"imbibes" poems
*Scratching for quite some time
on this blank white page,
my emotions flow
shine and glow
till the emptiness
imbibes my thoughts
like raindrops after a drought.*
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 3:52 AM UTC
I skip, across a streaming, upon random~laid
flat and comfortable flat flagstone stepping stones,
from poet to poet, color to color, poem to poem,
Auden to Whitman, Schuyler to
myself, a dingaling notion, an errant word,
the here to there, all randoms, yet,
oval chain linked all,
a question posed, an answer unknown,
a reference to an old Italian myth,
and there, and here, a body,
comes to rest,
& also,
comes to rest…
<>
led not by the nose, but the single fingered
tip that guides across a landscape patterned
painting, lost but never a loser, each implants,
each imbibes, and the H&H^ alternatively
rumbles, pounds, vibrato burns erratically,
and the difference between a life in love,
and a life in poetry,
is not a line dividing,
but a path combining,
and the only sign
upon the road,
is never a reddened "stop!"
always just a soft lavender, so tender, inquiring,
requiring, deep thoughts and reckless abandonment,
the only guide inspired when ecstatic adrift in
a season, a sea, any one of nature's designed
unlimited
schemata's of vista creations,
is this, simply stated:
What?
<>
postscript
6:27 Sabbath Sep 27
nyc
after a sunrise glorious, where
the windows eastern facing
make an irresistible irrational
pattern of golden yellow reflecting,
mirrors, and
after reading much,
and so I too, reflect, vista, vista,
what do you see, I see…What?
after reading a poem by James Schuyler,
entitled (yes, we are)
"What"^^
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 7:47 AM UTC
Acerbic antagonist alliterates agonizing accusations,
blasting ******* backbiter butting beautiful bombastic brainy blond bomb.
Cumulative cranial casualties cease caveman's cognitive coherence.
Doom digger derides Daddy's dangling dire dreary ****
Eclectic esoteric eccentric egotistical estranger;
Forthcoming fathoms fetch faithless fleeting father.
God given goblins gather gossamer ganglions;
Hell's hairy harlot harpies hover heeding Hyperion.
Ignatius imbibes irrevocably insisting,
"Jesus juggles justice's joy jarring jams."
Kindness kindles Kilimanjaro;
Malicious mountains melt, Mmm, morning marjoram.
Nothing negates Neanderthal ninnying.
Overt obsessions obfuscate original object of
purest passions, paltry past pinings,
quickly quieted, quelled,
resisted, relinquished, readily, ruefully, roundly
saturated, suffocated; surreptitiously silenced,
terribly torturing the thrashed tamed tormentor:
Ugly, ungrateful, unapologetic,
Vanity,
woefully wallowing, wailing, "Where's
Xanadu's
zeitgeist!?"
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
*See how the stream does smoothly flow
Silently passing beneath branches that grow
Upon the steep banks that slant to sky
Seeking warm rays, so they can survive.
These leafy arms shade the muted stream
As it weaves its path in constant theme
Through dappled light its forms entrance
Leading the insects in merry dance.
A mossy cloak, worn by each tree
On northern parts that face the lea
And upon this moist and shaded side
The moss the cooler air imbibes.
A refreshing wind picks up and blows
Through the leaves and swaying boughs
Those rhythmic sounds add atmosphere
As the sun in evening, disappears.
The daytime kisses the night goodbye
And leaves us with a dusky sigh
While pungent aromas of mother earth
Rise to the sight of the universe.
There cannot be, a better place than this
Where one can enjoy eternal bliss
Than to stroll beneath the riverside trees
With contented mind… is heaven indeed!*
bird
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 3:58 AM UTC
Mouths meeting rushing to be fed and feed
Tongues mingling and exploring
Hunger and thirst crushing need
Passion’s fire roaring
Bodies and hearts entwined
Soul and mind thriving
On all they find
On a journey bereft of depriving
Passion’s fire consuming
A life unto its own in their head
Exhuming
What lay buried, lost, undiscovered, forgotten or dead
Born anew or resurrected
Nerves, thoughts, and emotions it imbibes and revives
By passion’s fire new life injected
Brings new purpose and experiences to their lives
Passions kindled now burning so hot
It sears, mind, body, heart and soul
Delivers everything they sought
Two lost, now one tempered and made whole
Passion’s fire, burning growing as they explored
***** freaky, and debauchery with revel
With passion's fire they soared
FInding the primeval
In the chasing
In the wooing
In the embracing
In the doing
In the B, in many ways
In the D, defining each other’s roles
In the S, setting new trails ablaze
In the M, reaching dark corners of each other’s souls
~Wes Noneya
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
He only imbibes because of his dipsomania.
She only practices onanism because she's afraid he'll impregnate her.
He despises her monomania.
She's too affable, almost to the point of being obsequious.
He's too acrimonious and muzzy.
She knows she's a bit of a coquette.
He thinks he's a cuckold.
She used to be flighty until she fell into this convoluted dystopia.
He used to find it scintillating to get sozzled.
She just wants a lark once in a while.
His iniquity makes him want her to be lascivious.
Her every fatuity leads to a cabal.
He's too opaque and insipid.
She has to iterate and reiterate everything she says.
He feels his infatuation is unrequited.
She finds this unproblematic.
He doesn't imbue her with anything anymore.
She thinks he's unpitying of that.
He'll malinger tomorrow.
She'll wonder if it's all adventitious or kismet.
She can't handle his odium.
He can't stand her ten dollar words.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
Got lost and stopped by the grotto
struck deals with villains,
and though I'm in my feelings
kneeling and ****** off
I payed to be ripped off
cadences dip, lost the lotto
Watery graves appealing strange
the solution is lame
the parade's an insane path to follow
Radical urchin burden
grifting the current
mechanisms infected
luring fevers to wallow in, ad absurdum
fathom futility in survival
famine imbibes a stifled echo of revival
in my head
I'm just playing dead for my recital
better informed to the abhorrence I'm entitled
feathered in form alluring sword alarm from Michael
clever to wars imparted forcible and vital, to the era
but staring in awe before the cycle
Bearing a maw beneath the throes along the final.
Bury me after my heart
and guard informal notions of the lauded
if calluses lift the filthy and applaud it
whittle the simply to the too intense or lawless
for a history glistening through a rose of sickly fondness
I won't ask if you were listening to all this
but I must admit
I don't think I can trust you
to be honest...
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
My soul is the master,
My body is an obedient servant.
Without a soul,
My body is just a corpse,
A wasted husk.
The beauty of my body lies
when it is in partnership with my soul,
Just as you need to exercise and go to a gym to maintain your body's fitness,
You need to go to a mosque,church or temple to maintain your soul's purity.
Your body is a carcass that is going to decompose in the soil,
Your soul is destined for your hereafter,
Your soul will be accountable for your deeds good or bad,
Your soul will accumulate Allah's rewards and blessings.
That can only be done by fasting,praying and giving alms,
Not to forget pilgrimage,
Which imbibes piety and certainty in you,
Guards you against evil,
Restrains you from shameful and unjustful deeds,
Cleanses and purifies your soul,
So that it leaves your body with least pain,
And the Angels come with joy to wrap in soft musk scented cloth,
And take you to your creator.
7/6/2019
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 9:32 AM UTC
Big black rocks are singing a mellow song,
emanating from the warmth daylong,
received from the sun, that left them behind,
melted in to a red haze and gone in to ocean.
The dusky night moving on tip-toe is pleased
all ears, discerns and imbibes its meaning
for her to join seamlessly at the right moment.
The stars, gentle still, are thrilled by this musical's
complex emotions, join in with their contribution,
subtle notes of winks, gleams and twinkle.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
*we were speeding on 'e'
in dastardly overused lexemes
i used to forget, ending
peachy words with
'jolie' (or 'moche').
write: meta-cognition.
he writes lines and
chisels octaves onto my
skin, dough, bones and lacquers,
he says they are the only places
where mad love-notes would fit
without the keys.
the bed has turned bipolar,
diagnosed with isochronous stability.
we sleep in half-cut apples
held up by sombre scissors.
he imbibes couplets
from strophe tea-cups,
he leaves me hungover
in stanza trains.
he says that i am
the last pen he has and
if i were to stop dreaming,
the poet would be dead.*
write: writhe, wither.
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 5:13 AM UTC
Ahhh poets of an age
words and line so smooth
keeping art the focus and rage
with nothing left, too prove
Wild and free beyond repute
no cares for meanings now in vogue
playing as piper, devout astute
now and then, going pure rogue
The rebels that we know and love
not subscribing to rote or known
hands that guide, in velvet gloves
not what they hide, but shown
Heed the call my friends and scribes
remember why you're here
as each and all imbibes
the pains and scars inscribed
with all the love and yet still
all the fear
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 12:40 AM UTC
about aboutness thematizing themes
flowers need not say, marching into war--
enraptured gaze their petals open far
to seek horizons conjured from a dream.
they grow to measure limits of all selves,
become the symbol-meaning recombined
--plucked to toss an emblem for the mind--
humming under captured sun, ecliptic quell
paper cups of burning blood becoming sky
bolster or efface the heart before its fate,
poetic flare leaves hunger unappeased--
the ruthless earth imbibes its digest dry
as interspiral helicals of age
assume finality's supernal ease
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup
Were playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled up
They looked upon the creature with a loathing undisguised
It wasn't disinfected and it wasn't sterilized
They said it was a microbe and a hotbed of disease
They steamed it in a vapor of a thousand-odd degrees
They froze it in a freezer that was cold as banished hope
And washed it in permanganate with carbolated soap
In sulphurated hydrogen they steeped its wiggly ears
They trimmed its frisky whiskers with a pair of hard-boiled shears
They donned their rubber mittens and they took it by the hand
And elected it a member of the fumigated band
There's not a micro-coccus in the garden where they play
They bathe in pure iodoform a dozen times a day
And each imbibes his rations from a hygienic cup
The Bunny and the Baby and the Prophylactic Pup
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
The petals lay on the marble table top in the garden patio droplets of rain bejewel the petals
Moist as the mourner’s eye she now immortal is beyond my knowing it as if you write with a
Lead pencil of strains of gold the steerage of a great ship slipped beyond earth’s earth bound
Harbor the lights are dim these peeping tiny wonders contain the exactness of the richest soul
The voice was textured velvet it spoke and then lingered longest on the heart’s ear where it
Reverberated gently down the corridors of the soul in quietude she can still be heard it’s heart
Felt there is no agony just pleasantries assuage with tiny burst of light that vanquish the dark
You can feel the softness of her soft free flowing hair you stop in amazement and realize you
Don’t have a care there is nothing to compare it with love bows down it pulls earth and sky low
You feel yourself slowing to accept these bestowing gifts the tangle of nature so rare leaves you
Left staring this uncommon daring life proceeds beyond the vale the void immerses you in
Liquid joy the window rattles in the wind blown storm and you find comfort in this uncommon
Character you spill out the door and follow the wondering wind her essence imbibes your
Conscious and unconscious knowing you have found the spring of everlasting water it gently
Flows from Heaven above and she rides its crest intact in the total entirety of being and
Thought the wasteland dissolves as paradise further advances at each place it touches magical
Electric vibrant and alive all you have to do is walk to the table and with mortal fingers pick up
And tenderly handle the petals and the cage of death will open its dark closed door will
Immediately brighten with the soul immortal you will stand at the threshold of glory there you
Can commune with lost love
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
(This verse is dedicated to the teachers teaching my loving daughter Suzanna Christy)
Thou are the guiding stars to her in the garden of learning:
Every alphabet she utters is thy endeavor for her,
Thou lift her hand to write and sketch what thou hast learnt,
The circles thou make are the ones she learns about the world,
The lines thou stretch are the ones she draws her experiences,
The squares thou measure are the ones she weighs her knowledge.
Thou hast shown the ladder to soar by steps,
Thy frivolous rebukes may strike her tiny errors,
And she learns from thee how life takes it route on its way.
Thou hast laid a way for her to carry out tasks,
Thou hast trained her to read herself in her own way,
Yet with the way that has its own ethical values,
Thou hast made her walk on her own,
And thy words of law and ethics still ring into her heart.
Thou art gardeners while she grows with fragrance,
And she shines with her fellow-blooms.
Thou are every-shining brooks carrying tiny blooms towards rivers,
And she flutters on her way with wisdom and in joy.
Thou art mother birds feeding their little ones in the nests,
And she imbibes wit and humor.
Thou teach her science, numbers, signs and gestures,
Thou hast made her a living genius to shine with her genii,
And so, let me paint thee in my lays, and it’s my tribute to thee.
And so, my heart rejoices in my daughter’s fragrance with thee.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:12 AM UTC
The girl named after the fruit
Has got her tongue
All tied in loops
As she tries to describe
Why the flowers bloom
In spring, not winter.
She imbibes
Glass splinters
To survive the snow
Driven
Depression
That comes with
The season.
She’s trying hard to explain
The way it makes her feel
When a thousand rain
Crashes drop onto her skin
In a rhythm of
Random points
Of pressure, and
The way the wind
Blows the rain
Into the left ear
Through her brain
And out of the right,
Cleansing her mind
Of any qualms,
Any frights,
Any problems
That might
Pose a problem.
It makes her free,
It sets her right,
But she can’t help
Wondering why
She runs
To her car,
Or to the door,
Or into the store,
To avoid getting wet,
As if she even can.
The girl named after the fruit
Sits alone next
To her couch,
With the stench of ***
Swirling through
Her apartment.
It mixes with the trails
Of smoke from
Her cigarette,
And she tries to figure
Out what
She is doing
There,
Why she has to
Bear the fruit
Of her labors,
The 12 years spent
At a lab table,
Behind a desk,
Or with her face in a book,
If all she gets now
Is a different *****
To **** every night
And a constantly
Growing hole
In her sanity,
Her bank account,
Her ability to recount
Exactly what happened
The day before.
She puts out her
Cig on the living room floor
And walks into the snow storm,
Naked except for her
Hello kitty socks.
She becomes one with the white,
She merges with the way
The ice crystals
Swirl in the air,
She fuses with their
Trails and the intricacies
Of falling stars
Until she blows away,
To melt basking
In the sunshine
Of a late
February day.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 12:20 PM UTC
What about tomorrow?
Tomorrow just ended today,
And will perish again tomorrow ,
Like the morning glory,
That drains alcohol to become sober,
And when,
everything that was
Sublimes in afternoon
The morning glory vapes itself into the evening,
Thinking of high planes, as falling stars
Wishing, but is turned into wisps,
As night falls,
The morning glory, withdrawn of all substance
Gets drunk with the multitude of mishaps,
And gradually dozes off in shadows
As all the wishes turn to wisps and drift away,
Another tomorrow ends all the same,
And tomorrow again,
The morning glory
will turn on the lights of yesterday to see,
As it imbibes, everything that was,
once again .
Sep 3, 2024
Sep 3, 2024 at 9:58 AM UTC
A gifted soul
***
The beauty resides
in the soul,
The one who
understands this
is pristine.
The one who
imbibes this
is ageless.
The one who
absorbs this
is a Mahatma.
A beautiful soul
reverberates sounds
resonating
harmony and peace
With-in
&
With-out.
***
Sparkle In Wisdom
15 March 2019
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 9:47 PM UTC
Behold! The sight
of shifting eyes
bouncing ‘round its fellow pair
As darkness falls
and contact dies
mirroring the moon’s harsh glare
Hearken, ye!
That subtle sound…
the dying gasps of slaughtered words
Sputtering
as they are drowned
by dropping pins and cricket-birds
Alas! The stench
of stale vibes
the sweaty feel a handshake leaves
The aftertaste
your mouth imbibes
of musty webs that Silence weaves
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 10:34 PM UTC
Daffodils..
Daffodils in the garden made my day,
Even as they bloomed but couldn’t say,
I watched them spring out of the wet clay,
The first of the flowers that made my day.
The serene beauty that bloomed out from petal lips,
Greeted the coming spring with their dancing hips
The joy that flooded my 'umble heart,
Was great to feel in a life, time apart.
These daffodils in my garden aren't unknown,
But those that my Gardener had earlier sown,
They have the beauty of his golden eyes
And so soft that only his grace imbibes.
I bow to thee O my Master, my Lord,
Unworthy of thee but still your part,
These daffodils that you have grown,
Is my reward that I am not alone!
( By: Khan, BA for His Master ,April 5, 2011 at 11:52pm )
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 12:55 PM UTC
The battles are over. Blood has been shattered on all territories. The kaleidoscope reflects the broken dreams of the refugees. I do not wish to remain in this place. The complexity in the surroundings imbibes a negative vibe in my soul and corrupts my lungs. The weight of living is breaking my bones. My imaginative capabilities seem to vanish in the haze with the smoke coming out from chimneys. The heat around is bringing things to an end. We are parting ways. I'm standing at crossroads neither side will take me to a better place. The juvenile existence of a paradoxical levity brought us back again. I'm sitting in this cold room, torpid in one corner. A ray of light coming in through a hole in the wall and reflecting all the dust in me, in my thoughts. I'm trying to fathom the reason of existence if these entities and writing with a pen stolen from my masters chamber. But all I wanted to do was spill red ink all over the axioms.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
TN 2008
There is a girl in my cabin.
She sits on my 70s brown, velour
porno-couch with her long legs
tucked beneath her
like folded promises.
She wears nothing but a pair
of wool socks and an old, flannel
shirt of mine. The wood fire blazes.
Her honest blond hair
cascades to the small of her lovely back.
Her skin is the flawless pink
of an unexpected spring sunrise.
Her eyes are emeralds that blaze
like novas when we make love.
Botticelli might have painted her.
I am reading Harrison to her aloud.
She imbibes his words like a toddler
learning language for the first time.
I light her cigarette and she laughs,
radiating the shameless pleasure
only the very young experience.
She expects nothing of me,
but this one evening,
and that is all she will get.
She tells me her name;
she is all of twenty-one.
Perhaps I am a ***** old man;
perhaps I am incorrigible;
perhaps I will burn in Hell;
perhaps I am a casualty of Eros;
or, perhaps, I am simply
still alive.
- mce
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Shifty Mac an Irish drunk,
He plies his trade with *****
Be it beer scotch or skunk,
He imbibes the lot by the trunk,
Shenanigans he presents to those he punk,
He doth no monk,
He stumbles and gropes till a thunk,
A smack a cross the lips for this drunk,
On the floor he lay as the sun hath sunk,
He arise by the light of dawn on his bunk,
Oh how he flunked.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 3:13 AM UTC
Don't you see
I can't be hurt?
Light your torch;
I can't be burnt.
Don't you see
My eyes search yours?
Poison me;
I'll find your cure.
Don't you see
Love only grows?
Like a river,
Imbibes you and flows.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
And one fine day, She uttered her truths,
A truth that had been, ever misunderstood:
That people were great, some often good,
But oh their certainty, stability are such goods,
Each in the control of time's hook,
Ever transforming like a fountain or brook,
But none can complete with
The loyalty of books.
It's intensity, it's intimacy and all forsooth,
Are truly the virtues that nurtures one like good food.
The time, it's tides, or the world in blue,
All tells, all revolve round a nucleus,
Called 'Book'.
It lets you have a look, inside your very own look.
People come, some wait some go,
Who knows what, why, and who'd next go ?
There are the grains of time bound sand,
They slip off swift, from your happy land.
But oh a book, Once in your hand,
Is the precious companion,
For your very life's span,
As it nurtures your soul,
Into a wiser man's!
And Oh when the world,
Doesn't give a ****
Why not approach a book,
That gives you plans,
Of letting go it all ,
that isn't a cinch worth your plans?
Stick in with these gems, the most then you can
For they tell that, what most often can't
Of life, it's creator, it's creatures, it's land,
Of all that you've wondered,
And still can.
The people, the time, all creatures, and land
All change, all change,
In time's hand,
But ah! The books,
And worthy men,
Who like and love to read
Often, often, as much as they can,
Are but Indeed blessed by a 'friend'
That can never fail them,
They can approach as they wish,
And any time, as much as they can.
The tides, the storms, are but their friends,
For they sail them off to other land,
A land that may embrace,
The persistence in them.
They endure, endure, as much as they can,
But Oh! That they complain,
Show pride in them?
Is something that we never see of them.
They're eternal, they're lively,
And inspire men,
Even when the rains,
Imbibes it's words
And takes them off into a land.
Their words, their thoughts,
Are like seeds in a garden,
That feeds well our love for devotion,
And feeds our delicate heart and brain.
Oh if I get to chose between the two,
A book, and a wealthy person,
A book, A book, is what I'll choose,
As it's my undying loyal friend,
An indispensable manure,
For my mind's garden!
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC