"icebergs" poems
Blue sky, smooth sailing
Balancing neon lights of my mind's eye
(as glassy waves lap against my feet)
And the innocent sands of a white-gold beach fantasy,
Soft, warm, and as sure as the day.
Graying sky, persevering
Forging ahead through tempestuous waves
(growing faster in speed and height than a father's son)
I cling to the sample of that white sand,
Bottled up in a tiny plastic nip.
Blackened sky, capsizing
Plummeting into jet-black sea
(stained in the lights of my fallen Titan)
The nip shattering, without my notice
Icebergs visible on the horizon of her heart
My sand lost into the radiant black seas
Never to be seen again.
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge
on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.
The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers
there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of
the sea!
And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages
on the depths of the seven seas,
and through the salt they reel with drunk delight
and in the tropics tremble they with love
and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.
Then the great bull lies up against his bride
in the blue deep bed of the sea,
as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life:
and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-blood
the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and
comes to rest
in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale's
fathomless body.
And over the bridge of the whale's strong phallus, linking the
wonder of whales
the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and
forth,
keep passing, archangels of bliss
from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim
that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the
sea
great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.
And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-
tender young
and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of
the beginning and the end.
And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring
when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood
and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat
encircling their huddled monsters of love.
And all this happens in the sea, in the salt
where God is also love, but without words:
and Aphrodite is the wife of whales
most happy, happy she!
and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin
she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea
she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males
and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.
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Like autumn leaves upon the river
and icebergs in the spring
I'm a captive of the current
driven by anothers whim
It seems I am adrift again
once more carried by the wind
with no anchor chains to hold me
nor ropes to bind me in
Will there ever be stability
within this soul of mine
will I ever find the one
that becomes the tie that binds
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 4:37 PM UTC
Are you aware
of the music you make, Cricket?
Can the grass be ticklish to your toes?
Tickled like trapped foes.
Toads and toad bumps.
Frogs salted on salted Slugs.
Creamer for the chocolate night,
Are you alive?
Sentimental over fingerprints,
my wings wandered
three centuries ago.
Where they went nobody knows.
Three lights captured in my eye:
one is the bedroom
one is the trumpet
one is the theatre
Hip bones have red suns.
Flowers crawl on skyscrapers.
Barns and bugs with spotted bellies.
Cracked a mirror on my foot,
wish it stayed the evening
and for supper.
Could have gone home
but instead, harvested Winter
in Mexico.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
I love your curvaceous contours, whilst physiological precipitations calmly shoot their nectar across longitudinal and latitudinal expressions of ontology.
How seductive are your displayed features of blatant enticements.
I truly give thanks for your explicit revelations, where blatancy and discretion collide with dialectical icebergs.
So, my friend of uncertain deliberation, put it on the altar of sacrifice where botanical skies of elliptical infernos resound throughout the classical universe.
I love this revealing and scientific corridor of acknowledgement.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
Bobo's kitchen
in the kitchen
icebergs rampage from the freezer
burying pizzas and waffles
in a glacier jungle
Bobo swings forks and knives
at the ice until the maintenance man
cusses in Polish
gallons of water
dripping downstairs
sizzling Bertalina's soul
the fiery bilingual single mom
living in fear
below his fear
of noise complaints
she sends tape recordings
to the landlord in her
cute red faced anger
loud people! and bongos!
guitars! stomping! laughter!
nightmares for her boys
who think they hear ghosts
her tight black spandex
drives Bobo mad when she runs
drifted scents of her food
sift in through his windows
knocking him out
in hungry frustration!
¿Como estás? he asks her
I speak ******* English! she barks back
back up the stairs Bobo goes
to his own kitchen where
the mice crawl out the stove tops
and potatoes grow tree roots
clear through the window
toward another life
Jake Mahaffey
Copyright (c) 2013 Jacob Mahaffey
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
Always a question
Something oft inquired
Wondering and whying in those
Get-to-know-you games
Any superpower, yours to have
What would you be?
Seems a simple query
But just as the Titanic learned
Icebergs seem much
Smaller from above
Answering to “what
Superpower would you want?”
Speaks so much more,
Runs so much deeper
It's a fight or flight response
Invisibility, teleportation
What are you hiding from?
Super strength, unlimited power
Why, do you feel weak? Unworthy? Small?
My response to such
An inquiry
Wings or none, I don't care
Simply put, I long to be
Free
What are you? Who do you wish to be?
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
Today we all gather to listen to the merits(?) of mining the Iron Range
Not for iron, but for copper and nickel and other precious metals.
Are these metals more precious than clean water?
Are these metals more precious than our pristine wilderness?
Are these metals a legacy of what is to become of our planet Earth?
We have taken the oil and turned it into plastic that cannot be broken down and turned back into nature.
We have burned the coal to perpetuate our desire for more and more comfort via air conditioning and heat.
We have polluted our atmosphere, melted our icebergs and glaciers
Destroyed our coral reefs
And now we want to risk the pure waters of our northern wilderness
Reaching out to Lake Superior, Hudson Bay, the Mighty Mississippi
And our entire planet.
Why not keep a tiny part of our planet clean so that our children can say-
Look, this is what we once had, this was Eden in our parents' time.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 8:53 AM UTC
Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you see
tonight the snowy night of our first winter
comes back again in every road and tree -
that winter night of diamantine splendour.
Steam is pouring out of yellow stables,
the Moika river’s sinking under snow,
the moonlight’s misted as it is in fables,
and where we are heading – I don’t know.
There are icebergs on the Marsovo Pole.
The Lebyazh’ya’s crazed with crystal art.....
Whose soul can compare with my soul,
if joy and fear are in my heart? -
And if your voice, a marvellous bird’s,
quivers at my shoulder, in the night,
and the snow shines with a silver light,
warmed by a sudden ray, by your words?
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Save these pristine words
that spin from the mind
of this clairvoyant writer.
Cherish the candour
of his truthfulness
that is blazing inside.
His copious devotion
now falling here as
blue rays, a myriad
of his endless imagination.
This is only the beginning
of his roaring and firey
sea waves, that hides
many icebergs, to
sink and bury these
Titanic writers
once again, forever....
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
*
*
One can never see nor hold the same
the same flake twice, but that cannot
be said for the Queen whose skin
is as white as a star and just as cold.
A plum blossom who thrives off
the winters and blizzards.
Her silver locks tousled in her wind,
her eyes were icebergs of the deepest
blue and yet they burn with kindness
Her thin lips form a smile when a
flake falls in her palm, her open
hand becomes a fist.
But then unfurls like a flower
in spring to reveal a plum blossom
petal that glides away to the song of
zephyrs.
Winters may be cold but it brings
warmth -
lovers grow close,
families bond
children laugh
Memories form...
The Fae swirl leaving trails of shimmering
blue as she looks to the distance.
Her white robe billows, so cloud-soft.
'The Summer's sun has become Winter's,'
she closes her eyes and exhales.
'I feel your warmth and pride, Sister Summer.'
'My dears?' the Fae flutter by her head
in waiting. 'Be sure to have apricity embrace
them all. In hour of the Summer's Queen.'
*
*
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 3:24 PM UTC
~
*Storms make grey the sea
And erode the surface of the shore
Cold resentful icebergs
Outside my window
A field of sinking liquid caskets
Closing in on me
I hear the sound
Of toy pianos underwater
Remnants of their music keep
Washing up on achromatic beaches
Songs that made love shine
Have fallen into shipwreck
A missing charter's rusted hull
Casts the one color heaven allows
Storms make grey the sea
And erode the stages of the sun*
~
Oct 20, 2022
Oct 20, 2022 at 9:19 AM UTC
i miss the way fingertips felt against my cold skin
the soft touch that only a lover can provide
the kind of touch that can melt icebergs and start wildfires
i miss the sweet sound of whispered words that could start a revolution and the goosebumps that came with each mumbled "i love you"
i miss the feeling of drifting off in a pair of arms that transformed an embrace into a home and made a safety net around me as if protection could only exist within this space between fingertips and other ligaments
i miss the feeling that you provided
i miss the feeling of being wanted
i miss loving something, someone
i feel as if i have lost all sense of direction
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
O secret voice of hidden love!
O bleating without wool! O wound!
O dry camellia, bitter needle!
O sea-less current, wall-less city!
O night immense with sharpened profile,
heavenly mountain, narrow valley!
O dig inside the heart, voice going,
endless silence, full-blown iris!
Let me be, hot voice of icebergs,
and do nto ask me to vanish
in weeds, where sky and flesh are fruitless.
Leave my hard ivory skull forever,
have pity on me. Stop the torture!
O I am loev, O I am nature!
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When the world is slowly dying
Bears on icebergs, melting, crying.
When you refuse to reduce or reuse,
Think of the people and animals you abuse.
All the talk of apocalypse
But zombies don’t compare to this.
The universe’s suicide
The struggle, the difficulty to stay alive
The problems we face, that we cannot erase
Someday we could lose this place.
So walk to school, ride your unicycle
Reduce, reuse, and finally, Recycle
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
my heart is the spitting image of 10 million icebergs
that got caught up in global warming
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
world is changing fast changing for the worse
typhoons and hurricanes have now become a curse
icebergs they melting in the climate change
weather as gone mad acting very strange
a global warming planet as made act this way
changing for the worse every single day
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC
Before the thaw, my feet will be rooted
Into this nation’s primordial freeze
My muscles and bones will be acquainted with malaise
The sun’s altruism will be refuted
Before the thaw, I will struggle to find consciousness
The frost will leak through the bedroom window
And don the facade of a blanket
The door will prove to be bottomless
Possibilities will seem unachievable
The brain will itch for what it can not have
Buses will limp through congestion
And the blizzards may feast on the feeble
You may want to write of your misery
But your automation will halt in cataclysm
Because someone held a door open
For the gust that billows bitterly
Gastric emissions will become tangible
As smouldering wastes contrast against the sky with rancour
The wispy whites, marginalized into *****
And the world remains infallible
I will lack the tools of incision
To enact my life’s revisions
I will weep for my unguided millions
While I saunter into oblivion
After the thaw, I will smile
My expatriate soul will run in the whimsical wind
Of the morning dayspring that will march unto me
I will stand over a kingdom of honey-filled tiles
After the thaw, the arks will converge
Into the straits of the Bermudian Sea and the
Elusive Caspian Forest, where I will learn to love again
While bidding farewell to winter’s dirge
In the waking world, I will ***** a limestone castle
Where entropy will rule and the mind’s domain
Is left susceptible to perennial reverence
The sea, coloured true, nesting a fairgrounds vessel
In this Great Revision, gargantuan skyways
Will show the world how exiguous we are
That we must not wait for exodus to come
Should we fear to waste away
Into icebergs
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
I heard icebergs only show a tenth on the surface, and that, is one hell of a surface, makes titanic hearts like mine sink too easily.
I’m sure if i searched your eyes I’d find my daydreams, I’m sure between your lips will be a good place to hide my nightmares and kissing you will be the safest thing I have ever done.
Between your leopard print skin and zebra stripped life, lies everything perfect about imperfections.
I understand that a womans thoughts are hard to read, I heard once that they are written in braille. If love is truly blind, then reading your mind should come easy.
If you would let me, I want to be the answer to the questions you were too afraid to ask. I want my heartbeat to be your favourite bedtime story and you would fall asleep on my chest every night.
And if you won’t, then at least let me be a home to your gorgeous, an ocean to your iceberg, I’ve lived long enough to learn that there’s enough space in a friendzone for two.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
Is it wrong to forget?
The mind is an ocean
Filled to the brim with thoughts
Rising like a crescendo
Before plummeting sharply
Like a tsunami
Then there are the feelings
Lurking around every nook and corner
Ready to catch you unawares
And take a juicy bite of your leg
As sharks do
As you go deeper and deeper
Total chaos reigns
In the form of perceptions and judgements
Those ****** icebergs
Which can sink even the unsinkable ships
Is it wrong to forget?
The mind is an ocean
Deeper than the Pacific
More stormy than the Atlantic
Even as you swim with the tide
Alternating between hope and despair
With every high and low
You barely manage to stay afloat
Eventually being ******
Into a whirlpool of depression
As you go round and round
You sink lower and lower
Until you forget where you are
You forget who you are
And you wonder
How you came into existence
So, tell me
Is it really wrong to forget?
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 2:11 AM UTC
climate on the change icebergs on the melt
all around the world the change is being felt
the world is not the same as it used to be
climate it is changing as we all can see.
floods are getting worse stronger than before
flooding overland over sea and shore
things are not the same everything is strange
nothing we can do about the climate change
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
When the soul seeks
the song frozen in time,
Divinity obliges by
sending a few echoes down my path.
They reverberate across
the blue champagne
waves of inertia
to awaken reminiscences
of our harmonic rhythm.
Moments flow syllable like
to find a meaning
between the lines etched
on destiny's canvas as
a presence converges into resonance.
Every word is amplified together into
honest understanding breaking apart
the rational mind icebergs
that predominate love.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
CYBER PIG
-and there he was again
Breathing FIRE over someone..
(( PIG began to tell the story of his night: the chance he gave her, how she made him wait, only to reject him ))
..Wanting me to cool him and soothe his hurt.
..she made you wait? Oh.
..should laugh out loud (can't)
I knew all about waiting.
~ My thoughts :
** I recalled waiting hundreds of times for you.. (One time sharply in my mind -waiting for days for you, when you made me believe that you were taking your own life. Your blame heavy upon me, your death. Those days were a living hell. I could not help; could not find you..) **
I had plentiful icebergs in my heart to accommodate
CYBER PIG
For, he had left me cold cold
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 9:20 AM UTC
There is a girl you will see at 8 a.m.
Drinking her morning coffee.
She will wear flowers in her hair
And never stop smiling.
Happy.
She will be happy.
Did you know,
Only one-tenth of an iceberg can be seen.
All the rest is under the water.
Hidden.
Did you know,
This is the girl
At 8 a.m.
Happy.
Only one-tenth.
Hidden.
Because
There is a girl you will not see at 1 a.m.
Choking down her sleeping pills.
She will hold a razor blade in her hand
And never stop crying.
Sad.
She will be sad.
But you will never see sad,
For sad hides in the dresser
With the razor blades and pills.
And she will struggle to be awake at 8 a.m.,
Dissolve her pills in her morning coffee.
She will pick daisies and put them behind her ear
Because they were her mother's favorites.
And she will smile
Because she does not know what else to do.
She will force the word into her mind,
Happy.
Happy.
You will be happy.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
The memory of her sits on a balcony ledge, cigarette in hand.
My green light at the end of a dock.
And this time I am reaching out
like many before,
in pages and poems past.
Macbeth’s face is a book.
Her body is an atlas
tracing a beautiful continent.
Follow the long tributaries that lead to shallow deltas.
This shore begins softly and forms into slender feet,
quiet but powerful when outstretched an angler waiting for prey.
Odysseus, only, can hear this Siren play.
Follow her legs, those tawny plains,
unbroken, guiding along welcomingly,
inviting curiosity and conscripting imagination.
An oasis.
And her torso is a valley from which
her laughter is ****** upward and resisted until uncontainable.
Dimples break and burst like earthquakes.
A ridgeline is all that awaits until we see her face.
She is the Americas from bottom to top.
Follow her decorated canyon mouth
but know it is merely a diversion.
Her eyes are icebergs, which shyly reveal themselves
to sink ships and drown lovers, for always.
Her hair is aurora borealis,
the northern lights,
dancing colorfully
to an unaccompanied waltz
heard by everyone but her.
As the memory of her sits the smoke billows around
like clouds traveling down a coastline
only to dissipate
and disappear.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC