips
your eyes
like any other
not worthy of weak knees and blooming cheeks
your jaw
jutting arrogantly,
as though (impossibly) aware
of the slow furling burn
that is so sweetly
turning me to dust
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
*footsteps placed carefully
alone in a dark stairwell
girl do you know if
the echoes are heard
sliding of gravel
cracking under bare touch
furling of fingers
clench the shivering teeth
slow breath
quiet breath
listening for nothing
looking into a void
no light, no light
no voice, no figure
yet following close
closing in too quick
motionless and moving
light whispers
omnipotent and unwavering
girl where do you run
guessing for sight
calloused fingertips
against empty walls
surrounded and surrounding
light brush of sound
heart like a drum
dead end, dead end
the reaping of life
*
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 11:19 PM UTC
Where are the veins that
stick out of your neck this time
Furling whirling twirling around the room
It doesn't make you any less terrifying
Where are the soft sacred thoughts that float on the ceiling
I've never lost so much think
Bright red dots falling
into blue blue blue water
Before you lose my mind
Hand it to me
I've never been so lonely
And I'm not even locked away yet
I just see pills in my eye sockets
I could scratch at my lashes for days
There's no water here
Just acid at the back of my throat
All i am is lust and love and longing
Screaming screaming screaming
For
Mercy
Love
Touch
Air
Air
Air
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC