"granules" poems
There's something about the ever-moving sea,
Whose shimmering waves brighten every face,
Whose calming sounds bring joy to every ear that hears
There's something about the forever changing beach,
Whose soft sand holds treasures from the deep blue,
Whose sparkling granules clump together to create vast castles
There's something about the ongoing sky,
Whose blue tints are home to the warm, shining sun,
Whose colors magnify themselves onto the gorgeous sea
So look upon this picture and smile,
Because each figure is a piece of a puzzle,
Forming a complex but brilliant masterpiece.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 9:51 PM UTC
I used to buy doughnuts with granules of sugar on.
You had to lick it from your lips.
The sugar on doughnuts became estranged.
Exchanged for sticky syrup,shining.
Nothing like yesterdays doughnuts
They taste almost the same,
They look a little less inviting.
But today's doughnuts' are still exciting.
(C) Livvi
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
I am a rain drop flopped down from the clouds
I could have landed in a river or the sea
Then merging with the rising and receding waves
I would have been washed down into oblivion
Or could have fallen from the heights
Into a desolate dreary desert
Amid the blistering granules of sand
To be absorbed into nothingness
Chances are there to have fallen on a rock
Lying scorched in the heat of the mid day sun
Then I would have vanished into thin air
Evaporating into non existence
I could have fallen into a muddy puddle
Or perhaps into a filthy drainage
To be contaminated with the sewage
Or be the breeding ground of worms and bugs
But fortunately for me
I happened to fall into fecund soil
Where there lay in wait a few seeds
Hankering for the cool touch of moisture
Arid souls desperately thirsting for water,
They ****** the molecules within me.
As their dry kernel got soaked and puffed,
Slowly they sprouted and grew into life.
Absorbing again the drops that came after me
They, into towering trees eventually grew
Some touching heaven’s azure heights
And giving shade and shelter to many
Now as I see them crested with flowers
And bearing clusters of luscious fruits
I feel I am there in each leaf and bud
And my essence flows through every vein!
As a teacher, what more is needed for me
To feel contented in life?
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
A conversation over a cup of coffee
(Sainsbury’s low quality)
The kettle burbles in the background
Bartering bubbles for blatant babbling
The granules flop, shake if they stop
Right from the top, into brown slop.
Stir with a spoon,
Stare into the eye of the storm:
Vanilla swirls, auburn curls,
Minding their manners, glances from girls.
Hazelnut eyes, thinking they’re wise.
Smile contradicting the, frankly, **** skies.
Pupils dilate,
Chalk dusted slate,
Tea leaves are telling me this must be fate
Dumb conversation,
Mind saying more,
Something unsaid seems to open a door
I’d rather its shut, its dangerous but
Sugar, im just an emotional ****
I’ll let you in, this time you win
‘Another coffee?’
You ask, with a grin.
Mar 19, 2022
Mar 19, 2022 at 9:06 AM UTC
Let me know the sweetness of the canopy. The gentle cygnet garden you express in rows. I drift upon the aching embers of the bark of midnight's supper, its kingdom of darkness that I lay upon. Suspended in the air, rocking steadily on a distant plateau, tilling the granules of the earth in my map-lined hands; I pinch the rocks and sand kernels naming places as I snap my fingers. I go to the top of the city I know, a small yellow house in a crowd of tall aspens- and the Catholic church sends me soda and small biscuits, and the Hebrews help me be a better man.
I go to a place which has very small rooms. My legs are like a giant world-sized forklifts that carry the heirlooms of my parents in and out of this universe into another. I make a stride to catch a glimpse of you in passing. I tilt my eyes. I hope that I can see how beautiful you are, once more, if only I lift my head towards the way in which I know you, or the way in which I once had.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
~
Miles of nothing,
beige on beige on beige
The sun is screaming,
blistering my skin,
draining me slowly
as breath is heated
and tastes bitter
Shoulders slung low
I can’t stand straight,
bent over struggling,
nothing is anywhere
and nowhere is here
Leaving footprints
for the wind dancers,
black feather fathers,
winged circlers
High above, watching
sifting time
in weakened increments,
hourglass patterns of
falling granules
sinking deeper
Water is a dream
and this dream, a nightmare
for it is there,
just ahead, I can see it glistening
but it does not exist
nothing exists,
as the oasis in my mind
dries up, leaving
empty indentations
on horizontal planes, flat lands
of arid emotions
drifting in and out
reaching for…
reaching
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
I’m crucified on the cross roads of doubt;
My heart is in the middle of all this,
My head
Is tilted downwards,
My eyes are shut;
Inverted,
So as to look upon my past
Because some time
Some where
There is a missing link,
That if I find
All this would be clear.
I’m in a Jerusalem of my own
In it,
There is no, wide spaces of sand
And camel-descending romans
Trying to stab me with nails;
Instead,
There’s real people,
With real nails;
There is hope,
Now lighter than sand granules,
And sand castles
Crumbling down,
Leaving enough space
For a flower to emerge
In an Arab spring
Fertilized with corps
And watered with blood;
For Lebanon is running out of water
Like the Lebanese are running out of faith-
Running into walls.
Jumping over obstacles,
Over explosion debris,
Jumping way in over our heads.
I’m in a Jerusalem of my own,
One I call home,
With windows that open
To reshuffle the air particles
In a room that has enclosed upon itself,
With doors that creek
For the scars of the past
Still haunt them,
With walls
Painted with portraits
Protecting the memory
Of the ones I loved,
With walls painted with portraits
Picturing poetic illusions-
Ones that never left my brains,
Ones that tell me,
Every night I lose myself
In her pictures,
That we are getting back together,
One day,
Somehow,
Somewhere,
There is a missing link
That if I find
All this would be clear.
I’m strumming out of tune questions
On guitars that carry my stories,
With strings that need to be changed
And necks that grow long
As the path
I still have in front of me;
And though this is not a problem
For a Hendrix and a joint,
I’m just an ordinary man
With a pen-
I wear ordinary clothes,
I feed up on
Ordinary capitalism,
I ***** up my notes
Of which I never took any;
Jerusalem fell apart,
But my Jerusalem did not fall yet.
On my crucifix,
There’s a writing that says
“There’s always a piece of you in people,
As much as there’s a piece of them in you.”
I’m just a man on a crucifix
But writers can never be tamed,
For they live through the people that learn from them;
And those people,
Maintain they live forever.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
The crystallization of thought
leaves behind tiny granules,
like diamonds, reflective and
geometric to fit together.
Sand to glass
for a window or
fun-house mirror.
Brain grains made of waiting,
of watching.
Recognition of patterns recorded.
Faces in old photographs,
"Look! That's me!"
The big picture, stitched individual pixels,
light thru the film
projected on a wall,
fuzz of dust on the vinyl.
Motes of knowing
floating
but tough under pressure,
and in the liquid of pure,
transparent
experience,
soluble.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
.to have gained so much through a process of loss is a meandering truth to my life. the relationships i build, manufacture..become processed. an unreal version of the way life was supposed to be. for me anyways. where has the real "grit" gone to. the granules of momentum in mind and heart. to be willing to overcome the self pity, to go the distance, to be you. i look around, peer into the eyes of others and see a smog. a stream of tar. thick with loathing and disdain. for what reason do we allow ourselves to become these wandering entities? we do not deserve this life, this body, this chance if we are going to let it become stagnant, flat, static. i much rather let reclusive acts take me away, than to be consumed in the negativity, the natural downturn. don't grasp onto the cruel aspects of life, live through them and continue by appreciating the grace that has been given to you through such turmoils. love whom you choose to love with all of your sacred heart. you have an endless pit of this emotion as long as you are strong enough to witness the miracle of forgiveness. be one with you. be you. dont leave pieces of you lying about. you are the morning the after noon, the evening and the night. the blossoming sun, and the face in the moon. you are eternity if you wish upon it. wish.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
Your lips -
they parted like the Red Sea,
dripping words blacker than ink
across the blank page
that was my body.
Your hands
smelled of vanilla,
but rough like granules of sugar
stirred into teacups.
Your fingers,
they teased me,
snarling along my ribcage
as if trying to tie flowers along
my weeping torso.
The connection was instant
like a polaroid picture.
But the love was slow
like when a bump turns to a bruise.
And it faded, too,
just like all wounds do,
love does too.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
Music. You hear it now, don't you?
What's that sound?
Do you hear it, like I hear it?
Over my shoulder, though,
I've got ghosts and granules.
Voices. You hear it now, don't you?
What's that sound?
Do you hear it, like I hear it?
Evolved use of spoken
word, just to squander it.
I look around,
just to see,
loving my pointlessness
has afforded me,
nothing but
lack of company.
Quote me on this, please.
" I Love It "
Getting home.
Getting ******
No aqualung, here.
Here, the lobes,
evergreen.
I'll die,
but I'm
perfectly fine
in my own eyes,
to be alive,
nowhere beneath,
yet.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
Standing on my beached heartland,
a few hundred thousand bleached granules of sand
trickle through thick slits in my hourglass hands.
The dry-stream sands my fingers to periosteum as
my head walks the neural gallows,
last lines on the tip of the tongue.
He was a runaway circus animal,
the theme I hunted in vain.
He was my solar eclipse, my waning moon, the coastline;
he was a garden, a sculptor, an elaborate stone trellis;
he was frightened, he was in love, a philosopher without a cause;
he was Michelangelo, Camus, Akhmatova, Kant, Blake and Crane;
he’s the executioner, the brief reflection of a solitary grain
sliding down the boney hourglass
as the blindfold does the same.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:59 AM UTC
Impatiently parading the shoreline
Like waves persistently mimicking infantry
I must seem lost at sea
My feet resemble war heroes
Dirtied by the summer soot
Yet too proud to surrender
Millions of tan granules have met my fleet
But I'm too proud to surrender
What happens when the storm hits?
Comfortably crushing the paper mache blockades
I installed throughout my days here
The cozy road home is falling apart
My opportunity to evacuate shrinks as the shoreline invades
Yet I'm too proud to surrender
Like a captain of a sinking ship
I'm too proud to surrender
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
12:53am, January 3,2025
New York City
<>
*A Traveler notates these words to my attention, but only because I make myself
a convenient target, for truthfully,
it is addressed to one and all,
to the royalty of:*
We,
*who speake out loud, to all those who ***** these damp woods full of wet words, that spring up overnight, ripe for the plucking, there for the taking, an exacting where & when they did not even exist
the twenty four prior*
These purloined overnight creatures are
white and black
*lettered truffles, like the pages on which we inscribe, the letters raw, exquisitely tasty, shaved, measured in grams, but only when shared with others, in the privacy of our open minds, after being spooned from within us with exquisite care upon the pages that decorate our lives, sprinkled
with great care and cunning*…
*but when consumed, our five senses rage with aromatic pleasured pain, for these letters, so tiny, so powerful, grow only when
combinatory, individual bitty granules,
but when leavened, they enhance, provoke!,
they sauce, the*
flavors of the ordinary
*of our experiences,
creating the extraordinary
when interacting upon
our five robust senses*
*for without the spaces of delineation,
our jumbled words are but the
random jingle jangle of the sounds
of night winds, rustling a tune
pleasant but incomprehensible*
*Here I take your leave,
with the liberty taken
for speaking in all our names
to a Traveler
who so succinctly captures our work,
the glue of our interactive Us,
Our,*
Collective of Individuality
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
All equals,
we are all developing
in the womb
called potential.
All are ready,
each and every one,
to be born,
an unlimited woman or man
All equals,
we are all seen
through loving eyes
of our Creator
as a baby is looked upon
by its mother,
led by a gentle hand
When one
dominates another,
they are gaining ground
but loosing sand,
for we are all
granules on the beach,
equals upon the land
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
My love;
Do I dare drop another shrouded truth upon your eardrum...?
I left another footprint today, you know
...but those granules of concrete are still hollow,
still quiet;
I've hidden behind your golden dreadlocks too often,
and heard your contemptuous laughter echo,
the crooked whistle of another gunshot
piercing the silence, and a silhouette
-of course
....yet I can't let go.
You're so young, I tell myself;
Your bedsheets are still crisp, still odorless;
...this sleep does not trouble you, does it?
-with her kissing nightmares.
And I dread my toes slipping-into that cadencing abyss,
...the scattered doom of my growing death wish;
there's no one to hold me,
but you.
The pillowcases still hiss...
their fingers clench my hair, often;
and threads tie me to a new paranoia
every night.
And I know
these windows aren't clean
...they disgust me;
yet they're my only source of light,
and I choose to compromise;
It's left me with nothing,
but your rusted blood on my tongue
and these shadows formed on the wall,
by your electric blue flesh...
I'm tired, dearest
...your fumbling silence hurts me-
maybe another drop of ******
will bring you back to life.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 4:54 PM UTC
A redwrapped
foil held
biteful chocolate
heart
stashed in a yellow envelope
with handwriting that could be yours
on the outside.
For me.
It held more than --
It held clean kitchen counters
with crumbs swept daintily under appliances.
Gritty granules of yesterday hastily moved
to make more time.
Of clean floors,
wooden,
- for the bare feet -
and shoes, helterskelter -
I did always intend to leave them tidy, but shoes have lives of their own
it seems.
- Never leave slippers in a cupboard,
you don't know what they might do
unattended --
I said.
Of wet sleeves
and damp tea towels
skinned over cupboard doors
with that scrubbed-clean
thoroughly-made-pink-from-the-evening scent.
washwet clothes dripping
but crisp new towels hanging hot
winter-fresh bedding
clothes always tangled on the floor
- for who has time to sort out socks when the body missing for months has finally come and bags are down toes out and hot water soap and hands together wet hair clean ready for cool shifting pillows and arms of dry towels -
before sun cuts skin and breakfast shouts in the morning.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
The clouds of curiosity
fluffing up like pink cotton candy,
the kind you get at the county fair.
A blooming pink fluff of a sugary
capacity, to fill your mouth
with the most desirable thirst
for lemonade that you've ever had.
Allowing for the sweet granules
to melt blissfully on your tongue,
savoring each and every sweet
morsel
'til you don't even realize that
the pink fluff is all gone.
Then you are riding on a perpetual
rush from the sugar
seeping into your bloodstream
aiding your curious adventure,
seeking as the lights from
the Ferris Wheel tantalize.
The fear of the top of the ride
worth the rush on the way down,
the people seem much smaller than
you expected;
but the rush,
well, the rush speaks for itself.
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
Her bare feet and palms are the shade of half ripe maroon dates.
Her strong silhouette, a gazelle at sunset.
Eyes are dark brown granules of coffee.
The clanks of gold jewellery on her forehead and ankles,
her sweet aroma of roses fused with jasmine saturate air.
Her fiery soul - a wild Arabian horse yet untamed by bedouins.
Her sun kissed skin glimmers under sunlight;
falcons are constrained with the touch of her fingertips.
She stands tall as she carries her pride,
tall as she hums with the gentle birds.
We ancient women, are an unbroken chain of tribal ancestry,
interlinked by blood and soul. Our lineage, a mother's lullaby,
carried by the wind that disperses sand,
wind that shakes the core of oceans.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
Jagged green talons,
shoot through gold dust,
marred only by the glimmer
of the mid day solstice.
Curving misty granules
Mask temperamental land:
Tracing paper haze
Swirls of glistening sand.
Bending hills blend
Precious pallid dust
With one layer of
Whipping wind.
Your blustered footprint
Get's carried away;
Bullied by nature's
Ethereal motion.
You’ve walked for miles
Dry and lagging among
Miniature valleys of Earth's
Smoothest round stalactite.
Hear the luscious,
Climactic ocean breeze
Speak salty psalms, from
Deepest blue parchment.
The serrated cliff-face
Positioned between
The vast curvature
of the sea and dunes.
Dogtooth black vertigo
With specks of white refrain,
Which drip back down
To the tenacity of the waves
As tides rise, patience falls.
Worn away, smooth again
As a brief, conjugative
Swill of realisation
Washes out lifes impurities
Cleansing boredom into
Calm; see a metropolis
Submerge in the tide.
The landmarks and history
Are but bricks, mortar
And washed up stories
Which float away to sea.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
~
On this silent beach,
sunset emotions filter a bashful skyline
We watch…poetry written in the sand
slowly eclipsed by a drowsy tide,
sea foam whispers erasing words
of deepest love
Minute granules float somber
neath aquamarine sighs
You fill my arms
upon moistened shores,
velvet lips satisfy my thirst
as warm salt water tingles
gently frame our bodies,
drenched in the moment
My eyes immerse in this beauty
which saturates me
Two souls, a lone silhouette
casting waves of rhythmic
yearnings on a desolate strand,
passion glistens
of moonbeam blushes
and forever promises
are kept
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Can you taste them?
Those slow melting morsels of sugar,
just lingering on the corners of your mouth...
You let them drip from your spoon,
let them roll off your tongue
and dress your intentions.
As they try and undress me...
Everything's inviting,
the presentation, the flavor, the texture...
Like Bartlett pears:
"Granules of sugary sand, made to melt and fill every taste bud."
The warmth of your phrasing,
reassuring with their momentary high
and their lingering desire for more...
Heavy with mood,
rich with aphrodisiacs'
and smooth like that cocky-ass grin...
These words are like ants,
attracted to the smell of decadence...
Sweet rotting decadence...
Watch them decay,
as the truth beneath...
Reveals the lack of sustenance.
Live on these words?
On these hollow, sugar-coated statements,
and be satisfied?
**** you.*
I need more than that.
You left me nauseous,
and filled with this stain...
Keep rolling those lines,
make them smooth and inviting,
make them enticing,
make them all yours....
*Never again,
will I indulge you.*
I need a tall drink of water,
the wind wiping through my hair,
and this pavement,
To guide my sullied feet,
as I "beat on against the current..."
of my self-indulgent past.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
I.
The burnt patches on your
Index finger have quietly been
Snuffing out the cigarettes you've
Been inhaling ever since
The start of this
****** conversation—
All too deep, I suppose.
II.
Your cigarettes remind
Me of my shriveled up crayons:
Wayward patches of yellow and
amber in between
Countless granules of
Fairydust;
Gaudy amalgamation
Of mirthless colors.
III.
As you leave the downtrodden
Sods of my mind,
I can't help but pick up
The stubs you've been grounding
Out all night.
Light a match.
Listless.
IV.
You'll be delighted to know
My bedroom walls now
Come in different
Shades of gray.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC