"heaped" poems
Rumpled sheets
Stacked dishes
Heaped clothes
Agenda
Script
Novel
Novel
Novel
Slipping shoes on
Arriving almost
Staying after
Dedication
Perserverance
Optimism
Did anyone ask you?
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 2:13 PM UTC
Onion,
luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden,
the earth heaped up her power
showing your naked transparency,
and as the remote sea
in lifting the ******* of Aphrodite
duplicating the magnolia,
so did the earth
make you,
onion
clear as a planet
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the table
of the poor.
You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
heavenly globe, platinum goblet,
unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.
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Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
And let there glide by many a pearly car
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half-discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
For what a height my spirit is contending!
'Tis not content so soon to be alone.
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How to cook carrot salad
carrot wash and clean. Grate the carrots on a coarse grater. Apple wash and grate.
apple, honey and the juice of red currants. Also add the chopped parsley and crushed nuts. All well and carefully
mix. Sitemap salad.
sprinkle with citric acid and mix. Vegetables lay heaped sprinkle with grated cheese and chopped herbs
parsley. Sitemap salad.
Heck, Cook the fish and carrots. Fish and carrots on toast to cut pieces. Cleaned fish and carrots to put in
salad bowl. In a salad bowl add the peas. In add grated horseradish mayonnaise and season with the Sitemap sauce salad.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
I would bathe myself in strangeness:
These comforts heaped upon me, smother me!
I burn, I scald so for the new,
New friends, new faces,
Places!
Oh to be out of this,
This that is all I wanted
—save the new.
And you,
Love, you the much, the more desired!
Do I not loathe all walls, streets, stones,
All mire, mist, all fog,
All ways of traffic?
You, I wold have flow over me like water,
Oh, but far out of this!
Grass, and low fields, and hills,
And sun,
Oh, sun enough!
Out, and alone, among some
Alien people!
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125
For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ration
To the ecstasy.
For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years—
Bitter contested farthings—
And Coffers heaped with Tears!
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OUT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Your mother Eire is aways young,
Dew ever shining and twilight grey;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;
And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the grey twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.
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I ASKED if I should pray.
But the Brahmin said,
"pray for nothing, say
Every night in bed,
""I have been a king,
I have been a slave,
Nor is there anything.
Fool, rascal, knave,
That I have not been,
And yet upon my breast
A myriad heads have lain.'''
That he might Set at rest
A boy's turbulent days
Mohini Chatterjee
Spoke these, or words like these,
I add in commentary,
"Old lovers yet may have
All that time denied --
Grave is heaped on grave
That they be satisfied --
Over the blackened earth
The old troops parade,
Birth is heaped on Birth
That such cannonade
May thunder time away,
Birth-hour and death-hour meet,
Or, as great sages say,
Men dance on deathless feet.' 0084
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Boaz, overcome with weariness, by torchlight
made his pallet on the threshing floor
where all day he had worked, and now he slept
among the bushels of threshed wheat.
The old man owned wheatfields and barley,
and though he was rich, he was still fair-minded.
No filth soured the sweetness of his well.
No hot iron of torture whitened in his forge.
His beard was silver as a brook in April.
He bound sheaves without the strain of hate
or envy. He saw gleaners pass, and said,
Let handfuls of the fat ears fall to them.
The man's mind, clear of untoward feeling,
clothed itself in candor. He wore clean robes.
His heaped granaries spilled over always
toward the poor, no less than public fountains.
Boaz did well by his workers and by kinsmen.
He was generous, and moderate. Women held him
worthier than younger men, for youth is handsome,
but to him in his old age came greatness.
An old man, nearing his first source, may find
the timelessness beyond times of trouble.
And though fire burned in young men's eyes,
to Ruth the eyes of Boaz shone clear light.
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Cold stone statues of all shapes and sizes
Chilled to the moss covered bone
Standing ***** markers of time
Weather worn words, passages of years
A place of disasters, heartbreak and crime
All gathered there, forgotten by time
As the trees bend to the seasons
And the passing of years
A lone figure dressed in black
Stands above an unnamed gravestone
Reflecting on past memories
Of someone he had known.
Brown wet clinging clay lies
Heaped by the side of a black hollow
Waiting for another invited guest
As the bell tolls, mournfully
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
Mind and body numb
Disbelief growing by leaps and bounds.
Everything I held dear gone overnight,
All because of jealousy.
There is no dealing with a jealous mind,
No hearing the truth with a jealous ear.
No other emotion is so destructive on earth
So subtle, but destroys from within.
Even when the accuser is guilty of the same,
A jealous eye cannot see.
Abuse heaped upon abuse is thrown
Until all is whirled in a heart wrenching cyclone of words.
Laid waste is my heart, my soul and my mind.
Destroyed is my love, my life and the us we had.
My objections not heard, my tears leave you unmoved.
The cyclone has taken another.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
Every ounce of
generosity
in this world
heaped
into one
But
none of it adds up
to your heart's
kindness,
as warm as the sun.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 10:45 PM UTC
Virginia,
bathed in the misty Ouse
overcoat pockets filled with the hard grey stones of life
dark rocks to match the shadows
of the mountain heaped upon her back
until she could not bear the load
so she swam, and did not leave a forwarding address
or bring a towel and sandwiches for a picnic
Mar 23, 2024
Mar 23, 2024 at 4:10 AM UTC
Winter, winter how we feel your icy touch
The earth is now under your freezing clutch
All that falls in our ears is the howl of gales from far
The night sky is covered in grayness without a single star
In the dawn, nowhere can one spot the buzzing bees
Icicles hang from boughs of leafless trees
Birds sit with drooping wings in their woody nests
Within eye shot, no trace of any roaming beasts
Trees stand sleeping in the biting cold
And the sun has lost its bright sheen of gold
From nowhere comes the song of a single bird
On the slopes, one cannot sight the grazing herd
Roof tops are crusted with flakes of snow
Which the sun with sharp beams alone can thaw
Piles of snow lie heaped on the barren ground
And the entire Earth lies in a sea of ice drowned
Busy streets and pavements are now lying bare
People stay indoors and to be out, they hardly dare
The rodents have gone into hibernation in their ditch
And life altogether has gone out of pitch
In the smiting chill of a dreadful wintry night
When through every fiber n’ nerve is the cold bite
How we like to sit cocooned beside the hearth
Sipping a cup of steaming tea in rising mirth
In such quiet hours, one can peruse into the pages of tomes
That will transport one to enchanting magical zones
Or engage in a hearty chat with friends and family
Thus turning even the bleakest hours sweet and lively
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 5:59 AM UTC
Not against the peaks of protest, these aurulent banners and jasperated jaspe so so jargoon! It's like I was suddenly alive, beat-stretched out of winter neige and into the pancosmic blisses of bright and ebullient spring, plugged with an agromania to abide this new formidable friend in the aeviternal beauty of she and I togetherness. Never to spill a morsel of a minute away from us again, upon the newly conjured spirits unto us both. To be amidst a cynosure of such affiation, to be in the temperate or tropical gardens whispering about our mutual love for flowers nad lists. This that precedes us, bright colliding auras in this newfound numinous kindling of us two. Watching it, making it happen- it unfolding before me made me naseaus with excitement, dithering what our next move out to be. I just wanted to kiss her face, her cheeks, put our hands together so quickly, just to let our amorous fug fill the room with silver albuminious smoke from our breaths. Miles below this, round the Earth to other places, there are the fixtures of bright and corybantic life commoved by other nations and other poised people of the light, that I should not be idle in my desires to usher myself into this grand and briguing introduction. So she said, we will play the question game, the inquiry game, we will state the mark, draw upon deep and fantastical recall, bring from our minds the most immense truths and share them, no matter now feral, or caustic, or melancholy- they will be shared until we explode with each other, our intrigues wrapped in our perfervid and amatory excitedness for one another. Too vast with wonder to be afraid of- am I such a fiend for such resplendence. That we could be vitrified in eternity in a veil of fulgurite. So at this nightfall, this acronychal of bloviating bliss, to write and wonder, incessantly in the finest of provincial matters to settle this garden where Thetis lives to be of her, two philocalists in verdant pasture, heaped with matters of the pen and the palm, in the droves of this beautiful advesperating eve- where first I wrote to you, and then I wrote you back.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
Spring blossoms gentle acceptance
Of vagaries of desperation
Like variegated autumnal leaves
From the core of the stone of floods
Undeclared truths
Affirmative requests
There is chaos as a whole
In the expanse of the unending.
Fear fades mystically.
Death and boredom leave your lungs ...
There. Exists
Justice and pleasure... .
.... thoughts of living, laugh in the face of Death.
all the thoughts of failures
Conglomerate and are cast away
Into a deep trench
the soothing currents lull
Sinking green verdure.
Embraced by the biosphere
And forming a reef,
Thereby even your failures succeed.
Even now your image is being painted on the dull white canvas of my love.
Violent storms may rend the world
scattering lesser unions,
There is endurance in our madness...
Laughter, the golden bird, with bejewelled feathers,
Leads to the oasis of truth, in this desert of deceit
Reciprocation of sensation
Every intention to remain
And the rapidly ascending choir of broken angels sing the song which massacres despair.
And the body I wish to settle
Caressed by the deepest dark of night
Birth of the morning
The genesis of pleasant daydreams
Calm, hope ...
..... And a sense of success
Blue morning justice cascades
With dispelled illusions, and realized wishes.
Everyday upon wakening
I discard hate
As love, is mildly colored supple flesh
Withdrawn and plunged, into the crack of a stoney heart
Space infinitum opens before us,
On the petals of the lotus
Space through which two beings connect
No matter the distance.
We know that beneath this dull white nightmare
Dwells a vibrant black dream,
That is neither evil or good,
But just is.
On the workbench of despair,
Disassembled hearts are heaped.
In this pile I dwelled for an age of pain,
Until you plucked me from the pile
And made me whole again.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
(Inspired by article below)
I.
Continuity
your filibuster egg of sand
dazzled curiosity
with creaky shell of hints
heaped upon the tedium
of knowledge's unfurl undeterred
by encyclopedic impatience
Assurances of rip(Van Winkl)ed
economics shooed paper strings of
revelation like anarchy-powered
taxes summoning a foreword
to anachronistic campaigns
of environmental friendliness
II.
Meanwhile years
have been filed down to flashes of
chronology for continuity's organic rebus
However long it took
the economic karma to fall into the
abodes of hedonistic pharaohs
it was instant
Skin that ruled behind the constitution
of allergic breath
bailed on the bones against their most
sublime intentions
Limbo-treading landlords
huddled in their mummified freeze
after breadline bashers scolded them
with the spoils of a new brand
of pyramid scheming
Robbers of the coffin palaces
stole the intimations of identity
theft from today
Immortality and freedom
were compelled to share a meaning
like estranged siblings
or bound dynasties
I(a).
Abydos
how you coyly toyed with us
with a diversion bordering on monolithic
04 23 14
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
In Rome on the Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with wine
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the trestles
With rose-pink fish;
Armfuls of dark grapes
Heaped on peach-down.
On this same square
They burned Giordano Bruno.
Henchmen kindled the pyre
Close-pressed by the mob.
Before the flames had died
The taverns were full again,
Baskets of olives and lemons
Again on the vendors' shoulders.
I thought of the Campo dei Fiori
In Warsaw by the sky-carousel
One clear spring evening
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were flying
High in the cloudless sky.
At times wind from the burning
Would driff dark kites along
And riders on the carousel
Caught petals in midair.
That same hot wind
Blew open the skirts of the girls
And the crowds were laughing
On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.
Someone will read as moral
That the people of Rome or Warsaw
Haggle, laugh, make love
As they pass by martyrs' pyres.
Someone else will read
Of the passing of things human,
Of the oblivion
Born before the flames have died.
But that day I thought only
Of the loneliness of the dying,
Of how, when Giordano
Climbed to his burning
There were no words
In any human tongue
To be left for mankind,
Mankind who live on.
Already they were back at their wine
Or peddled their white starfish,
Baskets of olives and lemons
They had shouldered to the fair,
And he already distanced
As if centuries had passed
While they paused just a moment
For his flying in the fire.
Those dying here, the lonely
Forgotten by the world,
Our tongue becomes for them
The language of an ancient planet.
Until, when all is legend
And many years have passed,
On a great Campo dci Fiori
Rage will kindle at a poet's word.
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A futile battle enmeshed
Overpowering emotions struggle to stay afloat
Heaving a deep breath I sink in
Isolated in my despair
Sliced through bone and marrow
Pain wrenches my soul, vice in its hold
A fragrance wafts in
Electrifying my soul
Reverberating memories explode
Bursting to surface
Tender moments, the story of a heaped up soul
In every cell of my being I feel you
Emanating exuding your deep truth
Your touch like butterflies
Transcendental your love
Rewinding reel by reel
The story of an unsaid love
I see you close, though I bear you not
My heart lost inside your soul
Irreplaceable the magic
Weaved by those deep emerald embers
Wants each moment to unfold
I ease back and surrender once again
To the assurance of this bliss
Entrenched deeply in this moment
Serenity shrouds a warm blanket
Intense emotions lay calm, spent
My soul in glorious serenity elevates
You are undeniably a part of me
My paragon, my serenity
Issue forth bright light, vibrant colors
Adorn the deep dark night sky
Your love a painting a million hues
Panoramic and divine.
I LOVE YOU....
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race, of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
3.5k
Confessions of a Blessed Hedonist.( tri word line)
-1- -3-
Lived this long, what makes change?
Time just flew, a metamorphosis divine?
Mind playing games worms to butterflies,
Heart desiring ever. saviors, angels, messiahs?
extreme cravings doused. what makes humane,
opiates in zillions, friends, lovers, brothers?
Cocktails, a million. Destinies unknown working,
Endless revelries futile, in times unconscious,
Loves instant, genuine. drunken slumbers dead,
Clean beds crumpled, uncaring deeds cruel,
Checkouts late rewarded. Unmanly acts shameful.
-2- -4-
Friends dear betrayed, maybe one dream,
Away bartered loves. among nightmares plenty,
Much monies made, that one love-germ,
Abandoned ethics many. under in-differences heaped,
Gods all rejected, faint glimmering self,
Except the Hedonistic! beneath mountainous egos,
World enjoyed fully, a sparkling life-sign,
Life wasted lovely. in cemeteries silent.
Morphing every second, causes matter not,
Into grandiose nothing, by destiny’s graces,
Skeleton cynical final. gratefully unscathed still.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 12:42 AM UTC
I have sailed the River of Yellow Flowers,
Borne by the channel of a green stream,
Rounding ten thousand turns through the mountains
On a journey of less than thirty miles....
Rapids hum over heaped rocks;
But where light grows dim in the thick pines,
The surface of an inlet sways with nut-horns
And weeds are lush along the banks.
...Down in my heart I have always been as pure
As this limpid water is....
Oh, to remain on a broad flat rock
And to cast a fishing-line forever!
2.9k
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
2.8k
I am reading this poem,
late, in the snug familiarity of my bed,
with gentle night-light and sable night-sky,
stars swimming beyond the glass,
warm breaths fogging up the panes.
I am reading this poem,
curled on a beanbag in a library with her my by side,
breaths stirring against my skin,
like the winds of time, of change, taking me away from here.
I am reading this poem,
in a room that is abound with remembrance and days gone by,
where the bedclothes are heaped, fresh and steaming with warmth,
with the same freedom that the open valise speaks of,
a journey ending in success, a triumphant flight.
I am reading this poem,
as the underground train screeches to a halt,
and before heading up the stairs,
towards the love that life has bestowed on me.
I am reading this poem,
by the glow of the laptop screen,
where the headlines flash and flicker,
for once, joy is splashed across the monitor.
I am reading this poem in a waiting room,
of meeting eyes and crinkling smiles, more friends than strangers,
without fear.
I am reading this poem by firelight,
in the simple joy and jubilation of the young who know they matter,
and live with hope and inner liberation, from the earliest of ages.
I am reading this poem,
freed of the curved lenses, the cloudy cataracts,
and I can see the letters for what they are and I read on,
because this freedom is precious.
I am reading this poem as I sit by the radiator,
the milk is already warm (electricity isn’t cut these days)
child in my arms, book in my hand,
because life is waiting for me to live it,
knowing it is never too short or too long but just right.
I am reading this poem not in my language,
while she sits at my side and helps me translate,
because tongues are free to roam now.
I am reading this poem listening for something,
stopping to savour the taste of freedom,
to be able to refuse the task I cannot turn to.
I am reading this poem because I can,
and there is so much left to read
I have now and forever,
to soar untamed with wings unclipped, clothed as I am.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
The truck was full, its open back
heaped black, and there a leg, an eye;
daylight thickened on the sweating
stack and blurred the further sky.
Ten feet away I pulled the key
and let the engine jolt and choke,
the CD skipped, an old riff jarred,
a line of meaning stopped and broke
and something in that silence straightened,
left a splintered ****** mark,
I closed my eyes and felt it there,
hating in the blinded dark.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 3:09 PM UTC