"idyllic" poems
I.
The moon sings the languid flower,
to bloom at midnight hour
Harmonious feast transpires -
luminescent choir
Petals mirror la hue de Luna,
but pale below her glow
Though the desert sweet aroma,
is fragrance plus photo
Neither causing nightly failure,
in idyllic charm
In fact, those powers are greater,
together than apart
II.
The moon a long gone distant rock,
yet pulls on ocean tops
Cereus lures with sweetest tricks,
and stings with countless licks
Battered holy asteroid face,
woos flawless solar gaze
And even though it causes mire,
lunar eclipses fire
The cactus thrives in driest sands,
and chokes in fertile lands
Alluring lonesome wanderers,
promising mere water
The lucid beauty bewilders,
as much as it can haunt
In fact, those powers are greater,
together than apart
III.
You, once my cereus and moon,
were drowned in my love well
Perhaps, I was this to you too,
though your hole I’d not delve
However, what was first velvet,
morphed into devil’s horns
Winter shed those thorns in my chest,
now spring gifts hope and more
The icy grips of each winter,
provides spring fuel to spark
In fact, those powers are greater,
together than apart
IV.
Although we've gone on our own ways,
I wouldn’t change the past
For each step was necessary,
to find true love at last
We were once greater together.
I’m now greater apart.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:33 AM UTC
Together they were the perfect team.
She was tired of perfection long before she met him. Constantly having to put up a successful front was exhausting, but her barrier of bravado was faltering.
It's hard to find imperfections in an idyllic world.
He didn't want to live in the life of his reputation anymore. The tornado that his life had become was beginning to ruin him and he wanted nothing more to find some quiet.
It's hard to find solace in the storm.
No longer did she want to create masterpieces; she wanted to wreak havoc. She had a taste of the life she wanted, but once you take the first few steps on the path of self-destruction, you cannot turn back. The whisper in the wind becomes seductive. Like a drug, she needed it. She made a U-turn, a complete diversion from the road that had been paved for her. She felt a rush from the change of direction, and fell in love with it. He was her change of direction.
It's hard to find fault in someone that provides the mess you've been searching for.
He wanted nothing more than some peace in his whirlwind of a life; maybe that's why he gravitated towards her. She gave him the comfort that he had desired for years. She made him feel as if the rollercoaster, designed as a downwards spiral, that he has been riding since birth was starting to calm down. She became the sense of calm in his brutal life.
It's impossible to reject something you have been seeking for years.
Together they were unstoppable. She lost herself in his chaos and she took it on herself. She was an angel who lost her way, blinded by desire for imperfection and love for a boy that finally made her feel again. He was a hurricane that found the solace in her that he has wanted for what felt like an eternity. He revelled in the peace she brought to his life and he loved her more than he could articulate.
She found her demon; she became a fallen angel, the devil reincarnate that took the chaos out of his life and put it into hers.
He found his angel; he became a quiet rainfall that gave his tornado to the girl that craved the destruction it created.
Together they were the perfect team.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC
Hidden at the back of my mind
an idyllic vision
taking a trip
to span all continents.
Travel to Asia's Great Wall, Europe's Eiffel Tower
Africa's Giza Pyramid, America's Statue of Liberty.
Travel by Aladdin's magic carpet
spell-bound and comfortable, yet bewitched.
Travel for too long
for an endless trip, there it is
my destination.
A final full of dreams, a final to come true
a destination that fir altogether
a destination with that jigsaw.
I cry to reach for destination
I wait for long hours, saying myself
when I reach it - that will be it
this trip is for lasting happiness. But last destination lost
it's a dram, can't believe t'was a dream
a dream which outdistances me.
Next time, I promise
not to travel with that genie's carpet again
go to walk through path untrodden
go to climb Mt. Mayon, swim more to the Pacific deep
go bare footed in the Gobi
I promise, I promise
to live more my travel
the destination, the next stop
sooner in sight
than I expect it to be.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
Crescent orb radiates its crystalline sight,
languid lips coalesce like a tessellation,
the vexing vines wilder the incandescent-
glimmer but the burning impression remains.
Celestial bodies affixes a soliloquy amongst-
a halcyon tongue that revelate a rhapsodic-
episode.
Quiescent ambience rings a plethora of-
sentiments stinging on the mellifluous
lullaby. The lithe wildflower murmurs-
the euphonious recital of a sonnet that-
is unacquainted to the mind.
Luminous assemblies of fireflies retire-
behind the myriad of evergreen forest
as the insouciance wildflower approach.
Precocious primrose locked from the
scorching sensation of a wildflower
exhibited a lassitude facade like a -
waning lantern fiery on its final residues.
In the distant a wildflower and in
the presence, an idyllic primrose:
so scarce and so strange.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
And the day sends bursts of gold and brilliance to the coming night.
Beautifully engraving divine colors through the horizon.
The rambling of magics, mysteries, and charm has commenced.
The whispering of the leaves,
the spirit of spring.
The lighting beacon of my love
and resilience.
Nurturing my dreams,
unfurling my new-found wings.
An amorous night to soar,
an idyllic moment to fly,
While I await for the moon
to join the sun
in the same pastel sky.
May 19, 2022
May 19, 2022 at 7:34 AM UTC
_las mujeres nacen de la tierra en la gloria de la más alta_
dys·to·pi·an/disˈtōpēən/adjective: dystopian:
relating to or denoting an imagined place
or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad,
typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one;
_"the dystopian future of a society bereft of reason"_
noun: dystopian; plural noun: dystopians:
a person who advocates or describes
an imagined place or state in which
everything is unpleasant or bad;
"a lot of things those dystopians feared did not come true"
[A dystopia from the Greek δυσ- "bad" & τόπος "place";
alternatively, _cacotopia, kakotopia_],
or simply anti-utopia; a community or society
that is undesirable or frightening; It is translated
as "not-good place" & is an antonym of utopia,
a term coined by Sir Thomas More
par·a·dise/ˈperəˌdīs/noun
noun: paradise; plural noun: paradises
in some religions; heaven as the ultimate abode of the just,
heaven, the kingdom of heaven, the heavenly kingdom,
Elysium, the Elysian Fields, Valhalla, Avalon;
"the souls in paradise"
the abode of Adam and Eve before the Fall
in the biblical account of Creation;
the Garden of Eden/noun: Paradise, Eden
"Adam and Eve's expulsion from Paradise"
an ideal or idyllic place or State;
"the surrounding countryside is a streetwalker's paradise"
Utopia, Shangri-La, heaven, idyll, nirvana;
"a tropical paradise"
bliss, heaven, ecstasy, delight, joy,
happiness, nirvana, heaven on earth
_a ********** who seeks customers on the street_
"this is sheer paradise!"
Middle English: from Old French paradis,
via ecclesiastical Latin from Greek paradeisos
‘enclosed royal park,’ from Avestan pairidaēza ‘enclosure, park.’
_Superficies terræ puella_
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
Caressing my face,
Bubbles rush to greet me
Tickling like a sweet spring sigh.
This is only the first.
I am still half
A visitor. Stuck in suspension
Between this world and mine.
Slowly I pass
Through the threshold.
My air-sick ears adjust
To the sounds of the sea.
I stare down
At the small colony
On the sea floor,
My landing gear is down.
Customs arrives.
A grey, French Angelfish
Of the most industrious kind.
But he isn’t obtrusive.
As he flits in and out
Checking my bubbles
Ensuring I am not bringing
Any more air than I should.
No doubt he will stay near
Most of my stay
I have finally arrived,
The coral city stretches before me.
I catch the current trolley
And it whisks me past
Rocky storefronts and coral motels.
Lobster shopkeeps
Rush out of dark
Stores and stand in the street
Giant claws raised
Toward me in supplication.
Beckoning me to come
And browse his wares
While a fish I don’t know
Is busy cleaning homes and stores.
They must’ve dropped out of the school
Which passes by
The pupils in matching uniforms
Of flashing silver and black.
Clown fish wave
To me from their Lawns
Of sea anemone
Before darting back inside.
Here is the kind of place
Where I could put down roots.
Live out an idyllic life
Living in a coral townhouse.
But for me to stay
Would be severely fatal.
I’m just a visitor
And my visa is about to expire.
I look back one more time
As my head breaks the surface.
The sun stings, I blink.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
Unapologetically Human
I am **** on the mezzanine
facing the darkened wet road
illuminated with acrid yellow tube light
better reds and blues surround towering palm trees
wooden fingers of ancient giant hands buried below
growing leafy green nails stretching skyward
little things, orange ribbons, endless cricks and dollops
bobbles and winches
Spirits
Play among the windmills
climb to the top of trees and sing into the warm wind songs of *** and heartache
as the universe ruffles along
Dive head first into the opponents forehead
grind the sand into his flesh with ram like resolve until the skin is red,
determine to die
This life is worth proving,
the stars are worth gazing,
and this body is worth bathing in the Maui air with naked delight
The ocean calls to my heart
water is a true lover whispering, kissing
inescapably feminine
I submerge my soul in joyful waves
always the tides follow the moon
like my silly heart, eclipsing
both light both night both day
simultaneously cycling
fully the light shines and our eyes perceive shadow faces in the dark blanketed clouds
the mountain gargoyles stand as titans, forgotten creatures
shoulders and heads, waiting for the moon ball
the ocean moon, tranquil bays
the air is sweeter with you near, a distant thought
cast about the horizon, the sun melting easy golden into my dreamy eye,
bless my drunken lips
dripping doltish songs into the friendly night
Wrestling with bulls of men
we kept our shirts on this time, yet blood was drawn in the sand
we madly danced in the moonlight to clapping hands,
kicking feet and knees
the ceremonial struggle toasting the stars
bottles were shared, some puffed on cigars
Come surf with me in the morning
or anytime the sun shines
even under moonlight would I meet you and we could paddle
come fill your heart with life and lust and romantic passions idyllic as freshly fallen snow undisturbed by worldly concerns
be not abashed for this embrace is a natural wonder of the soul,
join me,
forget what words of yesterday the prophets of doom chant,
we make our own tomorrow
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
A seventies child
Born in Wales, one of the four
Countries of The UK.
I remember brown as the colour
of the day.
Fabric embossed wallpaper
all the neighbours names, who married who,
who was carrying on, the alcoholic, the beaten wives,
Even, get this the peadophiles (or kiddy fiddlers as was known)
Dai the milk, Mair the bread, the shop of infinite items.
Rugby practice for dad, baking for mam
(Cake and babies) gossip over the garden hedge
Fish on a Friday a Sunday roast, hot sweet tea.
Bubble and squeak, post delivered before you
left for school. Mist on the mountain, dew on the grass.
Welsh valley life, sounds idyllic
but scratch the surface and a darker colour
than brown emerges. Petty squablings leading to
familial feuds, the Williamses don't get on with
the Joneses, and as for the Pritchards, less said the better.
School, local, no not for me. I was sent to a Welsh
School, taught and learnt the language denied to my
Parents by English politics. Cat amongst the pigeons there.
Did I think I was special? Ideas above her station. That's what
the neighbours say.
Well, you all had the option.
Dr Forbes FRCS
Delivered babies buried men and women
Loved by all, especially his lollipop sweets.
I wasn't a child to get ***** or rip wrapping paper
off of gifts, I liked to go under the stairs (like Harry Potter)
and read. I left the dirt for my sister born 4 years later.
Then in 1982 came my brother, tidy my mother describes it.
'74,'78,'82 poor dad to have to wait I say!
More pubs than chapels, more walking than driving
more rain than sun, more music than ever was sung.
The '80's came, and we had strikes, no electric, candles
toast made with a toasting fork over the fire.
No mines, no steel, no jobs.
Picket lines, dole queues, women in work
latchkey kids, Thatcherism, ******* times.
Falklands war, IRA bombs, Royal weddings
Tory rule
But, the fire in the dragon never went out
and Tom Jones still sings his heart out.
Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gân, deffrwch
nawr, dyma'ch tro.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Who said
sound is a vibration
that travels at a bizarre speed?
I saw it softly floating
ensconced in bubbles
to a celestial gravity
that pulls them up
to the realm of idyllic bliss.
Bubbles exude the
brilliant hues of my yearnings,
wrap me inside
their merino fleece warmth,
hold me to their *****
with the tenderness
I ever cherish in my soul.
Sound nestles in its heart
a mesmeric glow of music
ordained to play
the salute note
to augur the birth of a
new hankering.
The woeful flute
of the gypsy maiden
soulfully sings
a melancholy melody
for her lost love
to get a phoenix’s wings
under the silver mist of the
new moon’s splendour.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
*Your kiss effected an explosion,
catapulting bats hanging from the tree of my memories,
warm full lips, exuded the flavor of banana flowers,
in time of ******* out nectar, from it
I imbibed the heady feeling,
it garrulously spoke about my idyllic childhood in the village
and on your inner environment too,
that prompted your kiss, so fervid, full of longing.*
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
*Your spirit now rests in harmony,
Since you were called with the angels above,
But your smile will live forever,
And it's only you, I think of.
With wonderful memories,
When you reached out from the bottom of your heart,
To see everyone together,
A dream you left behind, and sadly unable to start.
But I believe in eternal life,
And some day we will meet again,
To celebrate and rejoice,
And it will never have to end.
Rejoined in a new world known as paradise,
An idyllic place to be ... without any worries or pain,
Bringing happiness and togetherness once again,
In His presence and reign.*
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
An amorphous cave hides behind a cascading flow of crystalline blue, sparkling and shining like radiant glass.
Inside the incandescent cave, an effervescent and ephemeral scent of dulcet cinnamon coalesces into the air of the inside of this seemingly halcyon cave.
The feelings, the emotions, the sights, all too inexorable in it's ineffable reality. It calls out, with it's mellifluous and beautiful, languid and sirenic voice, incandescent with epiphany,
"Come child of man, meet me, greet me, welcome me, me as the idyllic felicity some dare to even dream of, and then let me embrace you and enrapture you and encompass you in my incorporeal and frozen, evanescent tranquility."
This ephemeral and serene cave now even murmurs and sings a tranquil symphony suffused with rhapsodic zeniths.
It... It truly was ephemeral...
A horrible shriek, a shrill and a repulsive and repugnant and rancid smell. A decrepit cacophony of hollow, anguished wailing and screaming. Pain at my soul, and a harsh, hoarse and coarse voice filled with slaughter and cataclysm. A grotesque, hirsute maladroit leech, visceral and shunned from everything and everyone, even the Earth itself...
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
There was death and gore,
During the second world war.
Many people died in extreme violence,
Killed before they could call out to loved ones.
Young men were trained to ****
Often against their morals and will.
So when I see your 1940s weekend -
Your 'war was fun and cosy' pretence,
Your clichéd polyester and fibre glass mockery,
Aiming to re-enact a mostly imagined happy-go-lucky camaraderie -
Forgive me for not joining in,
As I happen to feel it a cardinal sin,
To idealise and romanticise a decade,
Made up of austerity, rationing and air raids.
I've read a little social history,
The 1940s were not idyllic or crime-free,
Just as now, there were heroes and villains,
Among the soldiers and civilians.
Heroism abounded but so did black marketeering,
There were brave sacrifices but also racketeering.
City-wide black-outs were a gift,
To those who would rob and grift.
Your jolly nostalgic tribute is an annual celebration,
Celebrating your own fabrication,
Of a time when the machinations of war and a crazed ideology,
Saw the near extinction of an entire ethnic minority.
I do not wish to be a party pooper,
But don't just step into the fake shoes of a fictional trooper,
Please occasionally remove your rose-tinted glasses,
To remember that beyond your nostalgic narrative of the routines of the masses,
People lived with the daily fear,
Of the likely deaths of people they held dear.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 6:49 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Shut the doors
and drift the words away
we act like rascals
toiling with our frays
weakening to the knees
idyllic river feels,
reaching an ominous sea
longing our moments
as our tale would breathe
She adores many
may it be pretty in pink
or baby in blues
but I like most a lot
how she paints prism hues
unfailingly she tells me
—that she's in love
and I could tell
in her gleaming smile
extending up above
She's the Juliet
I would never trade
the starlight in between
my midnight eyes
the snow I would trail
A poem and A prose
everyone's dying to sigh
a binding might
our hearts of ribbons tied
and we sat to an oriel
—above the bedroom floor
touching hands
grasping each other’s core
a common connection
the afterglows of love
a better reason
as we left kisses to depart
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC
Inspiration for true love, you always remain,
With your ineffable look and idyllic thoughts,
Your dulcet expressions are very iridescent,
When two lovers are kissing in garden.
Joyful love making in the dark deep forest,
You will never jilt our love, my heart sings,
My feelings jostle to get into your heart,
When rain drops are dancing with bubbles.
***** style you have with your frizzy hair,
Ebullient and effervescent flavor of your spirit,
Entice my lips to kiss you all over your body,
By the end of today, when the sun is setting.
Lullaby your heart croons sonorously for me,
You are light, love and life a lover always seeks,
My heart is fond of your rosy and lustful lips,
When rainbow is spreading its colorful emotions,
Mesmerize me by your marvelous appearance,
Your great reverence for love enrapture me,
And naughty actions of your lips stare at me,
When hailstorms are falling on the poor lovers.
Nurturing the love seeds, you sowed yesterday,
You shower your warmness on those seeds,
Are eager to dance with their kind partner,
When love season is reaching its adolescence.
One and only partner, this is you only darling,
Whom I so deeply and outrageously love,
And my baby heart always beats for you,
When snowy mountains stretch in **********
Passionate and pretty playmate you are,
The Most romantic words I can say to you,
My pride, joy and precious partner for ever,
And peep from the swarm of smitten blue sky.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC
*My spirit is one that has been through much.
My eyes have witnessed too many tears.
My heart has ached, and felt like granite.
My soul is imprisoned by good and evil.
And, yet I feel a spiritual need to cling to hope.
Spirituality is there for those who have been to Hell and back,
(So they say)
I've glimpsed Hell in my family, through secrets and lies,
they multiply, until you lose count.
Now, I wasn't beaten, molested or deprived,
I just had to live in a village where everyone knew everything.
About you, your family, your soul. Imagine that.
No freedom to be unique. To be you.
You kick, you scream, you try to be free, to flee,
but, the village brings you back,
time and time again.
It feeds off your fear, your hate.
Village life is not quaint, picturesque,
or even idyllic, it's full of grudges,
jealousy, hate and even ******
(or two)
Families feuding over long forgotten grudges.
Families related, through marriage and hate.
Families haunted and taunted by their past.
Families dying with secrets on their lips, and in their hearts.
Along with this came religion,
as many chapels as pubs.
And as many ghosts as the living.
Walk through my mind, walk through my village.
Come, meet the dead*
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
take some time to count, to verb
some syllables for some wrecked
page. a Lostman's book in ****
tered thought; nature, and death,
and sole body. then, when she talked
about her better years as those of
drug-induced past-life. younger than
yesterday kinda years. that which finds
metronome slowing, the Universe energy
vibrating weaker while growth found in
apathy, and solid death of purposeful
movement.
then a shot,
that moment to break from wretched self-
criticism -- that post-idyllic criticism --
that which hinders forward movement.
the shot,
which finds contentedness thru some
repetitious mentality . .
[lost it]
. . repetitious fallacy?
[got it]
let's leave some break for transmigration
in thought to prelude of forward movement.
understanding now is not enough; but
agreement in hast. but dissolution to that self-
efface hit rapid. brought back, her thought
of the younger than yesterday years; now,
now is the greatest point of any a count-
less past-life. from them, no matter a sweating
season, the Long Dark, or the cycle-seasons,
all is now. and never
did she or i talk of the past again.
our foci, [one second]
drawn to point of second and next second upon
following and on for another. now, shivery
wine-drunk, reminiscent of tiny furnace and
woolen blanket apartment. that now,
that was true striving of second successful ***** Den.
a great thought downfall; she's been long gone.
[next second now]
she complained of the wind. her eyes were freezing,
she said; her life has begun to bore her, she said.
we moved to playground and climbed in the
slide; a nice dampening. cold plastic barely felt for
her. this Long Dark, and in it, an always fleeting
warmth. [break
to **** for concision in thought]
now then, a diner, of course this face is known. they also
know a companion vacant. asked of, pleasant enough;
responded, well enough.
[disheartened, well enough]
and then, wholly intrinsic with a blasphemous self-
Oralee while passing time trying to think. unable,
if only for sole point of trying. and epochs worth,
thought and gone; now compulsive, now unres-
ponsive, now chewing lips because they're part gum.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:58 AM UTC
Oh Bard, wielding a tool mighty and spiky
Mightier than either the sword or rod,
You reign as monarch in fancy’s domain
Sketching life in all variety and mode
Which with pain and strife fraught
Or bright with gaiety and grace
In finer yarn than the gossamer thread
On a fabric of words in befitting verse
You steal away from the noisy crowd
Into the stillness of the cloistered cell
To dwell with Fancy’s mystic charms
Weaving downy dreams at will
You recount forgotten tales of yore
Of ****** battles won and lost,
Of lovers united, amour defiled,
Conjuring memories from abysmal past
You hearken to the moans of lovelorn souls
And sing of beauty in ditties fine
Triggering sparks into flames grow
In umpteen hearts that pine and whine
Babbling with the brook rushing swift,
Racing with the deer loping past,
You wander into mysterious woods
Where flowers, their richest odors cast
Your ears intent on the song of birds
That comes floating from the far off groves
And the whir of cicadas on the bark of trees
Breaking the calm of twilight eves
Alone you saunter the stretching strands,
Watching virulent breakers in fury heave
Often your heart dancing with the tide
And swinging with the rhythm of rising wave
You feast on the gleam of the auburn sun
And the speckled blue of the infinite skies
Watching the day dying in flame
And the night in a diadem of stars vies
All that’s lovesome meets your eyes
And commune to you in profuse delight
Which you turn into rhyme and rhythm
For the whole of mankind to devour and digest
From your harp flow symphonies sweet
Songs of longing, love and lust
Of idyllic happiness, peace and bliss,
Fuelling hearts with vigorous zest
Though outlawed by the great sage of Greece,
Branding the poet, aberrant and a fool
Oft beneath the façade of his wayward thoughts,
Lie heaps of wisdom for the discerning soul.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 6:01 AM UTC
Difficult to say it is a crisis of faith
Deadlock stubbornly cracked
Divide intensified with fact so backed
****** is truth, lost memory's wraith
"Who's to blame?" as so often "they" saith
Forget this daft idyllic hope, loyalty
To nothing has my life compared
And as most humans, no heartache spared
No limits to its reverence and constancy
As God shapeshifted, any form but royalty
Kings of Kings, my Makers, Lords on High
Omnipotent theories to query
Over verses I've traveled, all but Kashmiri
Reasonably these to view before bye-bye
Off I am to Pir Panjal, where I shall quake and die
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
© 2011 (Jim Sularz)
Deep in a Black Forest,
lost along a mystic stream.
Where the winds still whisper,
a thousand untold dreams.
Enchanted shadows,
kicking frosted leaves.
Sleep at night’s darkness,
wake upon a moonlit breeze.
Castled ruins in disbelief,
sap blistered lips unseen.
Singing Austrian pines in chorus,
beneath an idyllic scene.
Dancing high betwixt the hills,
hide an’ seek, and make-believe.
Pine cones popping tear-dropped treasures,
wave a kiss goodbye, “Auf Wiedersehen!”
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
#Soaring over the idyllic fields of poet's day dreams
an opening exposes some endless blue
the sun cast's his golden rod
and waits while humming his bright tune
Suddenly submerged
for his bait we had chewed
turbulence drops yellow bags
and white fog blinds our view
The sun is toying with us
letting the line out farther and farther
the old sun and the sky
a departure within a departure
Finally the sun pulls the line
screaming, we steady then ascend
are we going higher now?
better make amends
via amens
Look all the fog is gone
this isn't the suns pole
the light is fleeing and
this cabinet grows so cold
The air thins into non existence
yet somehow we can breath
in these celestial waters
watch as the earth takes her leave
Reeling faster now
how these stars pass by
what's beyond the celestial sphere
this fisherman sure is spry
Finally a golden gleam approaches
splash through the pearly gates
into the net of heaven
pietistic fingers embrace
An omniscient voice speaks
NOT AGAIN, ANOTHER USELESS CAN?
and he tossed this metal heap away
who do I eat and who do I romance
It's going to be a long journey home.
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Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
My eyes are not furnaces,
melting realities into idyllic casts
disfigured until their original forms
are but ashen memories
upon the ****** anvil.
Nor are my eyes windows
Through which I gaze
And through which others gaze back
Pure transparency
And no deception
Or mirrors that reflect
Images mimicked
Upon an insincere facade
Merely a copy
Never as beautiful as the first
My eyes are not any of these
They are pools of water
In which I see both myself
And that which is beneath
The world below the surface
Everything I see is painted me
The shade that I have made
For myself and no one else
Ugly, beautiful, personal
To me and me alone
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
I shouldn’t have
I guess I forcefully moved my things into your heart on parham street
This fool has been celebrating a grubby clean slate
He drank a cocktail before the harvest
After storing his brain safely in the garbage
He asked ‘would you be mine’
I shouldn’t have said I love you first
Now realising that was the pistol to your head
And i jumped the gun twice and over again
This fool stands in awe of his folly
He reads his scribbles of idyllic love poems and ******** dovy quotidians
Every compelled ‘i love you’ will be overturned
My hands over-burned from the blisters
Bitter from the bile from every memory
Though i took my time, I was patiently stupid
I shouldn’t have
Now i’m sat here with this lollipop of regret
Now knowing that every graphic snapshot was because of that same pistol
No wonder why it all seemed strange
I used to gnaw about making you feel like you needed to trust me and love me
I was yet weary of receiving the blame of every kiss, pause and touch
I didn’t realise that the foundation was built on compelled labour
I was to quick to celebrate, but now i know what i should have
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 5:38 PM UTC