"immerses" poems
Humanity is at the ****** of connection
Connection is plastered to our bones
It’s on our wrists dinging reminding us to take our steps that will apparently make us one with nature, it’s latched to our arms so while we are so spent attaching ourselves to nature that we don’t have to attach our phones to our hands, it’s our sun rise, it’s our evening prayer, heck it’s the only thing reminding us to wake up in the morning and connect with these people that we can only reach through these dull technological connections. Facebook says we’re here to help you connect! The Bible app dings remindign you, “keep in check!” You’re surrounded by connection, it immerses you and embraces you with its WiFi streamed arms and blue tinted light
But shouldn’t you be embracing the connection? Shouldn’t you be the one to swallow connection? Shouldn’t you be the one to amplify connection?
Humanity is at the ****** of connection but we are disconnected.. Shouldn’t the rate of depression fall not rise with every purchase of an iPhone. We are disconnected
From ourselves from nature from the spiritual realm and from each other because we connect our souls to these arguable objects of connection. Seems like we need an intervention from connection. Shouldn’t connection flow within our bones and not simply be plastered to it? Connection is around us, but we’re not making the connection
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 9:26 PM UTC
Hasti Pe Nikhaar Aa Jata Hai
Jis Waqt Woh Saamne Hote Hain
Life is made to bloom
When they manifest before us
Har Shai Pe Khumaar Aa Jata Hai
Jis Waqt Woh Saamne Hote Hain
Existence is covered in intoxication
When they manifest before us
Parwane Ki Halat Kya Kahiye
Parwana Hai Aakhir Parwana
Of moth’s state what could you say
Moth is yet still a moth
Shamma Ko Bhi Pyar Aa Jata Hai
Jis Waqt Woh Saamne Hote Hain
Even the lamp immerses in love
When they manifest before us
— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 7:15 AM UTC
Taos Pueblo fashion designer Patricia Michaels returns to New York City for “Style Fashion Week NYC”on September 10th to present her latest 30 piece collection at aspecial RSVP eventat Hammerstein Ballroom, 311 West 34th St, Midtown Manhattan.
Michaels was a finalist on season 11 of the Lifetime reality TV show, “Project Runway”, and “Project Runway All-Stars”, gaining thousands of admirers as the media world followed her success along with an excited and proud Indian country.
Michaels will present her trademark PM Waterlily line and her latest collection for Spring/Summer 2017. Known for her use of Native-themed fabrics, hand painted or hand dyed, cut and fabricated at her Taos, New Mexico studio, Michaels says she is inspired by nature walks at Taos Pueblo among the trees, wildflowers and water plants, and “seeds” are important symbols of her designs and concepts.
The following description is from the website, speaking of the “Modern Native” who inspires and wears her designs. “Patricia Michaels...will have a few pieces for colder climates as her woman travels to regions where during the summer the climates tend to be cold. She is a world traveler so one may made need that special look to freshen her palette.”
Those living in or near the New York area that are interested in attending can visit toEventbrite to RSVP for the September 10 event. Seating is limited.
We wish Patricia Michaels and PM Waterlily success in New York City and beyond.
According to their site, Style Fashion Week, producer of globally recognized fashion events, provides top designers a world class platform to showcase their collections. Each year Style Fashion Week presents the season's must see shows, unforgettable performances and exclusive installations. Our expansive Style Marketplace immerses guests in fashion as well as art and design. Guests directly engage with brands throughout the week.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 1:38 AM UTC
The quill immerses into the inkwell,
and pulls out slowly, careful not to drip.
The hand trembles with excitement to spell,
it moves across the page with only the tip.
The author breathes deep, the muse speaks softly,
words come easily, flowing like water.
The muse commands, the scribe follows blindly.
The words appear faster, the hand a blur.
A smile plays at her lips, her breath catches.
The ink like a tattoo, leaves a dark trail.
Faster, her hand, Fire, leaves only ashes.
The muse completes the symphony, hands fail.
The quill falls, the author breathes out a sigh.
The black spreads. This writing can satisfy.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 1:36 AM UTC
so many words and still
the essence is trapped
in the discreet quanta
in this autobiography
of milk in my tears
no wars to fight
nothing to prove
the ancient love will find me,
the unknown you
the right verbs
the earth of home
the cycle of life
in my dreams
the round present immerses me
in gratitude for all my selves,
the depth of coherence
the bottom of the sky
in this simple truth,
my heart is my home
Mar 27, 2023
Mar 27, 2023 at 5:23 AM UTC
Gazing into the abyss
Of life's immutable Absurdity;
He feels that emptiness,
Which taunts all humankind,
As it immerses, he is smiling
With a sweet, sickly repose, as
He is certain of uncertainty.
He sees the people all around him,
Pining for a sense of purpose, he's
Freed from their hope, and its duress,
From all their visions of success,
The kind which taunt so many men,
Through sleepless nights, as they obsess.
Now he's laughing to himself, and
Thinking "who must we impress?"
"...and for that matter, why?"
It's this pretension he detests,
"Why this needless apprehension,
Living life at the behest, of
Foolish men, with feeble minds,
Who vainly strive to be 'the best', and
Only to awaken, a few decades down the line,
To find that life was insubstantial,
In those years they left behind?"
"I can only search for meaning,
It can't be prescribed to me, and
Perhaps there isn't one, but then
Why does there need to be?"
The corners of his mouth curl upward, as
Dead leaves fall from a tree, and
Are scattered to the wind,
"Ah, such is my mortality."
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
warm weathers with a warmer heart:
i stretched out my arms
and embraced her with all i am.
this girl threw an ocean of words,
of images, of emotions, and even of silence at me
over a mango shake, kimchi fishcake,
and a pair of hot matcha lattes.
she challenged me to a doodle dare
when i told her i don't draw humanity,
as much as i wanted to draw her right there on the spot.
let's draw those people on that side of the cafe
ah, a people-watching activity!
just our kind of hobby that immerses us within society
while being in our own little world!
i noticed she draws people first
then the background according to the proportions of the persons;
yes, a people-watcher observing another people-watcher
unlike me who starts off with the walls and furniture of the space.
she drew the ovals for body proportions;
her pencil marks done gently, focused and magnified,
much like how she holds herself up.
thus we were satisfied with unfinished sketches
and incomplete acapella song covers;
and it definitely was a finished day–
complete with her presence,
photographs taken with cameras and our memory's eyes,
inside jokes about boys and talks about life outside.
the sun is getting lower
as the hour hand is getting higher.
Time continues but we paused.
So I'm up for another round with you, Lou.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 8:00 AM UTC
I'm a runaway writer, the wolf of the pack,
In pursuit of the thought as the words seem to stack
One on top of another like bricks in a wall,
Like a tower, an Empire, answer the call.
But the rhythm keeps flowing, the rhyme never ends,
Like a postroom of mailbags when one letter blends
To the next in succession, a fleeting affair,
A romantic illusion, with no time to spare
On the sentiment, rushing, the train careers on,
Full of people and packages, memory and song.
With a sting in the tail, there's a transfer of weight,
Or a pause for a second . . . never too late.
It's a race in my head, it's a storm, it's a game,
And it carries me on but is never the same.
The soaring of seagulls, the roaring of rhyme,
It's a pattern that's pawing and clawing at time
Yet immerses itself in the verse of a thought,
And the fish, by the seagull is suddenly caught.
And they say it's forever, a language in stone
But the pages of people are gradually blown
One away from the other, too far and apart
To act with conviction, to play their own part.
And the words from the waves to the wind they are tossed,
And in one single moment, the poem is lost.
Copyright Vicki Watson 2012
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
*When the neurons
process the vocabulary
acquired and integrates
integrity with observations and truisms
there emerges an algorithm
perfect in metre and in rhythm
creating a poetry contrived
When the neurons in tranquility
along with the heart engage
in emotions happy or sad
and reflect on nature with wonder
Or simply ponder
On the complexities of life
Or dreams asleep
Or awake immerses in the divine
There is a genesis from the soul
Of a kernel of truth and joy
designed to touch another soul
Thus is born a poem
that freely respires
ensuring a legacy
that truly inspires*!
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
I would like to sit in an open field with you and scream at the top of our lungs
until ever word that's ever knotted in my throat comes pouring out of my mouth and dripping from my lips like blood
I would like to scream for every plea for help you've ever held inside and cry for every tear your heart refuses to release
Scream with me until we've clinched our fists so tight that every blood vessel made of nightmares untold will burst into a pool of secrets
Until our bones are wrapped in layers of nostalgic thoughts
and my spine coated in leaves closer to death than I believe I am
Though blood may be the poison watching each word fall from your heart immerses my soul like crimson relief
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
The sound of the overhead fan
immerses the vast room with calmness.
The breeze it gives off
coats my arms with goosebumps, harmless.
(study sessions at the library)
Laying in bed at night, shirtless, sweaty
I can feel the moisture pooling up at the bottom of my spine.
The windows open, cooling the perspiration from my back,
the neighbors AC gives off a low whine.
(late night sleepovers)
Mosquito bites cover my legs,
on a humid fourth of July night.
Gunshots, no, fireworks,
light up the night like dynamite.
(our scary/happy night)
Lonely nights, wait no sorry, happy nights,
with no one, everyone.
Long walks at 5:00PM no 3:00AM,
wait no 5:00PM with anyone.
(you're not here, what do I do?)
I can hear people walking at night,
but I'm not with them.
I can hear my pulse in my ears,
it's 5:32AM
(I don't know if you're alive)
I remember eating popsicles with you,
we got the red stains around our lips.
My hand around your wrist,
your pulse at my fingertips.
(will I feel it again?)
Last day of summer,
I decide to visit you at the hospital.
You're holding his hand,
while eating our rocket popsicle.
("your" rocket popsicle)
My Favorite (Hated) Summer
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
Upon further review,
my subconscious has decided
that it is not so simple
as to be up to One
to chose One's [artistic] medium:
Music and Language are not my mediums,
I am a Medium for Music and Language.
It is not so much that One works within the medium of One's choice,
as it is that the medium made One the Medium of it's choice.
Skill, practice, patience and self-discipline;
steer One towards a certain medium,
help One be more receptive to a certain medium,
and make One a more fitting Harbinger of the medium,
so in time:
As One immerses oneself in a medium,
the medium envelops One in return.
One becomes one with the medium,
One is now a Medium.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 6:20 PM UTC
Before her the open laptop stares
At settled coffee shop young lady
smart appearance nice hair.
Phone close, to hand for just maybe.
nowhere in particular she looks here and there,
as she shares short glances between
coffee shop phone and screen,
An image created of controlled serenity,
around her the tidal increase of customers ebb and flow.
Laptop screen, a document shines out, I'm here.
Momentarily her phone blinks me too
then returns to outward inactivity.
An embryo smile flickers, perhaps a thought
of the fleeting communication, perhaps not,
voices sway back and forth then, spike of a laugh
quickly swallowed by the ambience to give way
to hisses, gurgles of music coffee machines play.
Young men perch and slouch in fervent conversation
They leave, talking, passing Dad with daughters so pleased
when discovering window side seats, wait in anticipation,
where delivers Dad , then into newspaper immerses.
Girls silently survey the scene, hot chocolate cupped
shortly paper closes, a look, chocolate speedily drunk
to join dads exit swift, wordless and abrupt
past headphoned staff in crockery recovery.
Incessantly tables change coffee treats enjoyed again,
The coffee shop laptop lady alone but not lonely
chooses to be, just maybe, happy in her own skin.
scorsby
MICHAEL C CROWDER 1st January 2019
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 8:29 AM UTC
The sun creeps over the horizon
Spreading divine rays across the sky
Golden fields sown with ripe corn gleam in the radiant sunlight
Bejewelled helms reflect multi-coloured lights as kings ride to war
A day of new beginnings, joy and wonder
The last shining light of day disappears over the lip of the world as shadow sets in
Grey immerses the world in perpetual slumber, the only witnesses nocturnal
Sleepy eyed townsfolk trudge to bed while thieves and spies awaken
The reign of night has begun
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
As she stands before the body of water looking down
the reflection of a woman emerges from her past
always wondering who she is and where she is going...
As she immerses her body in the water, washing away her days desires
tears fall from her eyes, tears that come from the depths of her soul
The empitness that comes from years of not knowing who she is,
is washed away, cleansing her of all sorrow
The woman in the reflection comforts her
Her eyes filled with such love and passion
She realizes that she can find her way back...
back from the past and carry her on the journey
of her souls desire....
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 10:29 AM UTC
Sandwiched through
two cloudy loaves
made of breath
I observe
the purest of blue
one nudges a sharp line
gently from below
draws her dream silhouette
an imaginary residue of slopes
she
the one who allows me
to miss you now
when I am away from mystery
and because I am mystery
lives in there
uninterrupted as a dot
where planes cross
to create dashes
same color as the mare’s tail
the one above on the contrary
is as unpredictable as
the contours of the flowers in cotton fields
where you would be the breeze
to jolt the atmospheric
as the indigotic immerses languidly
she gets bluer than the blue untouched
thinning
at the end of the suggested tail
deeper and fiercer so as not to disappear
but leaves an echo
of its trail
in your mind
soon that will also be shut
the port to and of another realm
the whitening molds subtly the shapeless
pales the light to an analogous fluid
all sharps – lines – flowers - fields melt
into an underwater blurring sea life
where creatures are so small or just hide
not from us but from contrasts
slowly darkening we forget
about ourselves and the girl’s dream fades
she forgets
the you and I
becomes tuningly unimportant
we know so well now
it is not for us
illusions of light
of reflections
are just about
other worlds far aways
while
night falls
along the earth’s curve
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:22 AM UTC
Losing control of the brighter things
that sit and smirk at me as
the twilight immerses itself
in the faint glimmers of reality.
Hold that fractured frigid shock
to myself so tight
it breaks and shatters
vomiting sterilized pom poms
laced with chocolate sticky kisses.
Struck me, Lick me, Luck my
humble circumstances as they dance
on the roof of my mouth
chilly strange deadly
turns to muck in the shmuck
at the corner of my brain.
In one moment I’m there
the next, I’m insane.
Minutes switch by slowly as the
natural drugs kick in
enlightening my sense of well-ebbing stretches
into a glass of string.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:19 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
His arrow of ecstasy strikes thine heart
Bathed in this state of euphoric love
Apportioned to they every core part
He immerses me my dashing darling dove
We shall not fly from this nest so sure
But gather even more tightly together
These days will remain with most splendid score
No clouds grey can blight out fruitful weather
He has the fullness of wonder to yield
This he shall impart to me every night
So thine be bursting with flourishing field
There be adoration to carry delight
Supreme the delivery of his sweet dart
This he fires to the pith of thine heart
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
A little girl stands, 6 years old looking in the mirror while playing dress-up. She wears a fake tiara and a little too much poorly applied lipstick. She has the biggest dimples when she smiles and eyes as bright as the joy that’s in her heart. She runs to her dad when he comes home from work-he laughs and says “you’re beautiful and lovely don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” She doesn’t need a mirror to believe his words.
Suddenly 6 years turns quickly into 12. Her smile that once stretched from East to West is now nothing more than a forced grin, with worry that fills those big blue eyes. She has thoughts that confuse and attack her and fill her with a paralyzing amount of fear for anything. She knows she’s a little different than her friends. Her dad tells her she’s going to be okay and that God tells us not to worry because he takes cares of us. It was the first time she began to doubt him.
12 years soon turns into 15. She changes her hairstyle and spends hours in front of the mirror wishing to feel comfortable in her own skin. Her best friends all have boyfriends now and she begins to question herself, why do boys notice her friends beauty and not her own? Her dad tells her she’s beautiful and guys aren’t worth it, she doesn’t believe him.
Years go by…heartbreaks and disappointments become a routine. She immerses herself in the depressed girl because she doesn’t believe life for her will ever include joy. She is afraid of herself and the monster that grew inside of her.
She has hope that things might get better when she moves away for college that people might notice her there. A few did, but none stayed. Which was infinitely more painful. Rejection began to trump invisibility and she didn't believe she was worth the happiness that her friends found. She knew God could fix her but doubted that he ever would. Her bright blue eyes seared red from crying, were extraordinarily tired and her smile was as much of a stranger as the person she once was.
What happened to those eyes that once shone bright with passion and joy? Where did they go when life happened and the world broke in? Are our eyes buried inside us? Deep within the lies and hurt we've built up over the years? I believe so. Our eyes are now saturated with suffering and wisdom and are all the more beautiful because of it.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
Lita's ice blue eyes peer into my soul
as my fingers strum along an acoustic guitar.
Cautiously, I match its rhythm with the beat of
her heart -- swiftly then slowly, until the harmonious
chords filling the atmosphere still the rapid
vibrations of my own heart and the silk strings
beneath my fingers slip into her enigmatic allure.
"Wounds heal over time," I say to no avail.
Each empty note immerses into her pool
of toxic thoughts. My eyes become lost
in the nihility of her eyes as her lips form
an unconvincing smile that quickly fades.
To soothe her internal pain, I strum away.
My guitar and Lita are the same --
hollow.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
I am in this predicament I am compelled to write with this overriding desire and guiding force
Speak to them problem it’s three in the morning being sleepy is the least of my problems the
Problem is for once what to write three different things are bearing on me but where to start
And then loaded at the end of heavy doses of extra strong pain killers believe it or not I have a
Strong will that can over ride that but a dark mood prevails brought on by the reality of a
Woman distraught at the loss of her husband and no one comforted her all she could do was
Bend forward hold her arms against her own chest and cry that’s bad enough but this has been
Shown to me several times in the last few days the great alone that so many are suffering in it
Needs to be addressed if God would use this to reach even a few and comfort them so to that
End my thought was to address the very wind and prescribe a message therein oh wayward
Wind that I could curb your listless passing bridle your tempestuous force with hands take
Charge of you even to hold in and by my fingers that breeze that is highly noted and is known as
The evening breeze to place it sweetly and gently and let it rest on her head her hair enlivened
By it the stirring is the secret element it can arrest even the spilling of tears it’s so superb in
Measure and quality it immerses the mind to such a degree that a smile appears unbidden it
Awakes secret joys they hang as great drapes in the soul in the beginning they were solemn
Gray and with the concern and love of others mixed with this night air that sets as a crown on
Her head a beaming of enlightened pure understanding flows and swells she becomes
Intoxicated fairest wind in you all of our hearts ascend to great sea bluffs the going of the soul is
Enriched as it makes its way down to the beach below the waves bestow hope that was lost
Now renewed we walk on the crest of waves of love we will have and know for ever never
alone we were cast in the streaming of all things that makes dreams possible and you are the
Greatest dream of all for eternal stormy winds of the spirit gave and made you as a rooted tree
That will and always is renewed by the prevailing wind that is guaranteed by blood
Indestructible your assurance secure all that you love will never fade from existence
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 5:32 AM UTC
She gazed as the sun retreated
Behind the distant mountains
Revived scars, her will power defeated
Little, if not none, remains
The steam rises up hugging her frame
Highlighting distanced, painful, memories
Door locked in fear and shame
But it won’t keep out her worst enemies
Trying to affirm that she could
Grabbing the knife with vitality
Crying an ominous red flood
The river of the misunderstood
Her intentions are altruistic
In her mind it's the sane option
Sadness that defies mystic
Impotent to endure the internal corruption
Not a matter of Life and Death
Like a star she's already gone
Sempiternal and bereft
Promise-less like a ghost of the dawn
One last breath she immerses herself in the water
It's not suicide it's exhumation
The minimal butterfly paid homage at the alter
Not her swan song but a ballad of elation
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
From clouds above,
High and massive
Things are falling
On vast green plains
And dry deserts shaded yellow and orange.
For some, the falling brings smells
Of cleansing and new life,
And fresh new mornings filled with opportunity,
But for others the falling brings only
The stench of destruction
Of environments and lives.
The rain immerses one in a state
Of taking the long cold streaks
For granted, as it’s just another inconvenience
To the already somber day.
Rainbows are dreams
Hidden behind closed eyes
Of those forgotten,
Whose existence consists of turbulence
And tremors.
Resting minds are forced awake
Elsewhere tired eyes stare out windows,
Anxiety filling them both,
As the thunder rolls in ever closer
Until it is at last upon them.
An all encompassing roar
That some believe to be directed by gods,
And some to be brought by man themselves.
As one looks out,
Gazing on the horizon,
The sun lighting the sky in an orange haze,
While the rain, gives off a haze of its own
When it strikes the ground,
Leaving a growing terror
On a face,
As the baleful sound
Steadily approaches,
From the rolling thunder.
April showers conjure memories for some
Of time spent in the comfort of a warm bed
While raindrops pour steadily outside the window
And of running through the grass
As a carefree child
Until a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder
Send them running excitedly to the safety of home
But it’s because of no small privilege
They are able to think this way
Showers are not the same only half a world away
Usually seconds are counted after the sound,
To tell the distance,
But the distance is closed
In an instant,
With the barrage of shells,
And the shock of thousands
As their mouths open wide
With no audible sound
From the crushing wave
Of the falling rain.
Run or hide,
Both choices
Are alike in the outcome,
Only apart by placement.
Across the world a child that’s different,
Only because of where they were born,
Is hiding under covers,
In a country that’s been torn;
The thunder doesn’t scare them
Simply because it’s loud,
But because it’s not lightning that causes the sound
And it came from a drone, not a cloud
While one splashes in puddles happily
Without a care in the world
The other lives with seeing many they know
In pools of their own blood
Rain, oh rain, go away
Apr 1, 2021
Apr 1, 2021 at 11:37 PM UTC