"gestating" poems
I find myself diving inside of you where the weird dream shamans draw sketches of naked humans.
And you’re a human, and we're both naked. You’re purple, you’re just the perfect shade. I place my flag inside, to abscond us away inside of a womb where our world will open to portals to all of our favorite places. A floating haven, of cashmere. Gestating where the climate is warm and damp, and coloring me dark with wine—sweet wine of lovers, penal forgotten, and fermented anew in maternal rite, because…
This swarming melodic nectar that swims through my nostrils and rolls in my eyes cannot be drank casually. It’s the elixir of love. I love you,
And in you, I find that I love myself.
What’s more, the shamanists exclaim, “She wants to give you all of herself.” Yes, they’re right. Even what I do not love so much, I want you to have, if you’ll take it, because I have to live with it, and if you live with me, you’ll have to live with it too. And then, when you crack open your sternum to let the things in, the scribes of my life’s doing, of ancient passion proclaim! They burn their papyrus scrolls soaked in the blood that I drew from my veins to pass unto yours— and you swallow them whole like divine burritos. And then we are ready for the world to fall suddenly, if it felt so inclined. Now that our chests are pressed together, and our tongues are fused tight. We are the daughters of the prima mother. We are the goddesses of our dreams.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
slippery light boasts
languid limbs gestating
in mercurial puddelings
awaiting the destruction
of their tender shafts by
some pale passing
fle(she
bears its ethereal
glow on her pallor
in the second of that truculent divergence
)
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 11:45 PM UTC
Head hung low he strolls along
The squat, staid streets of London
Until halted by a throng
Of blossoming carnations
I ask: What mortal joy is grander
Than to be rapt by a flower as you meander?
And raise thy head in reverence
To a flourishing floral sight
Fanciful as rainbow’s end
Pure as a soul in flight
Bundles of them he saw at a glance
Adding their zest to the Spring’s gay dance
Glittering in resplendent hues
From all across the spectrum
Much colours did his eye amuse;
He didn’t know to expect them
He stood and sighed and thought: “How pleasant
To see the world turn iridescent!”
Beneath the trees, sunk in soil
Gestating all the year
The flowers with the earth embroiled
The work of life is dear
Dutifully they pledge upon
Their lives to keep life going on
It pays well to flash thine eyes
On things that are lesser seen
Much is hidden in this world
That is soothing and serene
He left, his heart in gestation
Just like the blossoming carnations
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 5:51 AM UTC
The world is so connected and indeed, it is not in many ways,
From newspapers to the internet, social networking sites to video calling and last but not the least telephonic calls.
We are so absorbed in the world that exists not as a tangible reality,
that we forget the ones seated next to us,
to smile at our friends we forget or we don't realise
but find time in all the world to smile at a WhatsApp message or a Facebook chat.
We miss the chances to care and help others in real world
while we make panels and help groups on social sites,
And work hard on promoting stressing and straining to make things work.
We forget our loved ones while trying to find new loved ones
through distant chords and invisible strings of a virtual world.
It is indeed right we learn of cultures and diversity
and acknowledge most kinds and varieties
forgetting the very near and very much wanted.
It is a difficult question as we are still gestating in a world of virtual reality
far fetched from the perceivable reality
if we still wanted to continue as such.
But the truth is that we are more connected by this umbilical cord of illusionary virtual global connectedness that we block real realities in the dawn of it.
We are not ready to be reborn with more sensitive capabilities,
to transform and reunite and catch hold of our lost sensibilities and sensitivities
to save our world from being so disconnected.
Is not it time that we did redesign a new world
Where love and care
Warmth and tenderness reign.
Is it not time that we stop and stoop to hold our old world and yet conceive of a new world integrated
With technology and live side by side
And weave a wonderful life for us.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
With a pencil you wait
Hand on paper
To behold and make still
That point in time
Covetous mind
Each stroke a bar in the cage: eternal vacuum
Each stroke a transformation; a window built
On your graying walls ; covetous mind.
You bear the child of perception; gestating
Each glimpse a sad caress; a plea
Asking every detail to stay behind.
Each birth of salient insight; a tradesman
Haggling with the ravages of time.
It's a wonder how
Each line, each shade
Is a mirror; reflecting
Cradles and tears; and
The miracle of learning
How to ride a bike
That first love
And the first child.
That full moon in a clear sky.
That mouthful fare from a mother's hands.
Those conversations of cuckoos
Hidden from those who pry.
The love radiated from parched land
When messengers from teeming clouds are let fly.
And a touch on memory bereft;
Of a lover's hand.
A collage of senses that flows
To the captive hand
Held by you; covetous mind.
And as I sit here, contemplating
On why we draw
I realize, what I do
Is a conspiracy lead
By mine own
Covetous mind.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
Words hissing through links of spine
Shake his skull’s base
Plunge into a pool of melancholy
So vacuous and contemptible
That’s been
Flooded by nihilism and avarice
Her dead notion gestating
Open case indefinitely
You chose this,
Sinking
In my shallow waters
Displacing fondness
Evaporating on the banks
In serotonin’s stolid drought
Crinkled blueprints for what might have been
Were trembling lips adverse to apathy
And chances had been taken
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 7:04 PM UTC
Watch this thought walk up the wall.
Watch the creepy crawly creature creeping higher.
His waste trails after him, sullying the paint.
Before long the whole room reeks.
Watch him watch you now as he sits on the ceiling.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
watching your thoughts walk circles around the room?
You used to entertain yourself with lofty notions.
You used to write to some of the thoughts down.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.
Watch this thought form a cocoon.
Watch the sleepy drawling creature sleeping soundly.
He is gestating, growing, becoming while you just sit there.
Before long he’ll be something more than you.
Watch him and listen to the sounds of change.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
in envy of a creature who’s life barely lasts the whole thing?
You used to entertain yourself with clever colleagues.
You used to fool around with funny friends.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.
Watch this thought hatch from its slumber.
Watch the bouncing, buzzing beasty birthed.
His wings spread out and he flies down from the ceiling.
Before long he makes out of the open window.
You ask yourself: is this really how I just spent my day:
imagining a life instead of living my own?
I used to write poems, and I thought they were profound.
I used to tell myself that they might mean something to you.
Now, look at you looking at me looking at nothing in particular,
and try to find something to say.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
I want to marvel at the sky
As sunlight sneaks away
Yielding to majestic night
As colour bleeds from day
I'd leap at the horizon
Beat wings against the Moon
And touch the bonny Rainbow
Through which fierce fires bloom
I'd climb upon the stairs of heaven
For a better view of Earth
And behold her awed by splendour
Of her gestating girth
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
She was barely sixteen,
out late partying,
and intoxicated
when he came
and violated
her sacred
center.
At first, she resisted
but with his fists
he insisted.
So, stunned numb
she submitted,
laying still as a stone
that sunk
to the bottom
of a lake,
as she was forced
to endure
that horrible ****
Disgusted and ashamed,
she almost took a shower,
but unfortunately knew
if she wanted to
press charges
she’d have to keep
his ******* fluids.
So, she let them
swab and start collecting
all the samples
they would need
to prosecute.
But at her
court appointed
appearance
it soon became
apparent
that only her parents
cared about justice,
cause the judge was
quite transparent.
Even though,
he made a production
of compassion for
her suffering,
he still let
that rich man's son
off with only a
slap on the wrist,
cause the lawyer told him
he’s just a boy and
he can’t do time in
the prison system,
cause it would ruin him
and it’s not his fault because of
affluenza.
What good would it do
but ruin the lives of two,
after all they had
both been through?
Several weeks
and more than three
pregnancy tests later,
she still felt
the violation
as a remnant of him
began gestating
like and alien
inside of her.
But her church wouldn’t
let her abort the fetus
so, despite the trauma
she had to adapt
to the fact
that she was trapped.
Four weeks later
she went from
at least this life
will need her,
to cold chills,
cramps, and a fever;
From ten to
twenty-two
pounds gained
then to back down
and even lighter
then when
her pregnancy
began.
She went from
finally accepting
and preparing
to start sharing
her life
with a newborn,
to a ****** expulsion,
nausea, repulsion,
and hiding
said heartbreaking
pain in shame.
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 10:27 AM UTC
Poetry...
A fragile emotion
Gestating
In the womb of my mind
Safe in the amnions
Of thin creativity
On the nib of my LAMY
It shall descend
For a verbose delivery
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 6:27 AM UTC
BTW vir means man in the old Latin
from which
the nomenclature
of Catholic Christianity rose up,
curia and cives and synoikia by Roman ****
and cries of grace
a ****** seems a gin, ala engine, ie, ei
genius engenederer a man maker version
We got hope.
--
it very well could be, that we
know more than we imagined
we knew
as we,
the people, who hold certain
truths,
to be
self-evident.
You see? You hold these certain truths
and
****
you're an icecream cone.
And as Arthur assures me still:
There
will be time
to start
all
over.
If you can artifice enough integrity of mind,
to think of a way, each
mankind mind made unthingable, find that Greek word
ah dian oi toasted, nah, but near, this word means
the thing done, the deed not non-doable in being real.
the line
in the sand, crossed,
this away and thataway
we that take the refractured way through the wall,
inalienable right holding we,
the unalienable native
born bhering heir
looms
holdin' woven coffin nails as puffs of smoke signaling
go
now
carry good news on beautiful feet.
conciliate, liberty sans munera calls remunera to the game.
play fair, or be square.
Living Shakespearean tropes in Euclidean dramas
enacted by liars used to entertain fools
for the power of suggestion
gestating in the waiting
next
from now on.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 6:07 PM UTC
stem cell words
from the cellular wall of the
poem birth canal
narrows, twists,
even double helix's,
doc-prof diagnosis
with perfect, absolute uncertainty,
denotes the presence of
stem cell words
*"all your writes,
gestating make-believe,
word smythe
premium cocktail concoctions,
gospel soul post-viewed
rocked and roiled
still and always,
unflinchingly personal
singing and simulcast
the unique
internal combustion,
that removes the pollution,
of your
unflinchingly personal..."*
mother necessity
delivery of a
Caesarian cut-them-out
says me
cut, excise them,
take them,
them newborn-baby stones
give them
a good home,
my DNA upon them,
my only Jacob blessing,
that they get
goodly tented taken
let them spawn
more and others,
will love them
better just for knowing
even never seeing them again,
still and always,
whatever they
write on,
still and always,
I'm in them,
they will be,
unflinchingly personal,
even if signed by
another's name....
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
How sorrow flows,
as it gently nudges
at the edge of my elbow
again and again.
Until I turn around and
surrender.
How sorrow grows,
from a little moment of
discomfort,
shame or death of a feeling,
which was once dear...
Into a monster
who cannot differentiate
love from hate.
Sorrow flows,
like the monthly massacre
of a woman's
body, week and dreams,
gestating
from a tiny cell.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
A dream goes drifting like a cloud
Across a sky of molten colour
Enveloped in divinest shroud
Gestating for infinite hours
Until harnessed to consciousness
Yielded to individual mind
Brought in to focus by inquisition
Some dreams are mean, some are kind
The individual and collective psyche
Wrestle for dominance
But they can be harnessed to harmony
And brought in to concordance
It was known to Jung that thoughts are sung
By more than one sole spirit
Symbols and ideas magically wrung
It enlightens one to be near it
It's just that one must be aware
That thoughts transcend one mind
If you try to perceive the ether there
Untold treasures you will find
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
Always. Anytime anyone asks about always, but before brutish chance can coerce, clashing choices decide destiny. Everyone except the exceptional few feel flustered, frustrated, foolish, faint, and frankly, ****** God gives graciously, gestures gestating generosity. However, he has his intricate intelligence of intimate ideas and ideologies. In jest, jubilee, and joviality, a juncture. A joust for the jugular. Keen and kindling, kindred killing, keelhauling laughter and loitering love, mankind makes mistakes. Many mistakes. Mortality is... notorious. Openly obstinate, obfuscating perpetual pain with quick, quiet quarks of rotating rationale and regular, radical, senseless self sacrifice and sacrilege; Stop. Time turns tumultuously, ticking towards tomorrow. This thing, these things, take time. Understand. Ultimately, unhappiness vexes vivaciously. Without withdrawal, where would we wander? I wonder. Yearning for yore, zealots. Zephyrs on the wind.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
Self Feeding System Digesting Gestating
Regurgitated Lies Insider Trading
Atmospheric Tension BI-Polar Shift
Entrenched IN THE Mire Builds Pressure TO Lift
Engorging NO Purging THE Feeling IS Urging
This Active Revolting Deep Sickness IS Surging
Organic Inbreeding
HER **** ARE Bleeding
This Sickness IS Seeding
Little Boys' Notion OF Self Possession
Setting IN Motion HIS OWN Regression
A Lack OF Self Assurity
Convinced OF HIS OWN Purity
Isolation
Alienation
A Nature OF Self Anihilation
Muscular Overcompensation
Dissociation
AND
NOW
AN
EGO
IN
Flames
WAR OF THE Words Each Symbol Provoking
AN Incantation That Summons Invokes
Minds Conform TO Cradle AND Cradle AS ONE
This Little BOY THE NEW Born SON
'I' Speak NOW Louder Than Words
YOU'VE Paid THE Price TO Shepard THE Herds
Mankinds Hubris MY Metal Skin Girds
ALL Souls Strewn FOR Scavvenger Birds
Souls Laid TO Rest FOR Scavenger Birds
They Deify Knees Pressed TO THE Ground
THE ******* OF Bale ' OF ******* Abound
OF Deafening Lies Speaks A Deafening Sound
Worship THE Power OF Little Boys Crown
Worship THE Power OF Litle Boys Crown
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
ALL Souls TO Rest Little Boys Come Around
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
THE Heart OF THE SUN IN Little Boys Crown
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
THE Finger OF GOD Never Touches THE Ground
THE Finger OF GOD Never Touches THE Ground
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
Souls Laid TO Rest Little Boys Come Around
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
THE Heart OF THE SUN IN Little Boys Crown
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
Souls Laid TO Rest Little Boys Come Around
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
THE Heart OF THE SUN IN Little Boys Crown
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
THE Finger OF GOD Never Touches THE Ground
THE Finger OF GOD Never Touches THE Ground
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 11:07 PM UTC
Back off, magic pen,
the memory is mine, once I settled all accounts,
my worth
is not them knowing,
more than I survived, I did
not by being one of the few, but I survive
by being the only real me,
who stood in that position, calm eustasy,
in a box of thoughts tested time and again, knowing
and with a little umph, oomph, try,
once more,
effort, per haps a made up sweaty struggle,
to catch this magic fish who gave me this
wish
to have endless ink and informative material,
gestating as solemn promises to tell
as told,
speak when spoken to, pray you hear in time,
waiting is, but so is ever,
whose wish
haps first is whose may is now. In a word.
Oct 4, 2021
Oct 4, 2021 at 2:58 PM UTC
A moment of truth
a century of lies
The left hand deflects
what the right hand decries
A little bit pregnant
the ending begins
A monster gestating
—and living within
(The New Room: December, 2023)
Dec 3, 2023
Dec 3, 2023 at 3:04 PM UTC
Mother heaves
a tortured breath
her lungs on fire
For the first time
in a long time
she falters
We kneel
heads bowed
hands clasped
in typing supplication
emoticon prayers
to silicon embryos
for signs of life
from e-God
gestating
in the womb
between our fingers
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 8:42 PM UTC
A sun of bright and blazing fire,
Embroils deep with my desire,
Summoning me to its embrace,
Kissing with its warmth the hollows of my face,
A smorgasboard of molten colour,
Beckons at me, summons me near,
I become swept up, in hurricane,
that rolls and waves across the plane
of one reality in to another.
'Tis here where spirits dwell and brood,
Feasting on fine celestial food,
On wings, a sight on which to swoon,
Beauty, whose time is e'er noon,
The Faeries with the Earth embroiled,
Gestating deep, sunk in soil,
Words are whispered by the trees
Life is flowing through the breeze,
Without care or toil.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 8:27 AM UTC
The ground work
The art work
The craft work
The hard work
The life work
of a working poet
works on long after
the pen rests
and the mind drifts
to pouring wine
and making dinner
at the close of the journal
at the close of another
working day
The words dance on
The mind works on -
fermenting
gestating
wordplaying -
while the pen
and the journal
lie in waiting
ready for the release
of fresh ink
at the start
of another working day
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 3:35 AM UTC
Again the trials of life by treachery afoot,
Trick you with trap, coy to catch your boot,
Holding thee captive to cage and pain,
Singing a mad and melancholy refrain,
My hand fights, struggles to release the snare,
I've not seen such a forlorn vision,
Of beauty wild, hung by haunch, it makes an incision,
In to my Heart: all Love is bled from there.
I would traverse fate's lines for miles,
To see that disdain turned in to smiles,
Fathoming deep in to the art,
Of turning a furrow and a frown in to a blossoming Heart,
O Beauty you are composite Love,
Her truth embossed behind your eyes,
That fathom deep and wide as skies,
In to Love's exquisite trove.
May God grant freedom and say bless,
Release you from your distress,
Bear you aloft on heaven's wings,
To ferry you to him, most cherishable of things,
Yet make of you a child of Earth,
Gestating deep, sunk in soil,
With the people and the petals embroiled,
Loving her the breadth of her girth.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC