"impetuously" poems
What is Poetry?
When your legs are numb,
Blood parching in your veins,
Throat choking from the pain,
And the fingers hitting the keys of the keyboard ceaselessly,
Trying ever so hard to create something impetuously,
Its poetry, you type.
When you dream of the possibilities,
And in what was once unimaginable,
You make the reader believe,
And change the way how their life, they perceive,
Its poetry, you dream.
When you play with words,
Just as an artist would play with colors,
To create a masterpiece,
That reaches the depths of the reader’s soul,
And burns them inside like coal,
Its poetry, you paint.
When you thread
Your fears, your desires,
Your insecurities, your pain,
All just to stay sane,
Its poetry you weave.
When your heart is melting
Like wax candles once lit,
And drops of tears smudge the ink,
To your knees you sink,
Its poetry, you bleed.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
for Ruth Fainlight
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it ***** out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches? ----
Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That **** that **** that ****
4.2k
I'm a fan of Vontaze Burfict
Though he may not be perfect
For he gives players concussions
To continue the daily discussions
Of the power of his percussion
To receive a hall of fame induction
That is where his value is derived
So what do these penalties imply?
That the referees have a preconceived notion of him
And are preemptively looking to treat him grim
Which gives his team a lesser chance to win
Which makes the biased referees grin
We are a country that idolizes quarterbacks
Every other position we're quick to attack
We only care about who has the ball
And laughing at others when they fall
We worship that which is shiny
And view everything else as grimy
Quarterbacks become celebrities incredulously
While everyone else is treated impetuously
The NFL is like America
Politics makes it harder to watch
The Patriots are boring and plain
They win constantly
The Bengals are entertaining and rough around the edges
They show promise and potential that is never realized
In a nation
Of provocation
I'd rather proudly call myself a bengal
I know that seems an idealistic angle
But Cincinnati provides no coziness or protection
You must always avoid discriminate detection
Of those that call themselves patriots
That drive blue and white chariots
And penalize players unnecessarily
For African Americanning
We really fumbled the ball
Because of the ref's call
That treats us unequally
How they have fun evilly
They can arbitrarily treat whoever however
But a concussion will make them less clever
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
Over and back,
the long waves crawl
and track the sand with foam;
night darkens, and the sea
takes on that desperate tone
of dark that wives put on
when all their love is done.
Over and back,
the tangled thread falls slack,
over and up and on;
over and all is sewn;
now while I bind the end,
I wish some fiery friend
would sweep impetuously
these fingers from the loom.
My weary thoughts
play traitor to my soul,
just as the toil is over;
swift while the woof is whole,
turn now, my spirit, swift,
and tear the pattern there,
the flowers so deftly wrought,
the borders of sea blue,
the sea-blue coast of home.
The web was over-fair,
that web of pictures there,
enchantments that I thought
he had, that I had lost;
weaving his happiness
within the stitching frame,
weaving his fire and frame,
I thought my work was done,
I prayed that only one
of those that I had spurned
might stoop and conquer this
long waiting with a kiss.
But each time that I see
my work so beautifully
inwoven and would keep
the picture and the whole,
Athene steels my soul.
Slanting across my brain,
I see as shafts of rain
his chariot and his shafts,
I see the arrows fall,
I see the lord who moves
like Hector lord of love,
I see him matched with fair
bright rivals, and I see
those lesser rivals flee.
2.5k
I have an illustrious dream,
want to be Leonard
Cohen's gypsy wife,
he's kissing my lips on
Boogie Street,
impetuously we dance
to the end of love
'til closing time
midst his secret life,
he serenades me with
I'm your man
when we take Manhattan,
bewildered by his poetic beauty there
waiting for the miracle to happen,
a sip of wine, a cigarette
in love we disappear,
here it is, you got me singing
be that dog in heat,
I'll take this waltz and
another please, cause
everybody knows
I hunger for your touch,
his famous blue raincoat
and the dew on my thigh
goes a thousand kisses deep
in the cave at the tip of the lily
with its very own breath of brandy,
slipping into the masterpiece
where Lenny is eternal
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.
At our old pastimes in the hall
We gambol'd, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.
We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.
Then echo-like our voices rang;
We sung, tho' every eye was dim,
A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:
We ceased: a gentler feeling crept
Upon us: surely rest is meet:
"They rest," we said, "their sleep is sweet,"
And silence follow'd, and we wept.
Our voices took a higher range;
Once more we sang: "They do not die
Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;
"Rapt from the fickle and the frail
With gather'd power, yet the same,
Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil."
Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.
1.6k
A troll sits open-mouthed, awaiting the spoon
that stirred the porridge; this ritual has been
ingrained in its brain – a sloshy, lifeless fossil
that stores villas of pain and ineptitude.
There is no water under its bridge, and all wrongs become
manifest as an attention-seeking wart on his soiled skin;
he wishes he could shed it, as this losing game of
snakes and ladders is beginning to wear thin.
Day by day he rolls the dice, but can’t take his move,
confined by an undying dread of slipping and sliding
on the loose gravely ground that he dreams of climbing;
and whispers of chiding.
Neither a sanctuary nor a prison, his home is a waiting room
on the Styx; from it he hears the echo and call of spring lambs
as they cross to taste the apples on the other side,
which a child impetuously picks.
Searching aimlessly for his reflection in the stone wall –
grey and every type of cold - proves futile;
he turns to his shadow asking his name,
shoulders slouched and mouth wide open all the while.
Seeing only darkness in the silence, control is lost -
he pictures tearing down that wall, but is unsure;
Self-muttering eases the certain fragility, and calming down
he tries counting to five - he can only count to four.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
you are paper,
let yourself be crumpled,
and then tell me stories
about your creases, your scars;
memories living in jars
tell me how it hurt
to be molded impetuously
because you still feel pain
when your wrinkles look like veins,
fragile streaks of vulnerability
flowing within you,
all over you,
and i will tell you
that i could not care less
if you are a mess of crooked roads;
if you are no longer like the others
devoid of folds
because these folds define you,
and the others do not crumple
in the same way as you do
you are paper,
skinned from nature
let yourself be written,
and then tell me stories
about yourself, your tales
without ever having to use a pen
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
The down of the gown of the dawn of some gone day,
A ray day that has downed and dawned at sunset,
They have diabolically colonized our divine state,
Belligerently gang ****** our stupendous democracy at will,
The demonic bloodthirsty ********* barbarians,
Declaring a violent war which no one wants to fight,
A losing warring war of one against all.
Impetuously slaughtering our defenseless defenders at will,
Turning the blue-clad fierce hunters to the fierce hunted,
The hunted that are being haunted,
Hounded and hunted by the hunted,
Converting every corner into the hunters’ hunted ground,
The church and the charge office,
The home and the street,
The here and the there.
Who will protect our “toy gun” wielding protectors,
Protect our trigger-shy protectors from the cunning detractors,
As one by one they are won one by one,
One by one by the one that is supposed to be won,
The defenders of our slate state,
The defenders of our democratic democracy,
The defenseless defenders of the defenseless.
They have been plunged under siege,
As every one of them personifies some certain demise,
Every one of them is just some subterfuge death in waiting,
Some truculent death just waiting to happen,
Bust, rust and dust in the waiting,
Stylistically stylistic starving yawning mobile graves,
Prey of their own prey,
The ultimate fray prey.
As day in day out they live the life of a cigarette,
On one side they are smoking,
On the other, they are being smoked,
Any attempt to fight back is regarded criminal of the worst order,
Police brutality,
We forsake them, they forsake them, the law forsakes them,
Who will defend the mighty defenders?
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
Impetuously copacetic,
as a zephyr to the soul,
with chills she'll send,
feels good till end,
but soon you're left there cold.
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 12:22 AM UTC
Foolish superstitions bring apprehension to the stand
Paralyzing the heart of the bravest man
Fiercely gripping him in a fear so impetuously insane
He merely looks at you in wonder, when you ask his name
Infestation of delusion spreads throughout his senses
Freezing him and all his logic a bitter cold
As a black feline runs across his path, you can see him lose it all
While gripping tightly to the steering wheel he holds
For seven years now, he has mourned the loss of his Lady Luck
While imprisoned in the mirror that he broke
As he believes this to be, the cause of all that has gone wrong
One can almost feel sorry for this poor bloke
The worst days of the year may be his untimely demise
As each time Friday the 13th comes into play
You can see him slowly lose his mind as he makes attempts
To avoid anything and everything that day
I cannot imagine living in this world of dreadful fear
Such a distressful existence this would be
Believing in the lies of old wives tales and bad omens
Is certainly not the choice in life for me
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:37 AM UTC
With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.
At our old pastimes in the hall
We gambol'd, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.
We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.
Then echo-like our voices rang;
We sung, tho' every eye was dim,
A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:
We ceased: a gentler feeling crept
Upon us: surely rest is meet:
'They rest,' we said, 'their sleep is sweet,'
And silence follow'd, and we wept.
Our voices took a higher range;
Once more we sang: 'They do not die
Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;
'Rapt from the fickle and the frail
With gather'd power, yet the same,
Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil.'
Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.
994
Approaches with adoration:
Beckoning benevolent beauty being blessed
Countlessly with contouring cryptic cuteness.
Dazzling, distracting, divine.
Elegance that will endure
forever.
Grateful for the gracefulness and
Heartfelt feelings.
Impetuously invoked by each other,yet
Joyfully jump starting and
Keenly kicking off
Lasting Luck for two.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
your tenebrous image enraptures me
future’s heat brands me with you
your silhouette fills my vision
but all your features are hidden
calling to me in a voice I know
but have not yet heard
a shout made a whisper
you are so many years away
always I have known you
sensed you by your absence
I chafe and fret, anxious and
expectant of your arrival
believing it imminent
eagerly I shut my eyes to
what little I know of you
trusting as only callow
youth allows that no
more is needed
than my open arms
I see you everywhere
impetuously I give my heart
only to find no synchrony
even the lineation was wrong
each time it is not you
you are still
far from me
yet I am wrenched forward
I lurch undiscerning, heedless
pressed forever into rashness
by all consuming urgency for you
endless, fruitless searching
confusion and despair
my constant companions
lost in a torrent of nothing
like one freezing
in lingering polar night
to stop is to die, helpless
I stumble towards providence
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 11:29 PM UTC
I impetuously dived
into half open hands;
unaware of their frailty
but
entirely aware of the
uncertainty.
I struggled out of
the compulsion
but the dominance
of emotion
(illusion)
rendered me an
imprisoned fool.
In this vacant space
of
unfulfilled desire
waits my fragile *****
but the shadows of fate
have conspired
against me.
Is it not my destiny
to shred my inadequacy
and have what I desire most?
In a state of mild lunacy
I try to regain my sanity-
fighting for a breath of air
to direct me to sincerity.
What frightens me most is
my adoration of
this affliction
caused by radiating
anticipation.
But I wait,
and I wait
and
I
w a i t.
The art of hopefulness
is a beautiful thing.
I only long to be felt;
experienced;
not merely seen.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
What legendary parts
Can we play.
Might we emote sullenness
And find a sheath for our daggers;
Act impetuously and stab at rats;
Be susceptible to lies and hankies;
Do we speak proudly to our friends
And countrymen;
Should we go mad, be foolish
To float on laurels, and drown;
Are we advisers and know-it-all
Busy bodies;
Will we be friends, and die
Sacrificially in the end;
Should we cut out our tongues
And gauge out our eyes,
To draw pictures in the dirt;
Why be so courageous as to fall
On your sword;
Will we smile and be a villain,
Then fall off our high horse?
Or
Will we give new meaning to love;
Replace the stars in their orbs;
Control the elements for our children;
Bear our friends like princes;
Accept harlequins at court;
Be gentlemanly in any state;
Love more than ten thousand brothers;
Support our partners in what they will?
Script your part.
Life isn't all comedy and tragedy.
Shadows don't offend,
And life is more yielding
Than a dream.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
I'm a little surprised
It took til now to realize
That I'm a little more than a
Little attracted to crazy.
Maybe crazy isn't the right word
That spark of divine madness-
The muse incarnate.
Sometimes they look very similar
And it takes months to figure out the difference,
In your case I think I just called it close enough.
Crazy beats boring, I suppose.
It overcomplicates things, that's for sure.
I don't know what love is any more
Because I've now discovered that one day you can be in love
And the next day find yourself the cuckolded brunt of a very brutal existential joke.
At any rate, that drug-fueled madness we shared, trying to fix each other so desperately,
Trying to feel something so impetuously,
Whether that was intimacy or just validation,
Collapsed. Go figure.
Madness at its finest,
And it left chaos in its wake.
For me at least. You seemed alright.
And I use the word "alright" very loosely there.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
Stoicism rules impetuously and as resonating as a thunder clap, self-preservation long fallen through and this cocksure apathy has assured me I’m justified in standing idly by. Time pools around my ankles like melted crayons, each individual tainted to the same docile brown you’ll find reflected meager and muddy in my eyes. My perceptions are skewed, I’ve accepted it. Somewhat idiosyncratic but I’ve learned to love living in and among my restless thoughts and delusions and I might be lost without them after all. I still find myself surprised that people notice I exist but if they stopped could I continue to claim this as an existence? The Chicken or The Egg; I try not to give it too much thought but that’s laughable because despite the exhaustion weighing down my bones I can’t seem to satisfy the florescence permanently burning behind my eyes.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
We were walking along a road
Hand in hand
Late afternoon
And in the near distance
A skinny brown dog was standing on the curb,
Sniffing the concrete
Tail wagging.
Impetuously, it decided to cross the road
As a speeding car was approaching-
Oh, it was ugly.
She let go of my hand
And buried her face in my shoulder,
Oh, God, no. Did you see it? No, no, no, no, no, no. Oh, God, no.
She wrapped her arms around me tight
And there I was
Listening to her slow, pain-stricken murmurs
And looking at the mangled pieces of flesh and bones,
A pool of blood rapidly building up around them.
What could I do? What would you do?
Because I just stood there, staring
Disbelief in my eyes,
Helplessness
In my palms.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
Morning meditation.... eyes closed,
Impetuously, it connects with me.
Geometric spinning images
Smiling faces drone closer
And then, a large "A" strobes,
Followed by a large "M".
I immediately think of Alan.
"Is this a message from you" I ask?
Faces begin to move into focus,
A tear runs down my cheek.
I question "Is this really you or do my closed eyes deceive me"?
This is answered with my name spelled out letter......by......letter.
My breath goes cold, I can't feel myself
What in Gods name!!
Orbiting motion, whirling faster as it surrounds me
It's as if it lifts me up defying gravity.
"Enough", I scream out
At once ...the visitant departs
And I open my eyes.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
Love is makin its way into the backseat. We've got no reason to take things seriously. The way we talk we keep it discreet, but the actions fly impetuously.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
if a clouds’ tears were to pummel away at the pane of my bedroom window any time before then, i would’ve impetuously disregarded its entire existence and drifted to sleep only to dream about festering psychedelic abstracts.
that wasn’t the case, though, not that night.
rain fell in pounds from the leaden sky and the only thought i could conjure
was you
you were a thousand miles away, but every rain drop that danced leisurely down the glass, just inches from my face, felt like they could be you
they embodied the fluidity of your mind
i felt like it was
you
so much so that i wished i could leap out to lay out on my roof top and soak up every droplet till my body became an ocean
if it meant i were to finally feel you
because you are nothing short of
a comforting scent
a song
a dream or even
a poem
so when you finally do become tangible
in my arms
it will be reminiscent of smelling a rose or a daffodil
or the way a song makes you feel
or the mood a poem can bestow upon you
and the imagery it engraves into your skull
you shall embody that which cannot be felt by bare palms and indefinitely more
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 9:55 PM UTC
Longing for you,
river spring
draws water
to the high peaks,
while waiting for you,
the torrent impetuously
flows downhill
boiling over into the riverbed,
I tremble at the thought,
the already-wide river
rises on the plain
and slowly settles,
at last the encounter,
the mouth of the river widens
it flows into the desired sea
and like a river
I embrace you.
14.3.'15
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 2:46 PM UTC
With that incredible brain in his skull,
he drags this country through the mud
like a child drags his blanket.
His enormous, mighty hands grasp
impetuously at his phone to plop out
turd-like tweets to his army of bots.
That statuesque frame, upon which his ill-fitting
cheap suits drool down, stumbles around courses
in search of new ways to lie about his lies.
And his striking eyes, squint and squirrel away the truth,
deep in the soul of his heart, which is bigly, and grate (we know).
Oh, we know, Donald. We know. It’s hard to ignore
such an enormous heart as yours. So big indeed,
that this country needs to get out from under its weight
before the inevitable cardiac arrest. It’s a democratic test,
while the Feds investigate all the best people
hired to sell off this country’s assets
to net the richest more riches.
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 3:05 AM UTC