"gulfs" poems
The joyful heart is the buoyant heart—
empowered to rise above its circumstances,
unweighted, unburdened, unbound,
tied only to that which would lift it higher,
untethered from anything which would
pull it down, pull it under or suffocate it.
It's the free heart, quiet and at rest
yet jubilant and uncontained,
the celebrating heart, the praising heart,
the thankful heart, the heart set on pilgrimage,
bent on adventure, journey and romance.
All the while it's a waiting heart
because it's a yielded, led heart—
a heart which doesn't run ahead of the LORD
but willingly, quickly to the LORD—
a heart that though eagerly anticipating each
twisting turn, next horizon and changing path
keeps its eyes fixed not on the scenery
but forever on the Shepherd
because it's a heart persuaded
that He alone is the Great Reward
for which it has always been looking.
True joy is only ours when we find an endless
source of satisfaction, and of these I know only One!
The secret to all joy is to crave Him above all else.
The joyful heart is the one addicted fully to Him,
desperate for Him to the expense of all else,
willing to sacrifice everything to have that craving satisfied.
Joy and idols, I have learned,
do not easily reside together in the same heart.
So if I find that joy is chased away
the most likely culprits are my own desires.
What am I wanting more than Jesus?
For if intimacy with Him is the supreme goal of my life
then nothing can arise which I'm not enabled to bear with joy.
There is, I suppose, nothing so reliable as suffering and loss
to expose all of the hidden idols within me.
It's surely those who have suffered the greatest
and most frequent losses for Christ who are also
most capable of knowing the deepest and most abiding joy.
For it's when we've been stripped bare of everything else
that we begin to know for certain that our joy is based
not on the temporary blessings of our circumstances
but only on the presence of the Eternal Blesser Himself.
Sometimes He offers to us all that is in His right hand,
but for any with eyes truly opened to see
the most precious of times may be those
when He offers to us only the intimacy of His right hand.
Rivers of sadness can open up
into wide gulfs of endless delight and
are often the very courses needed to carry us there.
When all is lost, we find to our amazement
that, even so, we still have ALL
and no one can rob us of it.
When He takes everything from us
He proves Himself to be EVERYTHING to us.
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC
The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,
And the trees have a silver glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,
And the harpies of upper air,
That flutter and laugh and stare.
For the village dead to the moon outspread
Never shone in the sunset's gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep
Where the rivers of madness stream
Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.
A chill wind blows through the rows of sheaves
In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
For harvests that fly and fail.
Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change
That tore from the past its own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral power
Spreads sleep o'er the cosmic throne,
And looses the vast unknown.
So here again stretch the vale and plain
That moons long-forgotten saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,
Sprung out of the tomb's black maw
To shake all the world with awe.
And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,
The ugliness and the pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones and brick,
Shall some day be with the rest,
And brood with the shades unblest.
Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,
And the leprous spires ascend;
For new and old alike in the fold
Of horror and death are penned,
For the hounds of Time to rend.
12k
Our brains run on the
Same frequency, a precise
Pitch. Subconsciously stumbling
Into a cranium-themed cohabitation.
With Bics in hand
We catch inconsistent and
Rapid glimpses of a
Contemporary "real" world.
Shape-shifting from one
Ideology to the next.
Using time as a distraction; it's
Human nature to pause for countdowns.
They're all painted over. Oceans and
Gulfs covering lava and intrapersonal
Insides. Scrape it all off and you'll find that
Without all of the adhesives they bruise
Easier.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
There might have been a time
When I wasn’t full of fear so topped off
Like a gassy sombrero
like a burrito left in the
Sun to bake and there might have
Been a
Time
When I hadn’t yet eaten a burrito
landlocked
In New England, locked in a small state of
Fear and knowing that knowing
just isn’t
Enough.
There might have
Been
A time when luxury was a nickel
apiece paperback
Book at the Unitarian Church fall sale
to raise funds for
Their roof.
To raise their
Roof.
And there
Might
Have been a joy in my spark
Plugs,
A joy
In my canter
A Joy in
My legs that preceded my
Fears.
There might
Have
Been a time:
When I would pick one of the seven records we owned
And delicately put it on the turntable, thinking I will
Have my own money and
buy my own music.
When I idly lift the leaded paint
from the 200 year old wood
And scratch it to smell its sweet aroma.
And put my hand on the glass pane
Think hard enough and open your eyes and it will be
1838 again.
Oh where are the people?
Oh where
when there might have been a time
Did I not see who they are?
Or they did not register.
I must have watched them everyday
Observant
so keen to be seen
Is it possible to feel so much
for feeling so little?
Or did I feel gulfs of embrace
that were not there?
I wanted and I desired and I dug.
I craved and thought and speculated
and clung.
And there might have
Been
A time when I roared on my Schwinn down the long empty
Roads of my town.
Invoking our gods.
Invoking my claims.
There was a time when I stuttered with
Compassion and could
feel a touch observed
There was a time:
Across the street in a
lit house at dusk.
Their curtains are open, their lights are on.
Oh, the sun has settled down
There is that time, golden, when I
Look into your kitchen, and the wallpaper is
Blue and harvest gold with small pictures of oil lamps on
Them and your walls are mustard gold.
Your plates are unbreakable
I see them lustre in the
Overhead light, fashioned like a wagon wheel.
Guns ablazin’.
Trails awash.
There might be a time when I can slip back
Into your kitchen
lick the plates and then
Run my fingers over
the wall paper.
Tracing the outline of the oil
lamps imprinted.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
My soul is an enchanted boat,
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;
And thine doth like an angel sit
Beside a helm conducting it,
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.
It seems to float ever, for ever,
Upon that many-winding river,
Between mountains, woods, abysses,
A paradise of wildernesses!
Till, like one in slumber bound,
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around,
Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound:
Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions
In music’s most serene dominions;
Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven.
And we sail on, away, afar,
Without a course, without a star,
But, by the instinct of sweet music driven;
Till through Elysian garden islets
By thee, most beautiful of pilots,
Where never mortal pinnace glided,
The boat of my desire is guided:
Realms where the air we breathe is love,
Which in the winds and on the waves doth move,
Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above.
We have past Age’s icy caves,
And Manhood’s dark and tossing waves,
And Youth’s smooth ocean, smiling to betray:
Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee
Of shadow-peopled Infancy,
Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day;
A paradise of vaulted bowers,
Lit by downward-gazing flowers,
And watery paths that wind between
Wildernesses calm and green,
Peopled by shapes too bright to see,
And rest, having beheld; somewhat like thee;
Which walk upon the sea, and chant melodiously!
2.5k
<Sun May 14 5:00 AM PST>
Let us be smart about this departure,
time unscheduled, yet leaving inevitable,
the sound of fabric torn, a rent performed,
a ripping, a release of the gripping, connecting
tissue of weft and weave tying parent and child
*(All of us poets, all of us comprehend,
there are two points, two buttonholes
that offer escape or farewell, when we
commence on something new, when we
pen our chest’s demands to exhale, cease the hammering*
*Perhaps, here, just after the third stanza,
the brick enormity of our selected task, on chest,
weighs heavy, boulder difficulties ahead, now fastened
and faster and faster realized, begs us, quit this essay,
return to placid, from an arrhythmia of imploding loss)*
So many fabrics, so many tears, wet and dried,
but upon commencement, the only finish line,
is another commencement, when the (mine-own) rendering
is finalized, beyond repair, when guilt gulfs overflows, flooding
plains of forever pain officiated by signed scar, “here was”
So many separations, varied and variegated,
surficial shallow surgical or plunges, widths of trickle,
depths of deadly plunges, records of inches, dates,
names, new heights inscribed, measured on a door jamb,
lost, erased, when child’s door closes permanently
Came today to the West, to Pacific Ocean entrance,
to celebrate a good boy’s ritualized threshold crossing
over into manhood, both symbolic and and realized,
but tear-up seeing the small child-man leaning in and on
his father’s larger frame, a coinciding giving & taking
no bonds are eternal, for such is life, the weft must be
warped, sundered and separated, so many reasons,
experience speaks, scars are like bandages,protecting
but deceiving, what they cover can never be excised,
a space created, that only oxygen can touch both sides
but never, ever be reperfected, mended,…or finalized
2023
San Francisco
May 14, 2023
May 14, 2023 at 10:07 AM UTC
Obscurest night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov'd them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;
But wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent pow'r,
His destiny repell'd;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried--Adieu!
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere;
Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
2.1k
658
Whole Gulfs—of Red, and Fleets—of Red—
And Crews—of solid Blood—
Did place upon the West—Tonight—
As ’twere specific Ground—
And They—appointed Creatures—
In Authorized Arrays—
Due—promptly—as a Drama—
That bows—and disappears—
1.9k
#*t
h
e
r
i
v
e
r
s
of
our
sadness
can open up
into wide gulfs
of endless delight
and are oftentimes
the beneficent courses
needed to carry us there*#
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
“RENDEZVOUS SONNET”
“The long day wanes the slow moon climbs,
My pale enclave inspires me to write,
That of our midnight love rendezvous,
As well as awful dreams of life’s hardships,
All can be forgotten of travesty’s that followed,
As I easily compare you to a light of stardust,
Traipse of her breaching my mind of that day,
Thinking of your prompt nobility fills my days.
My love for you is the dedicated anamnesis,
Our heated times of past frolics of seasons,
Our summertime on the immense sleepy hollows,
The sounding furrows for my purpose holds
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down,
The prudence labor loving procured slowly,
Whisking your rugged ways and thro's endings,
Subdued only to thro’s closure of laudability,
Ode to my rendezvous sonnet”
By Andrew Guzaldo 08/14/2018 ©
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
There is a song that skins remember.
A line that resounds in silences.
A form the heart revisits
in fervid recollections.
That you must not speak,
that you must not speak.
Silences can ****
No need to ask Crusoe.
Stars that explode in suicide:
From aeons of tortuous silences,
from distant companions,
silently cold.
Yes, our silences talk. Sorry, this
was not how it was supposed to be.
Strains of there we go again.
Gulfs of empty spaces between
silent vales, that birth the
mourning winds.
Murmurs leap out like dolphins
out of our silences.
Waiting to hear each other. Past
the dirge at the grave of my errors.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
The spirit ere our fatal loss
Did ever rise from high to higher;
As mounts the heavenward altar-fire,
As flies the lighter thro' the gross.
But thou art turn'd to something strange,
And I have lost the links that bound
Thy changes; here upon the ground,
No more partaker of thy change.
Deep folly! yet that this could be--
That I could wing my will with might
To leap the grades of life and light,
And flash at once, my friend, to thee.
For tho' my nature rarely yields
To that vague fear implied in death;
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath,
The howlings from forgotten fields;
Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor
An inner trouble I behold,
A spectral doubt which makes me cold,
That I shall be thy mate no more,
Tho' following with an upward mind
The wonders that have come to thee,
Thro' all the secular to-be,
But evermore a life behind.
1.1k
*Her expression is that of a child
Filled with wonder and mild
Panning deep blue waters
She is the gulfs daughter enthralled-
in the afternoon sea-breeze , longing for
sanddollars , tiny shells and dolphins ,
sandcastles and clapping palm trees* ..
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 5:19 PM UTC
I just had a religious experience
Everything that was everything decorated the skies
Life in all its glory and purpose
The sun shown in all too brilliant rays cascading sheets of pure light
Upon the animals, the faces, the millions of faces
The earth
Covered with mountains, canyons,
Gulfs streaming with storms
Oceans of life littering the spaces
Between wolves howling and grizzlies catching salmon
Leaping from fast flowing rivers
The trees and forests grow to such great heights
It’s beautiful
Too beautiful for my vocabulary
Lexis fail to describe in detail the pure extravagance of it all
The sun changed the hues of vast Eden
Spits of negatives and diluted colors
Welcoming all as one
Tired eyes from beauty’s light
Counterparts
The dark so dark that it was hard to focus on
Moving slowly like a monolithic sludge
Engulfing the light
Slowly
Till all was dark
Till all was dark
And good and evil existed as one
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 1:44 PM UTC
My argument is this.., why blow so strongly wind?
Why are your gusts overly fierce today?
Do you pick on that what I most love and cherish,
Or are you hurtful just by being?
Leave one calm sky over my head, hang that blue
Over awhile longer, as I softly rest,
Relax, and contemplate my loving pink rose.
If you do not yield your wrath,
Cease your anger in swirling gulfs of air
Which no leaf stood chance alone;
Or a streams face bracing her efforts with stern
Fingers grasping to her waves;
But release they do; with all fainting efforts
As reflected sweat trickles down her brow,
And copies the drops with ripples all their own.
Now blemishes appear here upon her still!
If, I pray, you do not relent from your rough blows,
My shoes will be wrapped for journey!
My coat will be awaken'd from its hung-slumber
-Being jolted from its use-too sleep!
I would, believe, find those temples where sacrifice
Were slained for the immortal Gods,
Where the white bulls neck detached from his body
Without immense Natures full consent!
Those times where our pleas were heard by willing ears!
There, will your harsh-harrowing halt!
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 3:45 PM UTC
The machines dreamed of distant futures
Far off realities that yet may come
But the future that came to be
Was one they never could have predicted
And thus they now lie dormant
Within the great gulfs
Among the black ashes
And the bones of their makers
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
The possible possibly came possible to her possible responsibility
But the product produced her production
And hope hoped for opinion to indulge
Gulfs of emotions showed attention
which led to disappointment
advantage disowning the prophet that lies
Average feelings decided on their own
Affection caused
Meetings annoyed many mind cells
turning down any appointment pointed
All was needed was love
that resulted in fear
Fear of love war
all was bad into their hearts
Because of love
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
in the tiniest house of time
i go and search for her
amid a strike of midnight chimes
neither souls infer
in that little house i live
with fate which He ordained
for what once has gone from it
none can be regained
infinite is thy mansion lord
what faithful men do seek
walk upon time's narrow sword
on years which seasons leap
beneath sky's golden canopy
as wind winds round my neck
with a look into your eyes i feel
your breath inside my breath
into the horizon where all immerse
i've reached the brink of eternity
see all fearless slumbers disburse
into your singular immensity
see how empty lives drown
into your ocean grand
while the gulfs all wash me down
i await your touch of hand
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
adapted from R.B. Tagore's poem - Brink of Eternity
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
Tailor,Tailor
weave your spell
Harken groans that
dwell beneath
Smell the fragrance
of her tomb
I left there a
bloom of dew
Light me please a
path to dead
Hollow are the
years herein
Since she left a
wail for tune
Seals do chant the
lament's rhymes
Foggy days are
now live in
Gulfs and shores the
phantom's lair
Groves are emptied
fays have gone
Nature strolls in
grief alone
Tailor,Tailor
weave your spell
Let me go to
her again
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 9:39 AM UTC
In the beginning people called you a brick. But you weren’t perturbed
You stripped off weight, revealed svelte contours. Emerged fit.
You added bling. Bells and whistles unimaginable
Not shallow though. Shrewd and calculated
You made yourself valuable. Desirable
Everyone wanted a piece of you. I wanted you.
I got you.
In turn you gifted me everything I wished for. Everything I’d need
You brought me knowledge, broadened my horizons. Exposed me to the world
Sometimes enlightening, sometimes shocking
There was nothing you wouldn’t reveal
You organised my life, gave me direction. Connected me
Provided for my base needs. Oh the sweet ***** ***
But you were aloof
For all that you offered, you were indifferent to the price
For the good there was bad. For freedom, I gave you control
The world cost me community. Truths cost innocence
Exposing, I was vulnerable. Revelations rent me disturbed
As my go-between none could see me but through you
You took my connections and reset them. Manipulated my self-esteem
Self-esteem I relied upon
With you as my medium, misunderstandings became commonplace
Relationships once solid showed cracks
With disconnect you scrutinised these divides, and made them gulfs
Analyses became autopsies, on associations seemingly dead
So be it. I’ve seen enough. I’m too far down this path
I wouldn’t know how to change it. How would I even attempt to?
But I knew once
Maybe the problem is you. Your heavy on me once more, like that brick
I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, but there are some things you can’t
I must wrest back from you my connections with community
The bond with those important to me
You can have the world. It’s fame, flattery, insults and disgrace
I just want you to make a call
I gotta phone a friend
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
Twelve handlebars and six left feet
Plow their way through arrogant Spring
Catching mouthfuls of melodies that swim the air
Stuffing twenty-two pockets with laughter
Spitting seeds of care
From cherry-stained lips
Into the gulfs of ever afters
Slinking their legs and elbows through rafters
To spy on the honesty present in dreams
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC
B-stream Steve looked both ways
Longing for what he saw.
Thinking he'd be much happier
With those boys he held in awe.
Instead he floundered midstream
Never quite feeling satisfied
Telling himself that one day soon
He'd climb or slowly slide.
B-stream Steve looked both ways
And found as he got older
The gulfs between a, b and c
Were more in the eye of the beholder.
While streaming helped those in charge
He needed to keep in mind
A boy in the middle was much better placed
To befriend those ahead and behind.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
This one’s my last breath,
but not the end of my story.
Breathe they say,
with a rush of pain
my breath breaks the surface.
I can see the light ahead
of the darkness that
tries to steal my life.
Like fireworks I burst
breaking the halo that
in gulfs my existence,
but my ghost lives on after
the surcharge of this
beautiful pain we inhaled
like it’s our last,
breathe they say.
Break the halo
bursting into life,
like a firework lighting up
the night, this life will never
extinguish my flame
for I will always burn bright.
© 2018 By Amanda Shelton
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
Who tells the ivy, “Ascend the tall trees”?
a) Birds, for a cozier home in the boughs
b) Squirrels, who prefer some good footing for ease
c) Farmers, to clear off the ground for to plow
Do birds prefer maple or spruce for their homes?
a) Maple, whose leaves are like comfy green pillows
b) Spruce, for the needles groom feathers as combs
c) Birds take what they can, whether cacti or willows
Who built the wall between desert and marsh?
a) Sand, who feared water would turn it to mud
b) Water, who found frequent sandstorms too harsh
c) Delicate plains, fearing both drought and flood
Who piled sand into towering dunes?
a) The wind, who impresses soft trails in its wake
b) The long, tugging arms of the amorous moon
c) Sand did it alone, sans shovel, sans rake
Why does the moon still circle the earth?
a) To lure the seas to its pale, thirsty gulfs
b) It scans for a scar as the proof of its birth
c) To flirt with the love songs of clamorous wolves
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 11:37 PM UTC
Free spirited life, held no confinements..where might you have gone? for you have taken the key , I've searched these same walls that are closing around me, steel trap imprisoned within this mental cage. Invasions of memories my life bursted with excitement as the wings of my existence feathered and free. Vanished existence like fall leaves falling from the tree , Loneliness haunts me like a scorched asylum ,nothing remaining but gloomy stress as the feeling of confinement in gulfs my remains i haven't the ability left to premeditate plans for escape for my severity of change , once an Eagle flying free To a Finch as I go unseen , The trickery or fuckery whichever it may be, destined to destroy what's left of me trapped in this wrenched mental cage .
©kimmied1105
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC