"imaging" poems
Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.
But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
***** nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.
The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,
the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Despair, lose all hope
that’s what the sign says at the gates of hell
and at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center the sign says
Be kind to our customers who are waiting and suffering.
Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.
A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said
is Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 6:00 AM UTC
Shabash
Shābāsh (Hindi: शाबाश, Urdu: شاباش, Punjabi: ਸ਼ਾਬਾਸ਼, Bengali: শাবাশ, Telugu: శబాష్) is a term used in the Indian subcontinent to signal commendation for an achievement, similar in meaning to
bravo and kudos.
……………………………………………
a poem writ sometimes, oft,
snaps back,
I was surprising recipient
of a commendation in language
I knew not
the poem spoke well
of broken boundaries,
between in this instance,
Jew and Muslim,
capturing a momentary parting
of the seaways and
walls of misbelief
and mischief,
normally employed
to keep our divisions,
parted perpetually
I’ve decided to begin to
use shabash now,
my ‘go to’ word
from now on,
a small quiet way
to say
well done
it starts with one word,
a stretching hand across
the face fence,
imagining John Lennon’s
imagine-world,
who lay dying when I was
a young father of thirty,
me residing less than a
mile away from each other
little could I imagine then that
poetry would pick me at all,
especially to write of words
in dialects I don’t speak,
but imaging their pastel colorations
flying by in gentle breezes,
eager to be grabbed,
plucked from the air,
tongued and loved
so!
when I say to you,
in the softest spoke,
shabash!
to all of us,
for choosing this path,
using your words in
every dialect,
to spread the imagination
of good will
8-4-2019
10:10 am
S.I.
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC
PARNELL'S FUNERAL
UNDER the Great Comedian's tomb the crowd.
A bundle of tempestuous cloud is blown
About the sky; where that is clear of cloud
Brightness remains; a brighter star shoots down;
What shudders run through all that animal blood?
What is this sacrifice? Can someone there
Recall the Cretan barb that pierced a star?
Rich foliage that the starlight glittered through,
A frenzied crowd, and where the branches sprang
A beautiful seated boy; a sacred bow;
A woman, and an arrow on a string;
A pierced boy, image of a star laid low.
That woman, the Great Mother imaging,
Cut out his heart. Some master of design
Stamped boy and tree upon Sicilian coin.
An age is the reversal of an age:
When strangers murdered Emmet, Fitzgerald, Tone,
We lived like men that watch a painted stage.
What matter for the scene, the scene once gone:
It had not touched our lives. But popular rage,
Hysterica passio dragged this quarry down.
None shared our guilt; nor did we play a part
Upon a painted stage when we devoured his heart.
Come, fix upon me that accusing eye.
I thirst for accusation. All that was sung.
All that was said in Ireland is a lie
Bred out of the c-ontagion of the throng,
Saving the rhyme rats hear before they die.
Leave nothing but the nothingS that belong
To this bare soul, let all men judge that can
Whether it be an animal or a man.
The rest I pass, one sentence I unsay.
Had de Valera eaten parnell's heart
No loose-lipped demagogue had won the day.
No civil rancour torn the land apart.
Had Cosgrave eaten parnell's heart, the land's
Imagination had been satisfied,
Or lacking that, government in such hands.
O'Higgins its sole statesman had not died.
Had even O'Duffy -- but I name no more --
Their school a crowd, his master solitude;
Through Jonathan Swift's clark grove he passed, and there
plucked bitter wisdom that enriched his blood.
7.7k
I wish that I could fall in love. Be in a true, compassionate, loyal, and loving relationship. If I could make it happen right now, I would. I picture a face, but I know it will not be him. Because if it was, we would have fallen in love the first time our eyes met. Oh, I wish it could be him, but I know there is better. Which means I have to wait... My heart was broken and still is healing. It's just been so long without a relationship. No, it's not a bad thing at all. But I've been longing for passion. I want fire in my heart again. When it's dark, when it's night, I'm laying awake in my bed, my thoughts engulf me. That makes me imaging that someone is there to rescue me. He'd wrap his arms around me, and hold me until the tears stop falling. He would kiss me, and say that everything will be alright because he is here. He would be someone that I could turn to when I feel my brain taking all control over me. He could protect me from my own mind, and make it all for the better. But then my imagination has turned back to reality, and I realize that my wish was not granted. Many people say that dreams do come true. But how much should I believe it? Even if it is true, that still means waiting. Waiting to get through the night, another day, another week, another year. Waiting to get through all of this pain and suffering. But when I finally end up with the one of my dreams, I will truly be able to say:
"I've waited for you my whole life."
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
~Christi Michaels~September 2014~
We are not symbiotic any more
I lay in our soft warm bed
I slumber to your snore
Our heart's and minds have drifted
To other continents shores
We walk in two dimensions
Though parallel they may seem
Find it so very difficult
Imaging the way we used to be
This is such a simple tale
Of love thats gone amiss.
The problem here
The difficult reality
Is what to do with This.
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor!
<|>
give a surgeon a scalpel
and an excuse,
and the artist emerges,
for creativity is a good surgeon’s
natural habitat
Sure, sure, there’s a plan,
with best and acceptable outcomes,
but when messing with a real heart,
a sly ***** with numerous deceptive guises
at its disposal, you never for sure never know,
despite all the advanced imaging techniques,
exactly
what you will find once you go
spelunking
in caves of life and death
so, he takes a bit from here,
and a bob or two from there,
there a cut, here an incision deep,
Old McDonald provided a body,
or a canvas, and the Doc
is happy.
So I uncover holes where he
probed, redeploying the healthy,
like a good designer, Doc rearranges
and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing,
his handiwork
Now standing over you for many hours,
can get tiring, though each ***** be
different, unique even, but leaving
a little marker, a stylized signature,
is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste!
So you can imagine my surprise
when the tubes removed (ouch!)
the bandages ripped off in a
signature move of a delighted nurse whose
loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities,
you cannot imagine my surprise
when I discovered my new tattoo,
upon my chest front and center!
*Herein please find your heart repaired,
and revitalized:
Please Note!
We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years
(Aug. 3, 2038),
but our disclaimer
we assume NO responsibility after that
if you should
happen to live for 30 YEARS or more*
Dr. P.
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 7:58 AM UTC
those that see beauty in everything feel the most discontent.
there are extreme emotions that one who is creative must process--
an unforced authenticity and tenacity to stay focused on a subject,
and to devote the same amount of attention to each entity, that you lose a sense of self and a sense of the world around you.
we use stress as a way of pushing us forward,
and only in moments of extreme stress does an amazing happening occur.
and for this, we are deemed odd, as a normal person thrives where they are most comfortable.
the originality that visionaries possess is exhausting, yet we admire it.
we allow for many things to flow in our minds without halt,
all notions and ideas taking up precedence, and this may be our greatest fault.
day break to sunset, my mind is racing non-stop, constantly,
to the point that sleep does nothing to quell the overthinking brain,
as my lucid dreams act as a force to keep me awake at night.
my mind is in a perpetual state of fantasy, sometimes during everyday life in bouts of daydreams,
imaging new situations and being unable to describe it all.
when I try to silence the thoughts that persistently flux through my mind,
my talents feel wasted during this time of artistic deprivation,
and only do I feel truly sound when I create new artworks for a few to discern.
sometimes I feel as though my mind feeds off on my depressive states,
as it takes the deepest of emotions to generate proufound art.
while I wish to be happy, I have a need to be in a bit of a sustained disarray.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC
After the devastation came recuperation.
New shoots had sprung with alacrity
enough to establish a presence
in that walled garden,
contained to a strip
barely big enough for date and citrus
to thrive.
The neighbour waited twenty one seasons,
and with each season saw
young shoots
replacing the old.
Imaging a future
where grass might escape the confines
of concrete and sea
neighbour chose to start the mower,
move beyond boundaries,
and mow and mow and mow.
It's been twenty three days now
and still blades whirr
day and night
each hour inducing fresh rubble
to deter shoots, new seeds, hope.
The neighbour will retreat soon,
beyond the wall,
being temporarily satiated
with reek and wreckage,
knowing a day shall arise to return
for the fruits of the land.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
Imaging you when you were a school girl
Mini- sarong, small white shirt
A bag jam-packed with books hanging on your shoulder
Tiara in head, and two queues like two small dark snake
And those long eye petals highlighted with collyrium
Your two sapphires fluctuating in deep Blue Ocean
Impish humming birds were humming with their assiduous tongue,
to get your attention.
Let the Almighty curse their tongue was your supplication
Walking in two fickleness legs, licking an Ice- cream
Bewilderingly, you became my “A Midsummer night’s dream”.
Each second I encounter you in my Ruya
For years you are my Ruya.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
The memory still haunts me,
like the wild imaging's
of a fevered nightmare.
Torture to my soul,
though your sympathy
holds no role.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
Black eyes, bruised wrists, mangled genitals.
Ribcage extruding; calling for love, lust, and cigarettes
Faces offensive; unmet eyes, and searing expressions.
Scars on arms; speaking louder than quiet voices
Staring blank; at bills yet paid
Thinking there is no way
Imaging the fall from your 3rd floor
Apartment
Weighing funeral costs over living expenses
Death would put you deeper in a hole
Not able to get out, saying how
Did I get here.
Looking up seeing the opening nearly
Closed; finger lye at the only opening left.
Hope.
Being crushed brutally, whilst you see it all
happen.
Blood rains on your pale face, craving
Sunlight.
Dismemberment of fingers, brings you into total darkness.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
this old poet, one of the first, to see your wave,
when he was playing knick-knack paddy whack on his shoe,
the old poet then played two, and said,
yes, I will follow you
Please
imaging-imaging that old poet with a glanceable cursory,
a small smile whispered, with entourage of a nod and a wink,
stands, knowing he is in the delivery room, a witness,
to first steps of a babe starting a new life
marvelous miracle by touching a button, a new line written,
not crossed but connecting by pressing "Follow"
with a finger from a hand, a human fringe,
attached to a breathing mind and a thinking heart,
the first to follow you, a ceremonial gesture of
innovation magic incantation, a new moon blessing,
a living person believing, remembering, the longest ago,
his first own graceful acknowledgement and eyes speak,
yes, I will follow you
the new poet, astonished at this induction to the smallest
Hall of Fame that they alone own the only key, study that
number, that number 1, the first to follow, kinda looking over
their shoulder to make sure the old poet still there on the morrow,
sure enough there are now two, safe in the back pocket,
a tabulation of humans who speak volumes of trust, saying,
yes, I will follow you
the old poet, imaging-imaging the babe, dancing round
the room, invigorated, challenged and the faucets pouring,
can't write it down as fast as the trains arriving disgorging,
words unique in new combinations and the rush of blood
from heart to head to those newly literary fingers bleeding
happy creatures of creation as if they are Noah
setting sail to save us with verbs and adjectives
two by two all for now species unheard of
the old poet wants to send cautionary notes, the path strewn
with frustrations of no inspiration ditches and inescapable cliches
that sound fresh but just aren't, the disappearing satisfaction,
the inability to get it just perfect, and so many obstacles
to be prophesied,
but he does not, these things must be self taught,
today let it suffice the initiation, the first crowning of
**yes, I will follow you
for this the way of the poet
10/16/17 5:09pm**
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
girls in purple dresses,
swimming in the pond,
sure would be good,
if they didnt have anything on,
but thats the thing with lust,
in god we trust,
get the scars off your back,
telling him to save us,
i know the cause,
of destruction and the devastation,
i loved her impatiently,
so that caused her to break in pieces like animation,
my life is a spin cycle,
filled with suicidal teens,
waiting for their moment to shine,
recklessness by all means,
we rise the goonies,
you fall like who were they,
Leaf tops of the nearest trees,
dont let your doubts ricochet,
i think maybe you should check yourself,
before any doubt could be reached,
and for that you need extra help,
for the hell water you drink,
too many conflicts have happened,
making you sane,
imagining you still sang,
purple rain,
i say,
too many conflicts have happened,
making you sane,
imaging you still sang,
purple rain.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
There's the mosh...sordid details that thing...
creeping of sort...retelling...to stay in focus.
A silent film whose black borders encapsulate
a slab of skyward white.
Visages...opening...opened...to interpretation.
"The apparition of these faces in a crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough."....ashen...
daguerreotype of a Zen Garden.
All of nature's pretties cast in an occult brew...
stirred, and stirring...composite sketches posted
and burned upon lampposts.
At large...ritualistic making-of-face...illusion
trafficking the ever present primes of lives...
"the center of which is everywhere, the
circumference nowhere."...attestation o' mugs.
Visages...plucked from a year of our lord,
to be...rendezous of all light's putting to...
years thereof.
Alien unto thyself...oogly boogly, yet mirror-imaging...
behold/beheld/beholden.
By sleight of Hand...visages, who'd otherwise
be as soon pruned and leathery, inanimate under the
sun.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
There comes a point as you sit there
trying to untangle your fingernails from between your teeth
as your leg bounces at a million miles a minute,
and you think Jesus Christ how’d I get here?
Shadows on the screen and a pinch with spreading cold
as you nearly shake yourself off the table,
you clutch at the cage on your head
and breathe deep.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
If corporate Dems tell me about how 'We all do better when we all do better'...
Or about how 'It's not about class, it's about coming out for Dems'...
Or about how, 'No one identifies with the working class' or 'nobody wants to identify with the working poor'...
I say to you, WE ARE THE WORKING POOR.
Look at the stains on their clothes, listen to their words, look at the rugged callous of their hands, who amongst us can last a job loss, or wage cut, or a car blow out?
None of us, cept the 1%.
We are the precariat class, the proletarian class.
I say to you, the working poor and homeless are the 'emarginati', the literal marginal ones, the ones at the edges of society.
But who, honestly, isn't at the edge???
The Democratic gubernatorial candidate turned carpet-bagging Congressional goon, Bank of America executive turned-state-CFO Alex Sink embodies the centrist-right neoliberal dogma of 'business-rules', who cares about immigrants besides those who 'clean our hotels and do our landscaping'.
Brand-imaging, quaffed corporate Dems are why the two-party system in broken.
Both parties are sell-outs to capital, and they think we don't know.
We know, and we remember.
Neoliberal capitalism of 'Washington Consensus' imposed on the rest of humanity will fall.
I just hope we wise up as a republic in the mean time.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
I am me, myself and I
like no one knows
Caring about who you are
Is important above others
Imaging an vision of who I am.
I am me,myself and I
Knowing that you loved you
Is what we do today or tomorrow
To let there be me,myself and I
Everyday in life.
I am me,myself and I
Me mean me
Myself mean myself
I mean I
So be me,myself and I each day.
By K-mari ©2016
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
You said at once that
this kind of love poetry
does not resonate
with you yet still, you see, from
a distance, I keep
imaging to kiss upon
your weary eyelids
again, for a moment, it
gives me back my loss:
my sea of tranquility,
my moonbeam of inner peace.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 10:32 AM UTC
I chronicle in rhythm and rhyme,
Scribbling, jotting, imaging the times:
I dug down to Lucy,
And China's Great Wall,
Compared Viking raids with personal tirades;
Asked God questions, questioned Jeff Sessions,
And all of that where-with-all.
I've called wrong out, and written about
Our scandals, all fancy or true;
I've offered you solace,
Even opened my wallet,
And grieved when it was due.
I've been self-righteous,
And sometimes right selfless,
When parsing my love for you.
But now it should end,
I've less left to send,
And so love I bid, Adieu.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 4:25 PM UTC
I get lost beneath your wings
You give me love so endlessly.
I feel like I can barely breathe,
it's 2am I'm reciting a poem
so you understand
You're everything in a living dream.
Imaging how different my life would be
in 10 years. Telling others
how I fell in love with a soul that is drizzled in all gold.
Oh honey you've figured me out perfectly. You’ve played this game right
added pieces to this puzzle.
I am now completed love
oh what you've done to me.
Nevertheless thank you for this marvelous feeling.
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
You tuned my guitar all funny
I kept it that way
Saying "I like the way it sounds..."
And I do
But I mostly keep it this way because
I like to sit in my living room
And play my guitar tuned to F
And imaging you sitting here
Weeks before
In the same place
Playing the same guitar
The same way you like to tune it.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
Were a rose to know the gift of its own fragrance,
it would surely die… fulfilled.
Sweet attar of its sigh
lulls open the red petals of my own empty heart
who could behold such hollowness
without imaging all it can hold
’tis recompense for the rose, I draw deeply…
and die beautifully.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
Even in the train it is cold.
Netanya snuggles closer to me,
her eyes searching me,
her hand clutching mine.
Had a job getting out,
she says.
Does he know
where you are going?
No, I just said
I was going out.
Was he suspicious.
Who cares?
She breathes out,
her breath like smoke;
it fills our area
of the carriage.
Why Brighton?
I like it there;
it reminds me
of my childhood.
She lays her head
on my shoulder,
her hand holding mine;
warmth moving
through mine.
Outside it is dark;
evening sky menacing.
How are things?
We rowed,
we always row.
I look at her hair
on my shoulder,
dark, wavy.
Won't going out
for so long
make things worse?
I hope so;
I hope he moves out,
hope he moves away.
What about the kids?
They'll understand,
kids do;
they like you.
I look out
at the passing view,
lights in the distance
from passing
villages or towns,
trees swimming past.
We arrive at Brighton rail station,
get out the train
and walk into the town
hand in hand.
We must come here
and stay the weekend.
When?
When we can.
I look at her beside me.
She's serious.
What would he say?
He'll say nothing.
He thinks it's just
a mid-life crisis
and I’ll get over it.
We walk down
to the seafront;
the wind and cold
biting at us.
The sea's rough.
I like it rough,
I like to sense
nature's power,
she says,
snuggling
close to me.
We go into a shelter
and sit down
in the semi-dark.
We kiss and embrace.
No one is about.
It seems far
from my usual world,
kind of surreal.
Her lips are on mine.
Feel her pulse.
Her living through me
and I through her;
I feel along her back,
feeling the smooth coat
she is wearing;
my fingers sensing
and imaging
what ever is beneath.
We sit there
for what seems hours,
kissing, holding,
looking out
at the rough sea.
Was I being
someone else
or was I just
being me?
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 3:37 AM UTC
*A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.*
Ecclesiastes 3:5.
long, long long
have I known
the contradictory meaning thereof,
for I authored it,
time immemorial
till the day came
when understanding parted,
left for another prophet,
another poet,
for this how the world's words go,
round and around
left me
re commencing
re imaging
re imagining,
new era words,
newer versions,
new heards
newer mergings
stones and embraces
ha!
"Two of my favorite things"
no, that's been done...
"Let's go get ****** and..."
nope, that's been done
So,
spark sublime divine
give me a second chance,
compose me a vision
that gathers these
mutual funds of
contrasting similarities
in a bow tied connection
singular, worthy of
song and daily recitation!
*her embrace was a stone necklace
around my throat,
sackcloth was my shroud,
to the sea bottom was impaled,
by the stony apparition
of the unrequited embrace*
Ugh
*My beloved's embrace,
cracked the stones that surround
my uncaring register,
the cold still waters that hid it
now boiling from
her gathering me in*
better.
one last try before I repent
*embrace the stones
that obstacle the journey,
gather them in, together keep,
for they are the markers,
you have used,
you have been,
you have exhausted,
so long after the body ashed,
these words will trace for
those that follow the path
you marked with
these same stones
you gathered in
olden days of
simple joyous embrace*
this will,
must have to
do,
for the stones of
the angels of sleep have
arrived and undeterred,
upon my chest have,
inscribed and placed,
while bidding me adieu,
tucking me in,
gathering me to my rest,
a closing eyeing embracing,
in drowsy voices half clear:
sleep prophet,
the work done,
the words piled,
the stones now
mark your the
you final resting place
upon them ecrivez,
In The Future,
Keep It Simple Stupid
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC