"immeasurably" poems
for leather accrues
The miracle of the streets
The scents & smogs &
pollens of existence
Shiny blackness
so totally naked she was
Totally un-hung-up
We looked around
lights now on
Top see our fellow travellers
~~~
I am troubled
Immeasurably
By your eyes
I am struck
By the feather
of your soft
Reply
The sound of glass
Speaks quick
Disdain
And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain
~~~
She looked so sad in sleep
Like a friendly hand
just out of reach
A candle stranded on
a beach
While the sun sinks low
an H-bomb in reverse
~~~
Everything human
is leaving
her face
Soon she will disappear
into the calm
vegetable
morass
Stay!
My Wild Love!
~~~
I get my best ideas when the
telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun
To feel like a fool-when your
baby’s gone. A new ax to my head:
Possession. I create my own sword
of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time.
A little tot prancing the boards playing
w/Revolution. When out there the
World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs
of murderers & real madmen. Hanging
from windows as if to say: I’m bold-
do you love me? Just for tonight.
A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines
at the glass sliding door (why can’t I
be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine
revs & races against the grain- dry
rasping carbon protest. I put the book
down- & begin my own book.
Love for the fat girl.
When will SHE get here?
~~~
In the gloom
In the shady living room
where we lived & died
& laughed & cried
& the pride of our relationship
took hold that summer
What a trip
To hold your hand
& tell the cops
you’re not 16
no runaway
The wino left a little in
the old blue desert
bottle
Cattle skulls
the cliche of rats
who skim the trees
in search of fat
Hip children invade the grounds
& sleep in the wet grass
’til the dogs rush out
I’m going South!
40.3k
I wished for you
excessively.
greedily.
immeasurably.
I craved you for days on end
and finally,
finally.
I got to see the way
your lips form around the precipice
of my name;
I felt your hand on my waist
as your touch provokes every minute nerve
in my body;
I drowned myself in the
depth of your eyes
that glisten with wonder as you
decipher
the spell you've cast upon me
and how it speaks volumes of every
fairytale ever made;
and I have had a taste of all of this
I've had you
right within my breadth,
just until the warmth
of the rising sun
kissed my eyelids awake,
like the tender whisper of the
cosmos
or the discordant bellowing
of the void
as it reminds me:
You are unattainable.
Right then again I was able to
comprehend
that you will remain an illusion to me
until our paths cross once more
and in that moment,
nothing will be capable of surpassing
the bewitchment
the resplendence
the luminance
of the mere reality that is you
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
Everyone in me is a bird.
I am beating all my wings.
They wanted to cut you out
but they will not.
They said you were immeasurably empty
but you are not.
They said you were sick unto dying
but they were wrong.
You are singing like a school girl.
You are not torn.
Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
and of the central creature and its delight
I sing for you. I dare to live.
Hello, spirit. Hello, cup.
Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain.
Hello to the soil of the fields.
Welcome, roots.
Each cell has a life.
There is enough here to please a nation.
It is enough that the populace own these goods.
Any person, any commonwealth would say of it,
"It is good this year that we may plant again
and think forward to a harvest.
Many women are singing together of this:
one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine,
one is at the aquarium tending a seal,
one is dull at the wheel of her Ford,
one is at the toll gate collecting,
one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona,
one is straddling a cello in Russia,
one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt,
one is painting her bedroom walls moon color,
one is dying but remembering a breakfast,
one is stretching on her mat in Thailand,
one is wiping the *** of her child,
one is staring out the window of a train
in the middle of Wyoming and one is
anywhere and some are everywhere and all
seem to be singing, although some can not
sing a note.
Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
let me carry a ten-foot scarf,
let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds,
let me carry bowls for the offering
(if that is my part).
Let me study the cardiovascular tissue,
let me examine the angular distance of meteors,
let me **** on the stems of flowers
(if that is my part)..
Let me make certain tribal figures
(if that is my part).
For this thing the body needs
let me sing
for the supper,
for the kissing,
for the correct
yes.
9k
Oh ROSE! How immeasurably I adore you!
So expressive, you are! Eloquent and evocative!
Robed in red, you say to the world, “I love you,”
And speak all about courage and respect.
In white, purity and innocence are your names;
Then you’re a bride, heavenly, and in silence;
You’re clothed in secret silence and youthfulness,
And humility that commands world’s reverence.
Your pink is happiness; dark pink says “thank you”;
In yellow, it brings joyfulness and friendship;
With red added, the world would fall in love;
And orange—it’s full of desire and enthusiasm.
Red-and- yellow is jovial; peach, modesty;
Coral is desire; and lavender, love at first sight.
But you’re never black, for you know, it is sad.
How gifted a poet you are! A great symbolist!
A bud in red is purity and loveliness coupled,
One in white, emerges elegantly as a girl in her teens;
And a bud, if thorn-less, calls for love at first sight.
Oh, your magic tricks! How great a conjurer you are!
If single, you’re devotion; twin says, Marry me;
Six, suggest need to be loved; eleven says, Truly loved;
While in thirteen, you say I’m your secret admirer.
Oh! It’s wizardry! So overwhelming! So breathtaking!
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
"It's good, but maybe you should write shorter," I was told.
Granted this was told to me by a man that believes the word artistic
to be closely related to the word autistic, but I can only assume that riding any
unfamiliar wavelength is terribly confusing, if not immeasurably difficult.
Knowing that you can confide in yourself, whether or not I'm misinterpreting
individual delegation for conscience, I believe altruism to be fundamental to
a person before growth can occur. Unless of course you're writing short poems.
And if you're curious enough to implement apathy, sarcasm is a fine starting point.
They say that if you want to master something you need to perform daily.
Accompany this with the old adage, "Love what you do," and you can imagine the potential.
Mastering an activity with love is transcendent, calm although sometimes piquant.
Passion and pleasure aren't identical, but imagine the potential.
I don't bleed ink.
It has to be an attempt at benevolence, to say that.
Extreme literary pretensions you must have to bleed out.
Writing should have a pulse. It. Should. Make. Each. Word. Count.
Yet, when this man told me that my words are good, but I should keep it shorter,
knowing not if I could or would, I became curious as to why he worried more about
length and not the content and story as a whole. Then I had to rationalize this to myself, and thought: It would be easier to convey words with images, like a film or animation.
But I don't bleed ink,
and I guess I don't bleed popcorn.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
Who shall declare the joy of the running!
Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight!
Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather,
Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light.
Everything mortal has moments immortal,
Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright.
So with the stretch of the white road before me,
Shining snowcrystals rainbowed by the sun,
Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows,
Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.
Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!
Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.
2.5k
I can't pretend that i'm angry at you, when really I'm not. I can't pretend that I hate you, when the opposite is true. I can't pretend you don't mean a thing to me, because you're absolutely perfect and I can't pretend that you don't matter to me, because you do. More than you think, tons more than you can imagine and immeasurably more than what your mind can perceive. I can't pretend that you don't matter, especially when I know in my heart that's not true.
Because you sure do matter, there's no denying that.
You matter more than anyone else and my mind knows that, my heart feels that and I have no choice but to believe that.
Sometimes it upsets me that you matter this much but there's nothing I can do, i'm too hopelessly in love with you. I can't stop now because i'm in too deep. Your love has got me crazy and I can't deny, it means something.
I can't pretend that you don't mean a thing, I can't pretend that you don't matter, when you matter, quite perfectly to me.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
I can see your heart
Beating in my dream
Pumping harder and faster
About to burst at the seam
Eyes practically made of laughter
And your psychotic smile
With a voice I can feel,
Deep in my soul
Carrying for miles and miles
You made everything real,
Become nothing I've known
You're a ghost of a previous life
Slicing into my sleep
With a double edged knife
Silently waiting to strike
Yet, you always seem to disappear
Just before the final blow
With nothing to see or hear
And no where left to go
I drift off into my mind
A mass of blank space
With no way to rewind
Travel to another place
Or any other time
The distance between falling
and finally waking
Is immeasurably long
Because
This dream has become a nightmare
And not only are you gone
But you were never really there
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
.
*One day at a time
swings the pendulum;
only love awakens senses
too ephemeral to be restrained,
like the magic of a phonograph stylus
in a vintage vinyl groove
and the sensual touch
of skin so new
It's not easy to watch
a flock flying away
in the distance,
seeing the expanse beyond
reach of a wandering mind;
heed distracted
by the slow sway
of the treetops hypnotic careen
Doves dive on feathered canter,
silent as the winged wind,
broke free from the gravity
befallen the weight
of the world
Looking up wondering
beyond the sky,
the passing clouds
crawl across
palliating the dusk hazed horizon
Synchronicity transcends across
an immeasurably deep river chasm,
into a wordless abyss
ensconced unthought
between
here and there
Silent silhouettes
glide across
the valley void below,
wings to the sky
and, if you listen to a moment breathe,
you can hear
the silent peace .............
you can feel the prevailing wind's direction
blowing through your soul*
Jesse Stillwater
December 2017
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC
So take my vows and scatter them to sea;
Who swears the sweetest is no more than human.
And say no kinder words than these of me:
"Ever she longed for peace, but was a woman!
And thus they are, whose silly female dust
Needs little enough to clutter it and bind it,
Who meet a slanted gaze, and ever must
Go build themselves a soul to dwell behind it."
For now I am my own again, my friend!
This scar but points the whiteness of my breast;
This frenzy, like its betters, spins an end,
And now I am my own. And that is best.
Therefore, I am immeasurably grateful
To you, for proving shallow, false, and hateful.
1.8k
and i'm not afraid to fight
and i'm not afraid to die
and i
am
not
afraid.
[actually, i am not
much of anything right now]
and i.
there are days when i find it
immeasurably
desirable
to just rip my organs out-
-just rip them
right ******* out,
i never knew nails could dig through flesh like
that until she did it-
- blood spattering all over that painting i
just finished, dear what a waste i was
going to get an a on that.
there's a hollow right behind my heart
that i can't feel until you leave
i feel
incomplete without you, that's what
love is
but i don't-
can't-
love you
because if i did
i'd feel too guilty when i hurt you
and believe me darling i can hurt you.
[ icanhurtyou ]
there's the kind of girl you don't want to love
because she doesn't care
[about you]
at all and that is me.
there's that girl.
sitting on the rooftops
like she
gives a
****
about her image
she's not vain she's just conflicted
and she's sitting there
like she
gives a ****
there's a war going on
in my head and it's
****** gruesome.
the doctor diagnosed me
with self-induced apathy
and he was
so right
i
ripped my
heart
out-
i hate my emotions
so much i
tear them apart
and keep them
like secrets
in the pit of my stomach.
they're better food than the lies she told me
and so much sweeter
and i [.]
lied too, forgive me dear.
forgive me for not wanting to feel.
i
am
too
afraid.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 8:23 PM UTC
Toe pirouettes kissing the water's face,
I follow the river's ebb.
My eye stretching to its horizon:
beyond it, I let my heart go...
Rushing immeasurably across unknowns,
wondering if it will find what it dreams:
this sunshine, this breeze,
washing quietly over me.
I'm glowing in God's spotlight.
Souls' diamonds in my eyes!
Breath deepened and arms splayed beneath
tall grass and willow trees;
hopes floating to the skies:
spirit set free!
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 8:14 AM UTC
Earth: our ominous all-mother,
she, the greater good:
the interminable fountain out of which stems life and vivacity itself
always reaching
and grasping for the abstruse azure heavens above.
her hair never stops growing. the mites and parasites never cease to fester her scalp. She is growing and changing and rotting and dying. but where death comes, there is no long interval until more
life.
the liveliness is everywhere; it promotes to all faces and regions and niches. Multiplying, begetting, propagating. all for the greater good of our orb and its inhabitants. Most dwellers are humble and solicitous toward her, and learn to keep a vigilant eye
as she can be so
forceful and violent.
She does have, however, one rascal who believes that the globe belongs all to Himself.
He is the man.
He has a masterful gift, yes. He is profound and competent. He forges the impractical query into a conclusive answer. He, however, is also egocentric and pompous, and He sees her as a specimen to which
He has the rights to dismember and pervert.
He makes a mess of her unique vistas. He tramples and stamps on her face, running about as if she were the coliseum in which the gods gather to view the Species fight itself to extinction. He works her to the
core, always asking for more, more, more, more,
until she has little left to give.
But she never loses courage in His asinine and moronic views and His sprawling village,
for she created Him
out of herself
she is the framework out of which the mind is able to mundanely manifest itself.
Without her, He would be nothing.
And she is so immeasurably loving and benevolently caring and forevermore giving; for
She is life, she is love.
We are love.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 9:19 PM UTC
There he goes bidding good bye..
and people here take a long sigh..
when they roll down his records which are so high!
He was born a different kind.
With his shining glory visible even to the blind,
his name itself calms down a terrible person's mind.
He is a man with an amazing sense of purpose
n the owner of a distinct personality
In whom patience and simplicity is bestowed immeasurably..
And that's all which led him to the title of GOD
Who miracles the world of cricket with bat n ball!
Here I bid him bye
Along with million other fans
Who alike me can't think of a match sans that man.
A thunderstorm will seize this day,
and we have a zillion words of thanks to say,
Who turned our life in this memorable way..
And this is my wish for him on this last game.
There wouldn't be any man who can erase your name
Cos,
the rest only seek fame!
You are the one, who won million hearts,prayers..
You have aspired to inspire.
Here we end that wonderful tale of a great man
Which budded here in our land of India.
And this tale is unbeatable and unrepeatable
Cos there's none who has set their sail as he did. :)
(C)SharonThomas
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
That sparkle,
that immeasurably forgiving joy and affection is gone,
but the sound of your voice is just familiar enough to make me remember it.
What we're doing here is necrophilia.
It's gross, but we're ******* something that's dead and we both know it.
I think we thought we could bring it back to life with our selfish demands,
but this coffin isn't as comforting as we'd hoped it would be.
We've never talked about the time between,
that period of time when we never talked.
We should have talked.
Without words, you had nowhere to be angry so you swallowed your truths and they turned into blame.
I can feel it when you look at me,
I don't sparkle anymore.
Well, neither do you.
When we talk we say the least, yet every word has a barb.
Too jaded for affection we bob and weave through a minefield of unacknowledged truths.
Our words rot in our bellies while we sew each others mouths shut.
We never wanted this sort of intimacy.
We let the poison out with play, the kind that's done with knives.
So here we are, playing with knives in a minefield,
the only sound is our own hollow laughter.
Behind every "never mind" and "just kidding",
behind the scoreboard of our interactions and every slap of my *** are two shadows;
one covered in armor from breast to backbone,
and one purging a river of poison.
We're chasing a past we know we can't have back,
and the echoes of our old feelings make the silence so much louder than it was
when we didn't talk.
We were beautiful this summer, helplessly alive.
We had such good intentions but the silence and the miles and the fear have made this thing pale,
dead looking.
We try hard to be sorry.
Every kindness hurts because it tastes like the past,
so now instead we barter in bed.
Turns out *** without affection falls under Services Rendered,
but the shape of you so near to me makes me miss you more than I can bare and if you call me tonight, I'll probably answer.
I guess sometimes the only way to make sure something's not still alive is to poke it with a stick a few times.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
Rainbow
The colors speak and reveal red means you’re mad or hot or it could mean you’re a cool hot which everyone wants to achieve
Yellow means you’re mellow in some cases fear beats out courage and they call you coward that’s when mellow helps
Green with envy most unattractive but if your green references money then you’re loaded and envy switches to others
Blue you’re depressed you are moody if it causes you to beat the bad feelings then your blessed and can help someone else
Orange you got the juice or you’re a fruit or your characteristic of the pleasant ending of a day ending in dying beauty
Purple the skies greatest hue next to the azure blue the greatest canvass viewed and admired by all mankind freely
They say black isn’t a color but necessary to create a rainbow sets it off enriches deepens makes it stand out immeasurably
White again not a color represents day brightness purity the heart of a rainbow told on this backdrop exquisite power generates
A spiritual rain bow made of red hot fervor galvanized flesh and spirit in perfect harmony only one had it all others reflect it
Green without experience raw available receptive to the filling spiritual purity the essence of a holy life truly lived completely filled
Blue spiritual skies take flight to others invite these rarefied climes sadly empty of the very ones who need it most they neglect
Yellow marvel wonder speak and know God up close and personnel softest steps in holy reverence and awe you enthrall one and all
Purple ancient days it represented fabulous wealth this crest this winner’s wreath your soul now is made to wear forever
Orange speak with soft undertone your words glow no need to shout the landscape enriched the soul enlarged widest measure told
White should the darkest night break yes now that true light is found all that is unholy is expelled only evil cursed darkness dwells
Black the smoke ascends he said never by water he made a vow with a bow it is true with fire destruction the end will consume
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
when I told you I was *****
I was drunk and sad
and you said
that you were so sorry
and held me as
I cried into your shoulder
you still look at me funny
you're conscious
of your hands
and voice
of whether you
reveal too much
conscious
that you shouldn't treat me
any differently
that our awkward
bus stop talks
and
empty locker-conversations
are palatable
and that the alternative
isn't
but
I wish you'd bring it up
because
I think
it feels
immeasurably worse
to move on
when we've made
such little progress
moving anywhere
that is
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 1:07 PM UTC
He cranes tiredly over folds of parchment
As sunlight falls across his ashen features
And the restless night becomes lost
Within a sea of fading maps and broken compasses.
Worn pencils collect on hardwood like dust,
And discarded errors in calculation fall into the corners.
He stumbles weakly between varying levels of consciousness,
And exhaustion claims an inch more of his body
With each exasperated flutter of his eyelids.
He spins the globe to his right with a lazy hand
And catches Africa with his finger
Wishing that he could’ve been anywhere but here
Because it is immeasurably heartbreaking
To have the entire world at your fingertips
And to have never seen any of it.
j.s.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
It’s like dividing signals, that is what amazed me. I have to resist the impulse to grab you and hold you. I still see you, slipped into the underlife. The faith of our bodies is crying a little. I love starting things, but I have to pause. All I can take is the greatest pleasure, a replica. I feel like I have a plastic bandage made of lavender. Anxious, with fire to fire, I will try to slip you into the night. As the sun rises and the day turns black, the cotton-fields stand in my way but I still see you. The inevitable is happening. We are reaching for death on the end of a candle, we are trying for something that’s already found us. We are like a storm or some holy dream. Calling out doesn’t do anything. The sound of glass speaks quickly and I’ve been down for son long that it looks up to me now. I have never been heard. I am troubled, immeasurably by your eyes.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
The bitter cold breezes in winter
Freezes life all around
It strips everything
from the warmth and happiness
Like the trees
That once were a full bush a leaves
Left with nothing but brown homely branches
Standing alone in the middle of the field
I am the tree
Getting the life stripped out of me
Leaving me with nothing but my structure
That can barely stand these blustery winds
I feel so immeasurably alone
Empty and frozen
Because of this god awful season
Frigid, gloomy, heart breaking
You remind me of winter
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC
I promise, I swear I didn't,
I mean,
****
What was I supposed to do?
I'm in the flood waters now.
There's no hazard that could dissuade me.
I remain convinced.
I remain self-possessed.
I remain stolen and broken.
I remain.
And where did you go?
Where have you been?
What happened?
How was that enough?
How does that make sense?
Where am I supposed to go now?
What was I supposed to do?
I didn't feel old or bent or faded.
I didn't feel a surge or a skip.
I felt content, immeasurably at peace
with one foot, two foot, three foot, turn,
turn, laugh, look, smile, turn.
I avoided the touch of gaze
and the strange, knowing smile
because we both saw how years and months
could compress into a few hours
as if they never happened at all
and neither of us wants to know
what that means.
I'm supposed to ignore it.
I'm supposed to not let it touch me.
If you don't irritate them, they leave you alone.
And you can't even touch it.
You're afraid it'll fall apart.
You weren't sure it was anything at all
and you weren't sure it mattered
and you weren't sure it counted
and you start to doubt yourself
and you start to see things
and wonder if they're real
if they're anything at all.
I remember that night,
slipping on Chicago ice and laughing out loud.
In a broken snow globe the glitter still shines,
though it's slowly slipping away.
I caught the drops in a tiny bowl
with lilac blooms and melodic metal double kicks.
I'm packaging it up, wrapping it in cellophane and tape
cellophane and tape
to deliver to your future home.
I'll pass it over our shared picket fence,
hold my fingers on your wrist for too long,
and you'll look blankly or you'll smile wide.
I'll close my eyes and turn around,
walking back to hand chimes and north arrows,
my invitation hanging in the damp air.
You do not know, my friend, you do not know
what life is, you who hold it in your hands.
You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see.
I will dance a borrowed dance
and walk a borrowed line
and sing a borrowed song
until the words return
and I can control my knees
and the squeaking butterflies shut up
and the ferns are cleared from the path
and I can move forward with grace and intention,
with an open hand
and tenuous direction
and a starry smile
and a space for you next to me.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
And then you say, "All we are is dust in the wind."
Little specks,
enumerable and miniscule,
grains of the infinitesimal,
listless,
pointless,
directionless,
fading dreams of nothing.
Well, I say "Thank God, I love the prospect,
there is freedom in being nothing."
Why are you so displeased with this conclusion?
Is it that the contention you wrought is dispersed by my contentment?
We'll let it drift then on the wings of some updraft on it's way to God.
invisible to the naked eye,
just as you and I shall drift thoughtlessly into the atmosphere.
Little particles of dust fading into nothing and immeasurably free.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 2:06 PM UTC