"halation" poems
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
It stood upright, a branch outstretched
and blocked the path on me.
In circumventing sideways dance
I edged in grass quite slow,
but a craggy root handcuffed me,
and would not let me go.
I stood in shocked drawn silent gaze,
unsure of where to turn,
This tree had pulled me tighter now,
it fought my urge to run.
But then it spoke in ancient voice,
in tones of guttural flow.
Dark words in wood translation,
spoke of a poisoned stream below.
The leaf on every branch now shivered,
in worried recounted tale,
as it described through words so clear
what caused its bark to fail.
A darkened tale of toxic waste,
a legacy untold.
of man's destructive story,
where greed and fear unfold.
Water table now unset
In (fractured gas) halation.
Land is sold and cracked
in tempted cash flirtation
War for oil in scarlet lands,
where majors lived at base.
The youth in pointless sacrifice,
to save the political face.
Where poverty prevailed amid
abundant arable nations.
and the silent cries of children
skewed charitable donations.
Air of grey, fermented
with pollen soft pollution.
Chokes of spluttered ash,
cast doubt on evolution
This tale of woe recounted
by nature's mother-tree
with roots now losing hold
while balanced grip on me.
Swaying branch quite dangerously
in forgotten leafy youth.
this once majestic elder falls,
unburdened by this truth.
It died in pain where it had grown
drowned slow in poisoned stream.
a fading track on reddened skin
where its handcuffed branch had been.
I straightened up and stumbled on
relieved it had let me go.
My eyes in shock, slowly adjusted
To wood in flat plateau.
I cast my eyes in horizoned view
not believing what I'd seen.
The wood in matchsticked pattern
where once proud kings had been.
The landscape now lay barren,
with wood strewn all around.
The stench of rot erupted
from muddy blackened ground.
I wandered off to tell the tale,
of being confronted by this tree,
unsure of what just happened
or why it had chosen me.
I walked for miles in desolate,
through air starved atmosphere.
but met no one along this road,
a winding pot-holed frontier.
I walked until I finally woke.
in spluttered inhalation.
Confused, I feared this reality,
of earth's final damnation.
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
Awoke, its tale will linger,
forever haunting me
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
1.
Princely I am, as Michigan loam,
as carefully turned mud,
as old, old dust––
my breaths are still and unresolved
and don’t dissolve in alcohol
like snakes or dead, bloated fish––
I am nothing monumental.
2.
Stuttered breaths lie in limp open circles around our feet,
hanging by threads of unmade promises––
symmetry was never my forte.
The bent nose,
the crooked lips,
the slow-ballooning wen where nitrogen bubbles––
my flesh is like untilled soil,
all raw and swollen with possibility.
3.
You asked me if it was probable
to find life on Mars
where the iron-leeched sand
crumbles like dried hemoglobin.
I don’t know about amino acids or genesis
or the first man of Dust,
much less mysteries of lovesickness, respiration,
really good ***
We’re barren in different ways;
your dust comes from dreams, from heaven,
crimson and majestic
and dead as Olympus Mons
while I am like moon dust,
just as cold as your bone-dry lakes of carbon dioxide,
but paler, heavier,
and more remote.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 11:22 PM UTC
I admit
I am pathetically in love with you
Frightful it might be irrevocable
Girl pining away for someone whom she's invisible to
The oldest story in the book
I pale in comparison to all the others
I know, I get it
Not aesthetically gifted
Perhaps if you had taken a peek into my soul
You'd have found how stunning it is
I grow more delusional by the day
envisioning how your hazels would sparkle
When halation encircles you in auroras fluorescence
I am wrecking my brain
Trying to sound profound
Words splattered on a page are all I have to offer sometimes
Verbalisation fails me
I suppose I'll have to be content with this unembellished declaration
( which you will never see)
It feels organic anyway
I am plucking all this from the bottom of my heart
As I force these feelings to wither away
I attempt to convince myself that this was just perhaps an inflated crush
I am saddened by thoughts of what could have been
It burns
The catalyst I need to move on is my acceptance of the fact that even though we live under the same sun
the problem is, it doesn't cast the same shadow
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
Life is war,
my hands are hypnagogic,
so far from refuge.
The purgatory salesman,
an enemy with antlers,
speaks in hostile slogans:
create, destroy, rebuild, repeat.
My friend coma,
blunted and paranoid,
has lost her vital signs.
But Television says differently,
calls this an elegant demise,
you touch the screen
like you're touching God.
The immortal world
I'm hoping to collide with
is beautiful and closed to resistance.
But there are cracks in everything,
the snowglobe army
granular and brittle,
the constant uncertainty
of your universe
becomes a hiding game.
Take me with you
my halation angel,
to migration salvation.
We made our history
into mythology,
a mass of disconnected facts,
the stars may be dead,
yet, we're here
and we've stopped time.
Tonight I'm breaking
through the gates,
tonight I can see around corners,
suddenly, forever makes sense.
Feb 25, 2024
Feb 25, 2024 at 2:51 PM UTC
Colours in my eyes; like rain
as it drizzles, verses in vain;
Thoughts upon layering vines
of prosetry; a delightful hymn.
More than a picture; a metaphor:
A dismay of one's own fancy,
Prismatic one would say; vibrant-
ly laced strings trilled, on a fancy;
Whimsical: clinquantly fervent,
Or so one would say; gracing,
Painting cliques; of colours
of places upon themselves;
As a canvass wild wandering,
Upon the world in its charming flatter.
Unlike I, one bound deeply; enfettered
gladly in between dimly shades of two.
"A mixture of velvety crimson and deep royal violet."
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 2:21 AM UTC
Across the meadow
Halation stretched
As the sun kissed the bay
The sound of waves
Murmuring in the distance
Where like whispers
Falling on ears eager
For reassurance
Soothing, forgiving
Mending the very fabric of existence
Once shredded
Beyond repair
Mother nature had just
Birthed September
Along with the rudiments
Of designing a new dawn.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
I.
I once asked about halations, and wondered what they were;
if they did at all exist, for once.
How they'd appear only in blurry and unfocused pictures,
or perhaps at times, still and expectant on the verge of our tears?
Now the question:
"What makes a halation?" And if we're thinking of the same thing.
II.
So I then wrote about halations, and tried to make (believe) sense—
of what they were (not) portraying.
I spoke of their lucidity amongst all others,
of their ever-curious charm,
and of their picturesque whims—
yet denied them a photograph, and opt for another.
Hence was said:
"More than a picture: a metaphor."
In other words: are we thinking of the same thing?
III.
With it, I'll once again talk about halations, and wonder where they are;
wonder when they might appear.
If the lights still scatter after—
and on the far side: if they would cast the same fair shades then.
Here I quote:
"For every shot taken is merely a remnant of the most beautiful."
I will speak of the light and without doubt—
be thinking of a different someone.
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 4:26 PM UTC
Halation stretched
As the sun melted into bone
The sound of waves
Murmuring in the distance
Where like whispers
Falling on ears eager
For reassurance
Soothing, forgiving
Mending the very fabric of existence
Once shredded
Beyond repair
Mother nature had just
Birthed Spring
Along with the rudiments
Of designing a new
Dawn
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
An indication.
Cotton mouth and a binding knot to the temple.
Warm exhales give reason to suspect
my tenure over this body fetal.
A reminder.
Halation and smothering darkness in the enclosure.
Crusted squints summon the gall to beg
my limbs to remember their master.
A disturbance.
Musky stench and fingers webbed to slime and yarn.
An arduous tug suggests a young female
gone for hours by the heat of her tongue.
The appeasement.
Correlation and tracing mind maps to its chorus.
A restful sigh confirms my furtive habit
of decapitating the women I love.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
this daily death
and nightly rebirth
these swelling buds
and falling leaves
this piling snow
and torrential flow
this in- and ex- halation
this building warmth
and inertia of cold
this body grows
and then it grows old
this rhythm of life
and imminent death
pervades everything i see
so, could it be
that, perhaps, this rhythm is me
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 7:16 PM UTC
You
speak the words written on the hidden parts of my skin
then lick your lips to taste them.
Empty
lungs grasp for inhalation
still have space to gasp at the halation of our own creation.
Yet
forbidden from the surface ****** to the depths
where forceless purpose is slowly eroding
the dark and foreboding loathing
I have found floating within myself.
Buried
in the mud of the mundane
then swept under the rug of the claimed sane
now ashamed to admit that I've done the same thing.
Through
the heaviest darkness of my heart
and the blinding light of my brain
every time I get the chance
I use all my breath just to whisper your name.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 10:53 PM UTC
But if my heart stops beating,
Who would be the one who saves?
But if I should die,
Who would be the one who cries?
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC