"granulated" poems
In the arctic wastes where the Inuit tribe hunts caribou and fights to survive,
I have been told since long ago that tribe has fifty words for “snow”
That seemed superfluous to me- Fifty words for one commodity!
If I was born an Eskimo, I’d have fifty words to learn and know
I do most of the shoveling here, my wife and children cheer me on.
The winter lingers long and drear, some days it seems the Sun is gone.
Despite the calendar I greatly fear that blessed spring is nowhere near
Tomorrow, the radio makes clear, we’re expecting six more inches here.
Some snow is like a sugary mist, granulated and sublime,
Quite useless for a snow ball fight, for that you need the packing kind.
The worst is the wet sodden snow, the kind that threatens a heart attack.
It’s difficult to lift and throw; it hurts the arms and strains the back.
I told my wife I now know why they need fifty words for snow.
I have a few choice words I’d add; words the children shouldn’t know.
Those Inuit folk who fight to survive in the land of snow and ice-
Now I too have fifty words for snow, not one of which is nice.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
*It's optional
Like the fading of skies
Early, wild, or remorseful.
All the impalpable space in the lights
Scaled in weighty gilt and curls
The locks and gold of sun,
early as it sets on a moiety of moor grey
Brushed by shadows of agonised poplars
on a spiral land of sheer pistachio blanket.
Muffled by lyres played from the trumpets of
convolvuluses, behind spears of the brain-
an imagery commence to carouse
into planet deep.
A promenade atop the tulle of skies,
an optional way to live.
Saunter and fall onto slopes, shudder, meditate
and hit a bee coffin pebble on the temple
Where there are options to live, to bleed.
Like the lurid sunrise sifting on
yellow-green nuts, and dandruffs combed
like granulated sugar
Oh the taste of chemistry
on the shea butter candles.
It's sanguine and optional,
your farewells on laden calendars of poems
A promenade- back into sea of spears and flames
A cadaver veined in pink,
bearing plethora of methanol
down pulverising bone.*
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 5:52 AM UTC
you want war, you have world war two spitfire pilots to serve your post-colonial migration; and yes, i'll twitch my eyes; ha ha cuisine scots using ginger.
there's a quintessential
fascination with cabbage
among the mutli-cultural
asians of england being picky
concerning scandinavians
and the slavs...
politico i could say as much
about indian spices.. but they're
granulated i admit,
so there's less stink in the armpits;
or there isn't, given chanel cardamom:
assimilated asians into british
society don’t use raw herrings and cabbage
to joke about other european ethnicities
while waving the st. george
of that great fake curry of suffolk.
*i've been telling the turks about sauerkraut for years
to match up a purposive additive for the lamb kebab;
sours to cut through the lamb fat like the chillies
cutting through.*
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 8:10 PM UTC
I was told I didn’t need to know the Ingredients
For making a child with a heart of Gold
That they were born holding a Medal
Which said they owned everything and All
Of it was because they had convictional Purpose
The doctor would cry and bring a rose Flour
To thank the mother for Baking
An excellent batch of babies, Soda
Would be poured in champagne glasses, Salt
Sprinkled a top its head to spread like Butter
The flavours of intellect and it also Softened
The hearts of others around; old wounds Granulated
Smelled like caramelizing Sugar
Inside the room, the bodies Packed
Together to peer at the Brown
Strings of hair atop the child, who’s Sugar
-like shrieks of life broke open the Egg
Of love and made it taste like Vanilla
Its tears looked the most Semisweet
A dripping fountain of Chocolate
Fondue, be careful not to Chip
The teeth when it grows, it will grow Coarsely
Then, like jagged pebbles Chopped
With a dull knife; finally, assemble the Nuts
And bolts tight because this will hurt ,if
Not properly done, or simply toss away if the kid wasn’t desired
Oct 20, 2021
Oct 20, 2021 at 7:37 PM UTC
It is hard to tell sugar and salt mixture apart by merely glancing or touching. I wish I could master the art of segregating them without any arduous chemical process.
According to wikiHow, one may assess the grain sizes of salt and sugar. But they too, acknowledge that table salt and granulated sugar do look very similar; the differences in these 2 is minute.
Option 2: Acquire a sieve sized in between the 2 grain sizes so as to let the salt through. However, this method is clearly not fool proof since not all salt and sugar grain is of the same size. A salt granule could mask itself.
The best way to separate salt and sugar is by adding absolute alcohol to the mixture as only the sugar will dissolve, salt is insoluble in alcohol. Then after, proceed to evaporate or boil off the sugar and alcohol solution and you will be left with salt.
Much like in life, it requires more than looking or tactility to tell between genuine and the pseudo. It takes time, takes processes and occurrences. I once more wish I could distinguish them easily.
Then again, as much as I am grateful for the sugars in my life, excessive amount of sugar isn't all that good for the health. Salt heightens the sweetness of sugar; it teaches me to appreciate sugar better. More importantly, salt, to a moderate amount, does good to the body too.
As such, I am grateful for both the sugar and salt in my life. Sugar provides a sense of joy, while salt is vital for personal growth.
Jun 3, 2022
Jun 3, 2022 at 3:35 AM UTC
I can’t sleep.
My brain, it won’t shut off.
Circles and lines
Thread together to create
Color, light -
Light, streaming like dust through my open window
In the purple air.
How foolish I am
To think dreams live with the stars.
I check the clock
Five minutes have been lost.
Most people think that sadness grows
Like a patch of dandelions floating away
Or a shadow with the setting sun.
They’re wrong,
Of course,
Because they do not understand.
It is not their fault
But that does not make them any less
Ignorant.
Sadness just is.
Settling quietly, and, when you finally notice
It’s all encompassing.
It is the sky, the sea.
I check the clock
Five minutes have been lost.
I am an asymptote.
Stretching out a hand to humanity
Almost, I can feel their acceptance
Brush by my eager fingertips
But the fallacy of hope is dangerous
And I am left untouched.
A magnet that can’t help
But repel itself.
And my fingers are ungloved
And turn blue in this cold place
As I am left to stand alone
Waiting.
I check the clock
Five minutes have been lost.
I look into a mirror made of sand
My face crumbling away with my breath –
The bits of grain become a desert,
A sea of beige
I am left to be lost in.
I do not know what I look like
Past my skin.
This not knowing, it should scare me, but
Somewhere, in a place I do not like,
I relish the confusion.
How sad you must think me
For enjoying
Not knowing
Who I am.
I check the clock
Five minutes have been lost.
Fear is something I pretend
I have never felt
With my line smiles and hollow talk –
Black, caustic acid dripping from my teeth
As I judge.
Who sits in my court?
I don’t know –
Everyone perhaps,
Or the people that remind me of myself.
I check the clock
Five minutes have been lost.
I feel the ground beneath my feet
As I walk to my future,
A dark tunnel,
Lighting my way with matches –
I don’t know if I’ll reach the end or run out first.
The ground, it is cold, and shifts
Until I am falling without the pinpricks of fire
To highlight my blind spots,
The matches scattered in the midnight air.
I check the clock
Five minutes have been lost.
I breathe in loneliness
Until my lungs ache
With stolen air.
Until my arms,
Laced with blue rivers,
Are touched by Moses.
Until my iron heart beats,
Rusting away.
Loneliness is like skin,
Layering my bones, my muscles –
A coat for thin membranes that knit together
A stomach, a womb, a liver.
Everyone needs skin
So that they do not fall apart
Their soft parts leaking onto the granulated floor
Until they become nothing more than water.
I have mine.
I shut my eyes
I do not dream.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
Sweet silence tamed the breeze
With brisk of pale scathed blue
Granulated through the air
And set my mood
These days before the autumn
Where I have learned to carry
Peddle on and set the marks
Towards all and in whom I choose to pace my care
Frayed I feel my cuffs
Right on the edge
Swaying synchronized within the breeze
And too my steps are fluid
Almost dancing on the seconds
I'm alive to swing my skip
Un-mindingly by abandon houses
Built and raised on my life's road
This memory lane
I am a sail of seasons changing
Autumn winds a fuel cascading forward my vessel
Over known oceans of remorse
What sorrow deepest I had formed beneath the hull
Now act a platforms, open highways to the east
Of our sun rising on a woken world
In active motion to fulfill
What we know must be done
Now here to reach
What loving hands may greet you
Know me in prevail sailing on today
And when assembles evening
Just as eyes fix darker shades
Upon a world that with me swoons in pleasure
I would see a night time soon to rest me
After all has been appreciated
No single point or high
Our autumn is approaching
With life's true care
Reaching out from my truthful eyes
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
I can't get the words out of my head.
I never liked words very much
This you must understand.
I never thought in words
And I still do not.
They just come
Already refined granulated upper class adjectified.
They are not thought; no,
They just come.
When I don't bid
Or when I do.
I can't control them.
They are a viscous force of their own meticulous will
Each letter carved painstakingly unto another
Layer upon layer like sheets of pastry
They grow ever faster larger all consuming
Hearts racing minds twirling hands shaking
This is the high the words get from me.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
Lotus position in the blue light,
I've said every third thing I've had to say,
I'm in a Fritz the Cat mood,
Way in over my head?
I saw 2D illusions wrapped up in the stars,
They made sense in their motion,
Set to some Carnival Beat from the past,
It almost seems as if the papers could fly at any,
SECOND!
Sort of a kamikaze mission from within,
Taken for granted at times but whistling through,
All that rustling in the bushes isn't something,
To fear or make instant enemies with,
Tried and true make up the essence of outside,
Calling from beyond the blue electric light,
O what a shame to have happen to you,
O benevolent one who's fingers search,
O the few that make it all happen,
O to the continuounce of it all,
To circle in closer and closer without pause,
Granulated and thirsty basking in wait,
For that feminine angel to whasp down,
O a thing of immense beauty,
O in multi-armed manifestations of such,
O with chest beating and caving in,
O to glorious realization that,
Something is real besides themselves
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 12:57 AM UTC
Ten minutes later,
the old crow's sitting quiet,
scratching,
no caws or that funny owl mimic trick he can do,
it's a hoot.
He laughs.
I know a preacher or two who say that regular,
as liturgy, it's a hoot,
here, all say amen,
preach it, if you be the choir
searching still the lost chord to charge your life.
Ain't God a Hoot?
Well, me bein' Baptist, 'n' all...
I 'as reared Mormon...
Baptized and confirmed, Catholic to the core...
Po' man at the door,
My daddy was abastard niggajew and Jesus
fixt me, as I was waitin' fo' m' man, wit Nico
and the band
t'find a
soft place
to die
on
velvet underground, feedback scream
are you
experienced? I scream,
Back for more?
Peace ends wars, don't push me with your
reasonable
casualty in aitia-tick-tick terms un de
cerned, fined, ground
past granulated to sublimated
breathe
Elysian fumes,
unexpected right,
Sulphur, you were going to say,
or brimstone,
or rotten egg,
Sweet suasion sweet sweet suasion
to slip into
geological time and drift away.
You know that smell?
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 2:37 PM UTC
The sidewalk granulated so,
yellow from the streetlight though it's not quite dark
it's difficult to set your feet down normally if you look at them
while you do it
I can't watch my body while I use it, like a dancer
it's easier just to feel
stand in the wind although the shelter is empty
not sure why
I don't ponder my actions while I take them, like a philosopher
it's easier not to think
cigarette burns quickly, the wind pushing it down
before I can pull it
and for awhile I forget about it while I watch it
unraveling ring by ring in bursts
against a sidewalk now blurred with inattention
eyes focus on one plane like a camera
I read that if you look at horizontal stripes with your left eye
and vertical stripes with your right, then you will perceive a grid
our brains lie
and take shortcuts
the heart and the liver work hard no matter what
but they're just along for the ride
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 12:25 AM UTC
Shooting stars fare well in the moonlit aura of some incessant…broad.
Encapsulated wouldnt be the word,
Evoking…No. Only negative commentaries on that front.
Oh but how, such damsels, such dames that none of them can seem to fit as well here.
One more and one more and slowly
the constellations begin to form and
Ive made my cosmos of empty love.
Star dust, Ma Cherie...
Pixelated lust fall'n over concrete waterfalls.
Granulated moments of barely glowing skin.
Youve dulled, dear.
Just like the others.
-P.S.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
Gripped.
siliceous crystals,
ice like granulated glass
crumbles readily.
it's reign is halted
only by the height of the tree line
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 7:47 AM UTC
Roaring thunder and piercing electric storm
Spiral static for two lovers caught in white noise
Slowly flickering on the television screen
Granulated face, making your arms a pyramid
I will turn you off and pull the plug
What did you say? I couldn’t hear
So all I did was smirk and shrug
He throws down his lightning bolt
In a rage of piercing blue fury
The movement of your eyes makes me weep
Across the gaseous sky that has condemned us
So we hide our guilt in a black shoebox
Waiting for a light to spark the silence
But silence is the orchid struggling to bloom
We sat in the corner, and you held me like a child
When the walls lit up with pulsing light
Like luminous veins glowing in a cavern
Reaching and snaking across the cold walls
It was then when I heard your chest
Sporadic, charged with life
A new battery in your soul
Yet my wires were still a mess
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC
There are infinite forevers
in your eyes
shimmering granulated particles
dance with
swirling emotions
beeming infinite I love yous
transcendent
of words still unsaid.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
how many times will we
draw lines in the sand
just to see the brine of
the ocean wipe them
away once again on
the whims of the next
ebbing effervescent tide
sandy structures on stony shores
granulated particles shifting
through our pruning hands
abject images of refracted light
glinting with frightening veracity
off the shards of shattered revelries
reflected in broken glass bottles
that still smell faintly of alcohol
bring the cigarette to your lips
e
x
h
a
l
e
silhouettes of m
i
x i l
a e k
l s y
a
g w
y a
in the evanescent starlight as we
recline on the beach and the
waves lap greedily at our feet
drowning us in the uneven
flow of the unknown
i wasted time building
castles on shifting sand
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
which cards will you draw today?
lethargy is a fickle friend sometimes
so i wish for moonlight within the clouds
of marble floors, rolling paddies that
commerce plows swiftly, masked
soldiers marching zigzag between
the glare of pink slips
and streams of granulated sugar
Aug 12, 2020
Aug 12, 2020 at 10:22 PM UTC
Light that once sifted through those four glazing bars on your old front door is now granulated
by the dust upset from my attendance.
We use to play tic-tac-toe on the image of those four muntin bars.
Our few favorite spots that we chased down the room as the sun fell behind the horizon.
Those have since been replaced by clutter
and shards of your likeness.
It embanks your house hallways
like sod in trenches.
Your house:
Is a battleground
between time
and
moth eaten artifacts that once captured your life.
Your living room:
Is a mothballed graveyard
guilty of the genocide
on the relics of your lifetime
Your wardrobe:
Is an upright coffin.
Where your decrepit outfits hang suffocated
under plastic sleeve.
I can imagine you,
submitting to the orbits of the earth.
Becoming one with this lackluster sty.
Singing your final goodbyes.
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
Can you Hear it?
Can You Feel it..
Steel Bow
Pulled Hard
Across
Philosophers
Stone
Granulated
Crystal Surface
Wet
With
Sharpened
Desire
******* of
Preparation
Tremor of Infinity
NEW
Meaning
For
An
Ancient
Art
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC
Without knowing places, my place it seems
Looking for the best, the attention. a scheme
Writing for freedom, rightful, a taste
A taste of satifactury
A taste of bliss
A taste of all the wonderful things I miss
For looking in darkness where it can not be found
Searching for answers
The ones you don't know when they're found
Granulated light, from the bedroom abyss
I wrote this in hopes to remiss
The things about you that I almost see
Guess the open door to this cage gets the best of me
Too tired to see, with eyes wide open
I dropped the key, I closed the shackles
No need for this. Running too much a hassle
Staying put in my cage, so addicted to castles
I willingly stay in this dungeon
Just to remain closer to the stories
That were once told
To me, to us
I've had enough.
I know the story, the only way out
I lay down the screens
Technology, you are the dragon.
Guarding this castle, you keep me in.
A distraction, of many, I see the curse.
I will see you as a tool, to remove this thirst
We are who we are, what will be will be
Appealing to the masses means nothing to me
Along in this journey, out of the castle
The mightiest stance.
Alone in the beacon,
I fulfill these plans
To leave the stories behind
Goodbye, the castle
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 5:07 PM UTC
cup me in some sweet condolences
leave me dusted in saccharin
after honey licks
there on your lips
autumn burst fruits
and
bruises
my blush of knowing
too much
my rush of tasting
enough
to be hooked on your liqueur
lips. granulated resistance
spent.
echo.
fullness empties,
echo.
post
coitus tristesse,
echo
sugar the fruits'
echo
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
For all you've done and said,
The care and understanding,
All the unsaid and undone
Makes my response sound trite.
I could paste wings on your photos,
Create an award in your name,
Establish a child sweatshop,
Radicalize the altar boys,
Trade up to a sniper's rifle,
Join a Cartel,
Put granulated sugar in your tea,
Vote Conservative,
And even then,
After the fire,
I'd be at a loss for words.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 8:01 AM UTC