"implicit" poems
I closed my mouth:
And spoke to you in the language of the rain drops,
Whispered to you in the language of the flowers,
Chanted 'I love you' in the language of the melodious birds.
I closed my mouth:
And voiced my feelings to you in the language of the ocean's waves,
Delivered my message to you in the language of the gentle breeze,
Conveyed my feelings to you in the language of the twinkling stars.
I closed my mouth:
And spoke to you in the language of eye contact,
Expressed myself to you in the language of smiles,
Shouted to you in my sacred language of tears.
I closed my mouth:
And whispered to you in the language of the heart,
Recited to you all of nature's implicit language,
Spoke to you, softly, in God's silent language.
Hussein Dekmak
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC
Black surges, forges piling emotion,
Foraging, attaining such predicted erosion.
Color the rubies to a diluted amber,
Brittle, dripped gems are toxic, I clamber
To the lamp as to see my implicit devotion.
Vitals ascend, and I can't perceive
This motionless forfeit I often receive.
Aid is essential, it holds potential,
To cure this conflicted, addicted vessel.
My heart on my sleeve, I'm undeceived.
I implore to explore, as breath, I leave,
So close to dying, I'm on the eve
Of darker clothing, and flowers to family,
Hallucinate my abnormalities.
Yet somehow, I am still on my feet-
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?
Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."
But that's not true!
Look at Trostky and Lenin,
Michael Myers and Lennon,
The other Lennon.
It's hard to differentiate in name and legacy,
Because both Lennon's were revolutionaries,
Marching around like the freshman from heaven.
But neither believed they were the result of divine intervention in the affairs of man,
Because this convention would threaten their worldview and beckon away their sanity...
In the same way that the Pope or ****** let their divine vanity commit greater blasphemy and bring them future agony.
Now neither Lennon nor Lenin came anywhere close to being men from Galilee,
In fact they were more the men of the galaxy,
Or at least, John was, with his peach fuzz beard and his belief that love is greater than fear.
The other Lenin implemented the New Economic Policy, to starve the proletariat and start his revolution on an already hypocritical trend that would continue quite the same until the very end.
And it proves something, does it not?
Violence sends a message to no one but the instigator,
Changing them to justify, and claim is wasn't misbehavior;
But that's a lie, no idea of mine is worth the death of a human mind,
And to pretend otherwise makes one delude themselves that they aren't an instigator, but an illustrator,
Painting in the blood as if ****** makes an innovator.
And for ****** there is no vindicator,
Violence is an image breaker,
Indulged in by poor imitators who think they're right, and the world is wrong.
Unaware this makes them weak, not strong.
Now John Lennon was the true revolutionary;
Although he succumbed to violence, he veered away from it, even when it was necessary.
He fought the war, and yes, the war did win,
But at least he didn't cover his scars with artificial skin,
Or deny his implicit wrongs as a result of all original sin.
John Lennon used the word 'nigger' to the opposite effect.
He used the word to trigger something bigger and correct,
The wrong that seemed so propagated by the last colonial tide,
Of which the other Lenin defected and took colonialism's side.
John Lennon was Utopian and told us of a better world;
He interjected definition, and caused old thoughts to curl away in fright,
And bite the dust despite their might and past dominion of industrialism,
It was a schism, and it still plagues us to this day.
John Lennon understood we over-complicate way
To
Often.
Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?
Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."
"Some body" is something,
And some body can change the world.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
i wake up with the cloying taste of a nightmare in my mouth
not for the first time this week
and i imagine not for the last
i made you a chart
concerning all the ways we ****** up
and sent it to you last night
haven't heard a word
since
i had the implicit feeling that what i was saying was dangerous.
that it could take this little thing we have going on
and expose all the little tangled wires
sparking
and smoking...
that i could make you feel bad enough
that you wouldn't want to talk to me
and i was right.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Music is my Deity
and so benevolent is it!
A mystical Tapestry
woven upon Silence and across Time,
what about that is not Divine?
Music doesn't divide, it unites.
It attracts expressive minds, creative minds, empathic minds, logical minds.
It creates an abstract temporal psychosocial middle-ground;
You don't have to be a virtuoso
to drum along or dance or vocalize.
You don't have to be a virtuoso
for practice to reap it's rewards.
We speak with Music:
Language is a Musical thing;
it employs Rhythm and Pitch and works through Time.
Music is a Linguistic thing;
it communicates things that otherwise cannot be said
while also having room for Language itself.
Music is no singular aspect;
Music is not defined by medium,
nor is it defined by orchestration.
Music is wholly Abstract,
relating only back to itself.
Music is defined by context;
Music is a matter of perspective.
Footsteps are music, in 2/4 time.
Heartbeats are music, in 3/4 time; this defines "swing" feel.
A Clock is music, in 1/1 time at 60 beats per minute.
A year is music, in 365.25/1 time at 1 beat per day.
The duration of the Moon's orbital period and Day are a Unison; 1:1.
The four Galilean moons of Jupiter orbit with the resonance of Octaves; 2:1 ratios of wavelength.
The ratio of the lengths of Mercury's Year to it's Day is nearly a Perfect Fifth; 3:2.
Music is implicit.
Music is mystical.
Music is a Metaphor manifest,
for the nature of the Universe;
even the very word "Universe"
means "The One Song".
Music is truly intrinsic;
I am a Shaman of Music.
It is an Honor.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
***Most people live for love
But some of us live because of it***
Such unforgivable forgetfulness
Lost within potential photos
Preoccupied and overly abrasive
Harmless yet persuasively implicit
These eyes are speechless
But explicitly dying to speak
A picture so perfect for lust
A thousand words
Just isn't enough
Deeply indebted
With every glance
Too perplexed by color
How none of it belongs
Another illustrated nightmare
Where sleep is prolonged
Where the sick plans
To escape with the thought
Trapped inside the mind
So adolescent
Oh picture the heartache
Rejoicing over a carcass
Still standing
And rapturing moments
We all long to feel
This winter shiver
So sicken from cold feet
An undying hunger
For butterfly soup
***Proof
What worthy time to be alive
Clearly sold on the vision
Never too hasty to cover
This lover isn't blind
But envisioned
May we all fall victim
To the photos
We aren't viable to find*
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 10:35 PM UTC
Hearing fogged drops of rain
Precipitate violence in the Amazon,
Against the placid Leaves;
Left disheveled the unfiltered forest.
Dampness divorced from its thin vapor blur
Plummeting memoirs retold, the cradled
Past returns its own, splintered light
Edging the threshold of infinitude,
Axiomatic slippage each fell cold.
Fallen moisture recovered,
Once nourished the ancients;
Correspondingly, we align.
Lineal descendants,
Tides of March,
Sibilant waters flow through us.
Hoary myths, now hallowed imminent.
Ponderous, our torn skies cleft, clouds suffused in grey─
The emergent pour, casts a montage of
Freighted silence, implicit tapestries
Sewn seamless; our kindred froth ashore.
Pedigreed continuum bound in common plight,
Unseen flood of halcyon
Dust and flesh coalesce beneath the torrent;
Genetic lines merge ─ intersection of
Time and eternity.
From the same water we drink.
Lineal descendants,
Tides of March,
Sibilant waters flow through us.
©2012 W.S. Warner
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 1:54 AM UTC
We haven’t spoken like we did,
Words feel like discarded currency;
Useless now, and inconsequential in hindsight.
Query into the why,
I respond with what,
Like a dam of unspokeness has burst,
And words flow past;
Powerful, but inevitably more destructive than I hoped,
Pushing away the life preserver I am offered,
I can do it alone, because that’s what it will come down to,
Dismissive of pessimism, you make claims of happy endings, so I refute:
“Babe, we’re fighting a cold war,
No one can win when there’s everything to lose.
Lines are drawn, allegiance implicit.
Unspoken resentment.
Vocal frustration.
A couple’s quarrel that never was,
Like Frankenstein’s monster,
The rearranged parts of our whole,
Pieces of fiction,
Light folly with cruel consequences,
Denial sets in,
My road to hell will always be paved with your best intentions.”
I will not hear, I will not see.
Willful disability,
Crippled with envy.
I am a monster with emeralds in her eyes,
Seeing the universe through glass tinted green instead of rose,
I am the monster who is thin and jagged,
Unable to produce my own warmth,
Cutting everyone near.
I am the monster who plays house,
The monster who wants it to be home,
The vicious beast with a place to rest its head,
It’s easy to be alone, but somehow less satisfying.
"My road to hell will always be paved with your best intentions.”
Our destruction is mutually assured,
No move is left unanalysed,
Hyperawareness.
Things we side aside before are the objects of argument;
Proxy wars.
I am a giraffe racing a gazelle,
Long strides mean nothing;
Beauty is the crowd favourite,
Tripping over my own limbs,
Tendons severed by chasing wildcats,
Falling, devoured, as beauty reaches the finish line.
Détente.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
I feel for the children
indoctrinated into religion.
I feel for the kids that can't,
won't question faith.
I feel fortunate I wasn't brainwashed
like that.
I feel my thoughts are my own,
I feel the theists have had that
stolen from them.
but I am intact.
only
when I realise I can't love
a catholic girl with
my everything
and my chest seizes up
when I hear them say grace,
I see I'm not better off
than they are.
in the same way that they have
been tricked to believe in a
celestial monarchy,
and see satan in me
so have I been tricked to see
satan in them.
I hate the church.
I thought I could still love the people.
but you can't hate anything
and still love the people.
I
and we all
have been rendered incapable
of fully accepting the implicit, fundamental unity
that does not name.
our parents didn't do it,
their grandparents didn't do it.
it started forever ago and it's
never going away.
we could of all loved each other
but we ****** up the axiom.
it's the greatest sin of all,
and it's nobody's fault.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 9:22 AM UTC
I would much rather think of my style of writing as "Philosomancy" than as "Poetry",
I would much rather think of my Music as "Phonomancy" than as "Music".
I think of myself as a Philosomancer rather than a Writer; perhaps a Writist.
Language is simply a mutual Medium for concepts; a means.
I think of myself as a Phonomancer rather than a Musician; perhaps a Musist.
Music is the name we call ordered sound; a means.
There is deeper Mythic significance to these things
than the mere words "Write" and "Music" lead on;
The Suffix of "-mancy" indicates a style of Divination;
a sort-of improvised Oracle.
Take, for instance,
Geomancy: Divination of Earth
Pyromancy: Divination of/by Fire
Astromancy: Divination by the Stars
Aquamancy: Divination of/by Water
By this pattern, it logically follows that:
Philosomancy: Divination of/through Ideas
Phonomancy: Divination of/by Sounds
-
Mythic Overtones are ubiquitous and implicit,
yet perception of them is more rare
due to cultural dissonance
'twixt Mythic and Logic.
Plus, Philosomancy and Phonomancy
sound so much more badass
than mere Writing and Music,
if I am to openly opine!
(It really helps to have a sense of Humour, as well!)
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
In the silence and misunderstandings that separate us
I need to believe there is a place where we can meet
a place of mottled light where the only shadows
are painted by ancient firs who conspiratorially lean
open, welcoming hands down to greet us.
It is a place where all thoughts of judgment and jealousy
are simply too petty for consideration
love being implicit in the moisture of the air
words are unnecessary for our eyes reveal
everything we ever want to say.
Fear and resentment are unknown here
we refuse to recognize them if they slither
into this haven while we are sleeping
restful, innocent, unworried
history does not exist, the moment held is enough.
If this vision were dispelled, my soul could not sustain
reality’s weight. I would be battered, fragile
as a spiraled whelk on deceptively smooth rocks
splintered by hate and unwillingness
to be as the sea, fluid and graceful, all encompassing.
Will you come with me here?
Or is the hour too late?
We can meet in this hollow sacred space
and begin again, let loose misconceptions
clouding the life we share.
The path is faint
trust your weary heart
it will lead us to each other.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
*as life will have it
some are explicit poems
while others are implicit ones
When you sigh and shake your head
and when you pace the tired floor
and steadily approach that door
to the hatch that ushers you into a tango
you're quite obviously a vivid poem
with a rhythm and a diction all your own
there is always someone dying to know you
when you brood like an intellectual
and when everything is reality virtual
you're an implicit poem, morose and taciturn
when you paint pictures in weeping colours
and from ubiquitous critics seek no favours
you're a dirge in e-minor - a veritable lament
that will only go walking when the day may*
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
for every fragile memory
i visit
time is wasted
and i am foolish enough
to let it happen
repeatedly
because i am convinced
that we had a moment
in between sarcasm
and cockiness
you let me see through
your disguise
though you did not
and then you left me
craving for more
ache for attention
i was not entitled to
(k.w)
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
Water over stone speaks to me
Voices in my head or reality?
Bubbling, babbling, a fluid oration.
From liquid, an opus of reverberation.
Closer I get, speech becomes blurred.
A child, a crowd, an implicit word?
Retreat a step, lucid communique
Desire to immerse, ingest the parley.
Sit between banks in tears from on high
Hear her voice in the brook as I try
To understand, and follow the sentence at hand
A cacophony of silence sifted through sand.
Meaningless, mindless, numbing address
Just what’s so important she’s trying to stress?
Words from the distant, ghostlike, perchance
Wispy and passionate midsummer’s dance.
My ears reject resonance, but the mind draws it in
To decipher the past and perceive an old sin.
Apologetic, pleading, no mold to this play
Just babbling on, with no true thing to say.
Hands growing numb from water’s icy hold
Must leave this brook, for so I’ve been told
That mystery lives in the motion of hearing
Of water’s sweet journey beyond my heart’s clearing.
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
There are men (fair knights) who always get what they want.
If suddenly, Mr. Knight doesn’t get - say, a girl (the fair maiden) - he’s confused - what IS this, he wonders but he doesn’t KNOW. We will assume that getting this thing (girl in our example) is important to him.
Though his perceptual systems are still searching for answers he gets a sinking feeling because his limbic system reacts faster. It tells him something’s wrong - and it might be a predator (the dragon) so he starts sweating, he wasn’t prepared for a dragon - for chaos!
Why didn’t I get what I wanted, he will ask himself.
Maybe I’m not attractive? (That would be a horror of the 1st order)
Maybe this girl is trying to hurt me.. attack me? (the predator) - that may be a thought, but it’s unlikely and an unhealthy one.
Rejecting that he must ask himself questions: Did he come on too strong? Was he acting like a **** Did he make too many assumptions? Am I well dressed? Did I shower today? (he smells his breath, checks himself in a mirror) He goes back over the encounter in his mind. Was he really trying his best?
If he decides, at this point, to go on, he must face his unrealized world in order to slay the dragon of chaos blocking him. The issue may be something outside of his normal, conceptual structure.
In that case, the problem is literally, the snake in the garden (his walled conceptual garden - his view of the world and his place in it).
Now this IS something - a snake in the garden - again he can give up - quit with this girl, quit trying period, quit dating, bathing, eating - that’s how the dragon can ****
Failure is a message from the implicit world. The good news is - it’s a message from the real world and it may be a gift - the best thing that ever happened to him. A slap that says: wake up, learn something, clue-in.
It can be a treasure, the gold that dragons hoard.
Dec 2, 2021
Dec 2, 2021 at 9:14 AM UTC
1
*Recently prolific
Writing reactions*…
Yeah, not prolific producing babies
or sowing wild oats
Just this unimaginative, pedestrian activity:
*Writing reactions
Still prolific at my age….*
2
explicit?
No, no, no - me no explicit…
don’t have the ***** to be that
but everything is implicit
like if I write about some aspect of life
it’s all there:
the routine, *** violence, and so on
isn’t everything implicit?
3
*POETS
New and popular*
OK...
how about the
*POETS
New and Unpopular*?
4
OK, I like this guy or gal,
right?
and so I click on LIKE
and the next time I look at it
it says: LIKED
Hey, I still LIKE her!
Look, I still LIKE him!
And why can’t I click on LIKE on my own page?
What’s the matter, can’t I like myself?
Is that a strange notion –
Don’t you guys and gals like yourselves?
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
nestled within
this ocean of tranquility
with its zen-like decor
they sit for hours
in total silence
a smiling Buddha
sole witness
to the arrow-like exchange
of amorous glances
each glance
an implicit confirmation
of intimate liaisons
from lives past and present
the odd tap
of wooden chopsticks
picking up sushi
the only music
time
dare not enter
this oasis of love....
as eyes keep
rapidly exchanging words
while lips stay silent
© 2019
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 2:20 PM UTC
It's been one week,
since I told you,
nothing of importance.
But one week,
since you told me,
anything,
at all.
How soon I forget,
what it's like,
not to be,
at a person's disposal.
How quickly I remember,
that remembering is,
a bother.
Easy folk enjoy easy listening.
A magnet that draws sound.
Vibrations of different magnitudes.
But visually, all the same:
On a large enough body; what proceeds:
A ripple on water's edge.
Beauties and questions evoked.
Memories that hold vehemence.
Open ears that trickle red.
An eye for an eye.
A tooth for a tooth.
A *** for a ***
Sour taste, before I spit.
After all that said,
so it goes:
She is left feeling discontent,
because her friend left her behind.
A friendship no longer pragmatic,
left her detached and unkind.
After one move against her,
inadvertently made her the bad guy.
Assimilated ignorance was transferred,
leaving her with raging eyes.
Now a maniac, but once shy.
It started the day she was betrayed,
and her friend left without goodbye.
Friendship turned into a frivolous demise.
She never thought of compromise.
She will always be left on her own will.
Only living each day with empty glare.
While she sits cynically by her window sill.
Reliving old days, and perfecting her stare.
It's been one week,
since I told myself,
nothing of importance.
But one week,
since I've asked questions,
and have realized that,
in your twenties,
you are partial to saying 'No.'
Implicit No, god-forbid a subtle yes.
You know yourself.
You want to know yourself.
You hope that you know yourself.
And,
In the scheme of it all,
the ***** shopping mall,
the empty alleyways,
**** and trash,
looking down at laced shoes,
transcends society's social boundaries.
Those little moments at the end of the day,
that make you smile,
are the reason you should not become frustrated.
It would be the same,
as letting a long car ride ruin a vacation.
Thinking short-termed has never led to outstanding goals,
only temporary satisfaction.
Life is short,
but it is long enough to learn how to pick battles.
There are far more important things to worry about,
than ill intent with loved ones,
or even strangers.
If someone steps on your shoes,
let it go.
Use that frustration to better yourself,
and when you can,
buy better shoes,
and walk a mile in them.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 3:03 AM UTC
Collaboration's implicit excitations explicate expectations
Unity's myriad augurs geomancy's indications
Demagoguery's ostensibly intuitive impetus coordinations
Extravagantly exorbitant panaceas appreciate exaggerations
Prolifically profuse profundity's autonomous gestations
Empirically emulate epistemology's exogamous creations
Intrigue's imperative promulgation's quantum fecundations
Fealty's ephemeral enunciation's explicit complications
Hypercritically exponential prophylaxis protocol's interpretations
Sacrosanct unary's preternatural predilection's extrications
Eventuation's evocative illuminism avant garde's ostentations
Corrupt costume counselor's indicative explications
Assimilation's synthetic synthesis' ascensional implications
Ominous phenomenon portrayal detinue's integrations
Umbrage ultraism's penumbral platitude's objectifications
Futurity's spontaneous flamboyance's apotropaic expiations
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 7:53 PM UTC
For 2 years, we've met, until now, I stop.
Arranging impassion's unpleasentationships
in this 10th year, doubtlessness's equipped
to unveil all of his un-friendship.
I'll leave here.
I leave behind.
I'll leave today-
& wont return.
When you go so far and facetiously thank-
what you know to seek forgiveness for
Your once full words, empty and blank
while guises of gratitude implore.
All the cop outs and shifting blame
To grow up and then blow away again
Us tortured youths, from diamond minds
Extrapolate all that we may find
Worthy, of exchanging for our flesh's time-
Insidiousness perpetuates the implicit crime.
All that's perceived within a pill
Freckled iris, minds eye's staring still
Each kiss, Every smile, im abhorrently ill.
no doctor but witch might placate my will.
May 17, 2025
May 17, 2025 at 8:03 AM UTC
Mama I've done wrong
Did it again
Swallowed the red sun and burnt my tongue
Now I talk in caustic prose
As I watch precious friends erode into stories that were once told
Missing the elastic howls that died in the sweet summer time,
our mellow procrastination that became an erratic fascination,
hopeless meandering in the forest grove
where we found Cherub rock and communicated in implicit thoughts
Merely stowed memories in a paper boat
Drifting towards a somber moat
formed from the friction of splintered convictions
The chords of thunder roar
Black clouds of war wash ashore
It's time to fall on my own sword
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
"It is a postulate implicit in all metaphysical poetry that nothing is ineffable, that the most rarefied feeling can be exact and exactly expressed. If you cease to be able to express feelings, you cease to be able to have them, and sensibility is replaced by sentiment, in the end by the vague expression of the vague, and poetry degenerates into a diversity of noises."
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 3:29 AM UTC
Night hangs slowly
As ephemeral glances
Drop by lovers,
Strangers past
Past lovers,
Drop glances, night
Hangs, ephemeral
Ephemeral, night
Lovers, strangers, we are
But strangers, lovers, then.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 2:54 AM UTC
.
,
,
!
Poetry Club discussion questions available upon request.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC