"inbuilt" poems
**Attitude, one that comes Inbuilt
Second ,Customised
Blend to Blend !!**
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
Taurus ♉️
~~~~~
Tourean girls have an inbuilt stubbornness
And are partial to the birthstone Sapphire
Understanding An Emerald and Aquamarine
Rhodonite, Amber,Lapis Lazuli and Tiger’s Eye
Universal faith in crystal’s Kayanite n Kunzite
Spiritually in tune with Carnelian and Azurite.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip.
December 22nd 2018.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 7:37 PM UTC
Maybe some years gone by
raising the pyramid golden high.
The inbuilt deep sea of science and arts
in the making run in timeless time.
So why ponder spilling the beans
in one fine moment down the open sky?
Jul 6, 2022
Jul 6, 2022 at 6:14 PM UTC
It was with the sun
that they drove eighteen miles to every quarter of an hour
to the port
where they put down the car and started like petals from every dead flower they saw together.
Up the steps
he tried to steal her waist for his own,
willing his arms to stretch around widths they weren't made for,
only to cement the idea that they weren't alone.
In the cabin they fell asleep to familiar films
and woke up to see the sea out of a round window
and the guarantee they won't hit land nor port
until the captain's say so on the inbuilt radio.
They came back from a grand meal
that was of Titanic proportions, tidy suits and surreal women in waistcoats,
they made love in a bed that wasn't theirs,
and he witnessed it and saw
her new print dress that caught and tore and was reduced to shreds upon the floor.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Imagine life as one long dark night
Inconceivable, a life sans Light
Heat came with the Light
The earth and the oceans
giant sinks made with great insight
The light turned green with leaves
giving birth to thousands of trees
that served to keep very clean
the air for life to breathe in
The trees also made flowers
and fruits as food in their bowers
to transmit the Light and heat
to diverse forms of hearts that beat
Recycling was cleverly inbuilt
Light, a genius to the hilt
But alas arrived on the scene
the naked ape in all his sheen
He was the proverbial monkey wrench
born with a fist that he would often clench
Although he arrived
late on the stage
the ape thrived
under the delusion
he was all the rage!
Morning and evening
this biped walked
tall his shadows
made by the Light
and foolishly thought
he was bigger than
The Light
With his puny little brain
this ape wore a blinker
And started to tinker
calling himself a thinker
Many inventions he
did make
his own unquenchable
thirst to slake
he never thought beyond
the me
for he was all
he wanted to see!
Now the modern ape dwells
in a world
of his thoughts
dark are his thoughts
for his mind is a closed sky
he lives unconscious
always in deep slumber
till the day he goes under
What a wasted life
he leads
Without living the life
of consciousness
given only to him
by the Light!
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
Vision...the perpetual resurrection of light,
tipping point whose interstice of darkness
is overcome, spreads the image clear.
Furrowing the brow of space like a great
perennial philosophy--the nexus of
contradistinction and unanimity.
Brilliant point via wave, wave via point lit
manifest...hence, objects to sequence the
speed of light which relents time.
Unerring panorama whose open ended gape
presupposes the conclusive evidence of
poetic salt in all its worthiness.
At the starry behest of a many-sunned
convention, apace with rarefied perception.
Vision...the illusory stasis of light, whose
translation is perception--mines the fusion
of angles, of a three hundred and sixty
degree order.
This plenary dispatch, exalting the sum of its
parts...inbuilt fractal minding, mining parts
which are The Sum.
...Om...
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
Only yesterday that your glass blew
The flame was burning untouchable
The disk spinning fast, un-reversible
No home in a town so inhospitable
A world where questions are daft
Drafted to unravel an inbuilt psyche
I stand out in the jungle countryside
Strumming listening to “wild world”
Each rhythm a wavy walk on a path
Steps and strolls always sidetracked
The poppy field faded in sheen redness
When it turned cold and bled sourness
It was me who was left by the riverside
I sat by the bank and dreamed away
Then viewed my mirrored reflection
Melted in indecisions and intricacies
Extreme ongoing cognition appraisals
Silenced in the sound of the stillness
The flash of the grassed field called me
Embraced me as I paraded on the verge
A resolving embrace of a stab erased
I plead not to be understood or wanted
For these riffles are fixated on our heads
Bolted in our thoughts, wants and desires
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
Love’s Lexicon
I must make a new vocabulary.
My dear, the words I’ve used in those
Over and over descriptions, signifying all you are,
Are well and past their sell-by-date, should
End their shelf-life here and now. No longer can I
Form their letters truly without knowing well
I test love’s patience . . . and your own.
So in desperation’s way
I adopt a different lexicon
Offer you, my love,
a fresh taxonomy.
*concave the slapp
pressure inbuilt
evenly glassed
held held holdingnow
but ambulatory
moons at full stretch
figuration tempering
notonce twicemore
pressure wieghedupon
beyond breath’s exhale
membraneous goldening
frecklation the hands’ fastness
eyerich sightedkeen here
gone awaygone away
bodystretched senticle
smoooth*
A Proper Poem
Poised to conjure music
from the nothing air, and
with only some frivolous
verse to guide me,
I rest momentarily
to watch the screen of my mind
show your dear self to me:
the sweet flow of your body
uncovered in the shower;
that dance of choosing clothes
and dressing. I have sometimes
watched and wondered,
wondered that you could be
quite as you are.
So precious in my sight,
so very precious.
Water’s Kiss
I shall only write you
very short poems of love
so you can taste them
in one gulp as you might
from a Highland stream
unpolluted, soft,
peat -filtered, cold,
and bubbled with air
from falling across stones
into your cupped hand.
My love, bring now
this water’s kiss
to your waiting lips.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
I lack a certain meaning
something in my eyes doesnt shine as bright when people look at me it makes them want to look past me and I hate how average things can be and how I lack that certain "Oomph"
When all I really want is someone to say "Its alright darling the stars were made the same way as you, theyre just sometimes too bright to look at, too beautiful. Like staring at the sun too long."
And I am happy and content and excited and now I am crying at this computer screen.
I have lost memories and things are a darker shade of gray than they were before,
and it smells of ****
this life im living.
But there's this nagging feeling like
"You're way too young to feel this way"
and I like to pretend it isn't some gay drake song
This ******* useless head, that detached side on the left that tells me to be quiet when I cry too loud,
or to let it the **** out,
inbuilt therapy.
Yeah.
I only hope that my language carries out to your ears and you pluck my words from your brain like that certain hair you didn't like growing on the inside of your nose and outside of your ear and you should listen dear
listen and hear.
My dreams are laughable because I am only seventeen
and realize I am a cliche and that protective screen
I had been
wearing when I really thought I hadn't, well its gone now.
So my dad was right about how many things I don't know about the world,
"The world is full of awful awful things"
and I thought I understood him then, well now I do.
Now I do.
There is a harsher kind of light that shines on the things I see,
some sort of UV process, reflected back at me, and It makes me sick, and nauseous and heavy.
I carry my cynicism like I carry myself, like its a stranger I'm supposed to know
But the best things can be carried off, If you really don't know
what you're talking about.
I think I am special because my **** doesn't smell as bad as everyone else's.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 7:36 PM UTC
We meet, I obsess
I wait for a text, end up barraging them with more
I overthink myself into a crazy stupor
The cycle continues on.
I tell myself to stop
It's one more thing for me to think about
It's one more situation to waste my time
The cycle pauses, then restarts again.
Everyone knows about it because I tell them
I stop myself with metaphorical duct tape
I rip it off and tell everyone anyway
The cycle has no ending once it has begun.
This is the mistake I constantly make
I feel clingy, even though I probably am not
(But I am, so it is fruitless)
The cycle rotates in the backburner, a solid reminder.
It’s not a crush, it’s just a shortlived fascination
I declare my love, as I do for countless others
Masochism is apparently inbuilt
The cycle goes on, an infinite loop of repeated thoughts.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 12:26 AM UTC
love stories that are not love stories
stories we hold on to for lack of a better grip
essential breakthrough feelings for inner
growth and outer subsistence; a need within
a need within a need resembling a desire a
profundity an intensity a strength
i who am now awake(having passed away and
been reborn) i see love for what it is: a wonderful
magical inbuilt switch of humanness, a covering
over-illuminating light blinding the sight of my sight
fifty percent ecstasy fifty percent grief regret
nature s absolute recipe for impermanence for
perpetuity of life beating breathing seeing touching
tasting its way forward
love that i feel that i presume i feel
that anchors that is certain that is infinite
love which creates hope which creates yes
which creates soul which creates Spirit which
creates everything which dissipates which disappears
which devastates
love, tell me, who is your master?
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
The odd word sometimes slips out
I mean nothing by it
It's just human instinct
I say what I mean in the passions of such clout
Offended?
Then sorry
Or am I?
Get a grip woman,
It's just a word that instinctively rolled from my mouth
Well if you don't like this then see me when drunk
I'll tear you to pieces
I'll shatter your dreams
And leave this room dirtier than that of a skunk
Spraying the kerbside with thoughts of a madman
Speaking such truths
Littering the graves of such inbuilt angst
Whilst wittering away and dancing the can-can
Dont try and stop me as this is my food
Living on this tribal urge
The surrounding men have given up their surge
So sorry for being so rude.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 4:52 AM UTC
When will I stop questioning?
I thought to myself “who am i?”
It would not hurt to know who I really am
Because that is the answer we all want
In search for my desired but right answer
I decided to do a little out of the ordinary
It was said to me “You are in charge!!!”
The grin on my face queried “In charge of what?”
Maybe in charge of the dry dust I came from
Or the dark room I spent my early days
Maybe the scotching hot sun I grew up
Or the full moon that rocks the dusky night
Am just a poor little kid
One that grew up eating the dirt of the dark soil
Now being deceived of what is not
Because I was told “Am in charge”
My query indeed was duly answer
Answer I presume to be out of context
Context seemingly impossible to achieve
Achieved by a creature of my caliber
I was told “Fishes don’t BECOME swimmers, they ARE swimmers”
“Birds don’t BECOME flyers, they ARE flyers”
“Cheetahs don’t BECOME runners, they ARE runners”
“Human shouldn’t BECOME leaders, they ARE leaders”
If fishes never become swimmers
How come they maneuver their way in the sea?
Moving in the ocean human fear so much
And they never hurt by it
Birds spends their early ages in the nest
Thrown someday out of the nest by their mother
Zoom!!! They go flapping their wings
Just like its being flying secretly in the nest
Cheetahs the fastest running animal
I wonder how muscular its vein feels
At birth does not go hunting
But it grows to be so agile in race
After a precious time thinking
I understood the word of the sage
“You are in charge”
Not of the dry dust, nor the dark room, nor the sun, nor the moon
But I am in charge of what I do
I am in charge of who I become
I am in charge of my existence
Because it is inbuilt
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
Oh Muse, bearer of wisdom, may your words
which traverse the globe
by verse affect attitudes, move objections,
lash egos, rock divisions,
reunite misunderstandings and by power of
digestion resurrect what
the populace thinks weak, kills and forgets.
May poetic energy slice through innumerable
rules, instil sympathy,
drown separation, re-find buried faith within
faded friendships, appeal
for awareness to remember hatred no more,
help those forget who,
prejudice-laden perceive many as enemies.
May powerful words smash inbuilt devisive
desire for retaliation,
create instead meant relationships, lasting
handshakes which re-shape
distance placed between hearts by age-old
spite as groundless pride
grows no happiness alongside bitter regret.
Oh Calliopé, never forgo scribes' minds for
evoking soul-felt change,
poems pleading for world-wide review of
love's fallen portals
re-invite causes for unearthing a paradise
in this war-riddled earth.
Peace needs minnions' pens, at the ready.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 1:54 PM UTC
In trying to replicate an earlier state
I go too far
fifteen and another chance to comb my hair
and preen
get the fire brigade
dial 999 and
I'm back to the time
before
the house burned down.
I'm always racing against the flame
raging against the pain
fighting the time
nothing is real and it's really not mine to tell
where hell exists
but this feeling persists
inbuilt maybe
wired into me
wrongly.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 6:41 AM UTC
Keep your catty heart
in the cold chest of yours.
Wipe out the tears made of iron.
With an ivory on the wall
carve my name - if you can,
inbuilt it, if you can, with a piece
of an fading memory.
Throw it away, if you can,
in the traces of the ocean waves.
Ghost of an caged memory in an amber.
The time can not touch it.
The ocean can not wash it away.
He is left to sleep in an sandglass long time ago.
A catty heart -
cold hands on the wall.
Eyes - gazing in the wistful silence
Thoughts - drown in the ocean
Knees - on the floor they're leaning
Heart - left to burn in the fire,
In the blue flames
Tears of molten iron
With an ivory my name on the wall has been carved,
to remind has been left
In the traces of the ocean waves his mind is wandering
in an sandglass
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 12:55 PM UTC
We have the intuition that we are meant for each other
In each other's company we can deepen our love bond
You are my good adviser and I am your staunch admirer
Chain of love and beauty to cross time limit and beyond
My sweetheart I do not know what is love and its shades
What I know is constant and consistent torture and pain
Love is what is cut by sharp blunt time's unknown blades
Real sense of loyalty and sincerity with sacrifice to attain
My beloved it was just the error of glance to make dance
Now I am undergoing the process of real transfiguration
I feel lighter , enlightened to go just along to take chance
We both have inbuilt and inherent just real love attraction
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 3:49 AM UTC
You are born into a gps place where pinpoints of religions,
rituals and romances have been inbuilt into the waft and weft
of the world from the fabric was rolled out in rolls
of generations that went before you? Think back.
There is little you can change abruptly but slow
careful threads woven into the final pattern will reveal
how you wish to include, direct
and introduce a new pattern of thinking
into the new curtains you may hand hang on the walls
of a society that needs new furnishings!
Soon you will find yourself in the middle
of a movement shifting between traditions
that lay suppressed and controlled
by a segment of society that deemed
belief in change impossible without
tick marks from the elders of
a stagnant culture unable
to understand change and consequences!
I say to you. Go change traditions
to make society adapt better
to what lies ahead
not back! Change now. Its your time.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 days ago
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
Last week...
Last week, I lost my alarm clock
with it's murp and bop and purr
I had this clock for twelve long years
through feast and famine....
joy and sorrow....
crazy days and long dark nights....
For the most part it was a reliable clock
waking me morning after morning
with love and honest hunger...ready
for the day to commence
Although it often stutter started,
through the daylights savings changes
and sometimes felt the same way I did
about cold frosty mornings
but it was a good clock...
a good, good clock,
inbuilt with joy and warmth
and a persistence. ..
that made me face the dark days
and love the days of sunlight and nonsense
All the recharging it ever needed
was love and sunshine
the occasional scratch under the chin
and a full food bowl, whenever requested
Last week, I lost my alarm clock,
with it's murp and bop and purr
This week...for the first time... in a long time
I can sleep in.....
and I don't much care for that... at all....
...at all.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Beneath the dark foreboding heavy print there sits
a sullen moment when the worlds problems are inked
in black lined language that skittles across the page
in a hurried beat informing
all who would care to read
how the world is shaping itself to explode
in the fireplace of disagreement on such things
as land and water and elements and boundaries
and rituals of culture and creed
that caused the great divide between
location and dislocation.
The day that barter was invented the troubles
started and multiplied for all. Enough was never
but invasion of another's territory was ingrained
in the psyche of all man, irrespective.
To travel and take by force was inbuilt into the minds
fences and protection was guaranteed to all
through evolutionary dynamos of the inner
workings of a space and time that kept all people
in a society of linked cobwebs through social structures
that tightly bound them into networks.
Once the unwritten laws of social structures were tested,
it let loose the insidious desire to take
without asking what was rightfully not yours.
The birthplace of all who ascended the throne
of comfort through the discomfort of others
can be traced to this malady.
Stay within your own blessed boundary.
Stay within the headlines of decency.
Author Notes
The Territorial Imperative drives all mankind.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Touching this where I'll never be
in the sea of futility,
floundering for all to see
I would sink with no trace.
But there is a tranquility,
that sense of inbuilt security which
will calm and then comfort me.
Somewhere in Jerusalem, but from
some place known as a Bethlehem
men plot ****** and
there will be
mayhem.
And in a Heaven where a God might be
there'll be the Devil to pay
and poor me
with no money
at all.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 4:12 AM UTC
…But I fail to grasp…
I really do.
And I fail to write too
about the colossal confusion
in my mind's realm.
To be free must always create glee.
And freedom, consequently,
must incontestably be
the loftiest of all bounty.
✽
…But then they say:
Do not run away from your instincts
…of survival, love, anger, ***
for if these instincts were not of value,
nature would not have given them to you.
And I muse: Is it true?
Is it?
this incomprehensible link between being free
and the ineluctable visceral slavery?
Won't it rather be that no sooner than you begin to try
to attach (or detach) value to this view or the flip-side
freedom…would indubitably fly
…away?
And then they say that one must surrender.
And thus I agonizingly wonder:
when the mind doesn't wish to unwind
…to let go…
and you bully it to do so
you still cannot be set free
for it is only they who say:
Whatever you resist
shall persist.
✽
And I fail to grasp, I really do,
the cryptic intent of this concentrated glue
of chaotic desire and cardinal instinct
inherently inbuilt
by nature's very own inscrutable mechanism
in (wo)man's puppet-like plight
and then making salvation
the sole noble right
of a free spirit.
✽
An afterthought mulishly survives:
Why?
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 10:10 PM UTC
The words fall into place, the race to get the rhythm of the lonely night
in sight, as we saunter down the velvet images of life
one by one, we gather beads of memories
and string them in a ring, surrounding the flight of sight
and sounds jangling with verses and decibels
of dreams that we master in a magical essay of lines.
The sense follows, dense meaning as we write with a crutch
of pain, polish and much for all that we demolish will
stand, oh so grand, when finished, be replenished
carving the content with careful intent
into substances of delight insight!
Once more the anthem that I sing, will bring
us closer together in any sort of weather
wind, rain or shine, cold damp or distress.
hold, lo and behold, even as we carve symphonies
of stanzas and bonanzas of poems with some skill
that you cherish, flourish and thrill.
Lets write with the might and that inbuilt body of
words that soar like the birds o'er ocean and sky
and deep down into chasms of despair and doom
the sadness and the gladness, the pain and the gain
all within the sin, and the song the lust and the bust
that are tools that we use, we cannot refuse to
play in this way, every day until done with the fun
of a poem each day- any which way.
Begin.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a day ago
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
Whatsoever things are lovely , think upon these.
Having the mentality to differentiate fully
And having the egocentricity to separate
The wheat from the common chaff
Silicate or sand from a priceless diamond
Or the simplest act of kindness of a Samaritan
Even when all your five senses are tested
Visit that sixth sense , that gut feeling to see.
Each and every element to the smallest atom
Registers on your inbuilt Richter scale
That with good taste and selective education
Having been able to weight up the pros n cons
Intelligence accumulated over a few years or so
Nothing slips through the net. Or cybernetics
Google will see to that in the blink of an eye.
So whatever things are lovely. Think of those
And go of to sleep at night like an innocent
Reactions not influenced by the course of day
Exercise your brain to think of lovely things.
Lakes of serenely calm waters , sailing craft
Or of a majestic pair of black swans and signets
Velvet cushions housing your beautiful jewels
Every loving keepsake your partner has granted
Lilies of the valley displays upon mothers table
Your grandmothers smile as she reads to you
Things that are lovely, think upon these things
Have not a care for the state of the Nation
It is not in our individual remit to be involved
No only worry about where you have control.
Know that if you have the power to fix it
Usually you fix it , without procrastinating
Procrastination is the thief of time. So act.
On those odd occasions where you fail to act
No points are added it’s a diminishing return
The task is never as tough as you thought
Having opted to think of the beautiful things
Each mindset that you have is sweet smelling
Smelling like a nosegay in an English garden
Excite your mind and think upon these things
So , my friend learn from my humble experience
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 1:50 AM UTC
What Is Faith, Really?
The Pope is coming here today, ‘here’ being Sweden.
Sweden has around a hundred fifty thousand Catholics;
Loyal bricks
In a religion with its world mystique;
Jesus the pivot, One-theistic.
Kind of him. Kind and broad-minded.
Plans to meet with not just Catholic,
But Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, Lutheran -
A sojourn
Ecumenical.
So what is faith?
It’s expectation, trust, conviction, hopefulness and confidence
In something that can only just be sensed,
For instance,
If you’ve faith in money, you can touch the money,
But the green can never guarantee the thing,
The happiness that it will bring,
And for how long.
Imperceptible, invisible, an energy
With wish inbuilt;
A wish and hope.
I understand the atheist.
To him the whole unjust-ifiable and –fied;
Unwarranted:
He can’t believe in God.
But what he doesn’t understand
Is that he too has faith –
Perhaps in love, his father, mother, one
Or other institution:
Faith in something -
All of it a veiled mostly unnoticed hint;
A blended tint linking the man to one thing
Or another.*
*of course when I say man, I mean both, all and every gender.
What Is Faith, Really? 10.31.2016
Our Times, Our Culture II; To The Child Mystic II; God Book II;
Arlene Corwin
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC