"inclinations" poems
Natural inclinations ,
unrequited vindications,
unadorned specifications.
These all make for reservations
of forced vacations -
like a sad
and elongated
pythagorean theorem
that always equals =
a bad poem.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 9:01 PM UTC
I am lost for words, as I am empathic with the planet.
Although we truly stand in line for death and the afterlife, it is important that we mother our young.
I do not deny the allurement of sociopathic inclinations and I heartily validate the sexuality of suburban expression.
But, we both know – politicians rise like winged beasts from the murky depths of sociological oceans.
Can I touch your skin and give you compliments?
I love your being, just as it is.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
stop
be still and listen
hear ye not
that soulful song
of endless motion
that tireless voice
of storm wracked potion
her swollen bosoms'
rising, falling
her shameless
cresting
foam flecked
devotion
pouring out
her effervescence
on lips that drink
her adoration
yet never taste
her vital essence
her drumming chorus
a roaring thunder
on rocky clefts
torn asunder
as mourning rays
of misty raining
her teardrops falling
gently tracing
our loves
our sorrows
engraved each day
on these
mortal paintings
on granite shoulders
her message beats
that pounding drum
of thunderous need
as she flings
her ageless
storm tossed beauty
onto granite arms
etched and fluted
from hollowed cheeks
her kisses pouring
as sea birds cry
on stiff winds soaring
and ever on
throughout the ages
enduring
her ravenous
inclinations
never wincing
from her brazen charms
her surging seduction's
voiceless call
immersed
within her warm caresses
glistening
in her wind tossed tresses
enfolding him
in her flowing graces
in dulcet tones
of annihilation
.
.
http://oi62.tinypic.com/vuya0.jpg
.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC
*The passionate propensity
of waxing moons' passages,
I crave your poetry
as the air I breathe,
vital spirit aches within intention
hungering the blissed taste
of essential Neruda -
midst the significance of
rose and topaz
arrows of wildflowers,
whence your own scripted
inclinations unfurl
searing 'neath my flesh,
rendering me speechless
'tween ***** sighs
I surrender in the exhale
of a thousand blazing suns*
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
Alone with only the piles of ash as company,
I harden a little more.
Severing cords and burning bridges can be tiring and I have had my fill of useless people
so sleep is in my future.
I have never known love;
I know this now.
Hollowed out by wicked inclinations,
tempered with deviant leanings,
filled with poisonous lust
and fueled by misanthropic,
misogynistic misgivings,
I have become bereft of
all that is good.
I have given up
on ever being happy.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
I cannot be curbed, I cannot be tamed,
I cannot adopt moderation, or restraint.
My appetites are rampant,
And my passions wreak havoc like a violent summer storm.
Do not try to temper my lusts, or divert my inclinations,
For you will fail.
I will not have it said, that I merely existed.
Life is delicious, love is everything,
Why would you seek, therefore, to dampen your desires?
There is much to adore, there is much to abhor,
And I would not have it any other way.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
What did Sisyphus know
About a slippery slope;
Shoulder to stone
His feet groped,
Shifting inclinations;
Each step consequential,
A mythic joke.
Wiggle the toes,
Feel for the edge,
Sliding is inevitable.
We have no victims
On fallacious slopes.
Which lost hair defines bald;
Which millimeter makes you tall;
How many dimes makes one well off;
Which freckle makes you cute or beautiful;
Which ounce makes you fat,
From thin to Bottacelli.
Where does one begin?
Removing sentiments,
One at a time,
You find you straddle
The love/hate line,
A line drawn on a mountain top,
And splitting your Sisyphus rock.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
sweetest writer,
climb forth from the deep trench
in my heart's wound
and quench my thirst for love
dear doctor of written expression,
incant the melody, cure this malady
with verses that expose the affinity
that is inherit between her and I
smith of words,
hammer out a spell to please a vampire
with a quick, orangy sunset to transpire
wield the blade of dusk
against the morning star until it expires
as we conspire to set our bed on fire
there is no consequence too dire
for my one and only desire
master lyricist,
compose the sensual phrases
a song in whispers that ripens
her delicious fruit until ready for savoring
and last, to the dear poet within,
feed the lust filled inclinations of creatures
that hunger for each other's bare skin
allow your words to manifest
her sensuality alike a tinderbox
so I may then ignite her fantasies!
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 6:46 AM UTC
Winter’s releasing us from its perpetually gray and gloomy grip.
Who can study in their room, on a beautiful spring afternoon?
Azaleas assail ya, with champagne petals of bubblegum fuchsias,
they blush in near neon reflection, with a mathematical, fractal perfection.
Courtyards that were once dark and uninviting, frosty scenes,
sport impromptu manicured carpets, of flawless, vibrant greens.
Dogwoods explode, abruptly overnight, with cherry blossom whites
they blush like brides on parade, they sachet, swaying flag-like bouquets.
Ordinary maples become emerald queens by unfurling avocado, hunter and chartreuse leaves,
accented with vibrant electric limes and honeydews, as if to say, ‘We too can please.’
New life stretches, almost yawning, in the seemingly reborn sun, insects hum as they cultivate,
birds flit excitedly, as if to say, ‘Why’re you inside? Come out and play - why do you even hesitate?’
I know there’s something in spring that’s irresistible, pheromonal, hormonal, surfeit and emotional.
Is it the solar zenith angle or the sun’s declination that produces these delightful inclinations?
.
.
Songs for this:
Funky Galileo by Sure sure
You get what you give by New Radicals
New World Coming by Cass Elliot
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 3:09 PM UTC
The softest whispers of
Past ideas, and inclinations
Postulating long ignored dreams
Of long dried progenitors
Upon which we now look down
From the mouths that pour out banal well wishes
To the frozen digits, attached to architects and engineers
Most come to understand the past lies in fragments
Crucial details overlooked, time and time again
Lost amid a sea of bleak optimism
Futurism has its place, along side the winds
The ones that bring the same tired tides
I've drawn myself yet another line in the sand
The definition is as lucid as I could possibly be
Maybe a reflection of identity
It keeps shifting
Stepping forward, though unsure why
Commandeering tidal waves
Building bridges between figments in the skies
Attention drawn
To the edges of half way signs
"Onward and forward", the dead still proclaim
Long after the earth is packed
After death, so many still remain, if for the moment
Apparitions, spiritual possession of discourse
Tearing away from the pale, and digging deep into the fresh crop
You'll be gone soon enough
Into the standstill, though
The dead see it differently
Cosmic mistrust, a classic case
To free yourself from the very shackles
Blood had prepared you for, oxygen raised you for
Natural order now spurned
Floor to ceiling, ceiling to walls
Connected them seamlessly
What are you still fighting for, now?
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
October brings a flurry of trigger-happy handymen
to carpet over the potholes, puddles and last year’s cloth
with that emerald bract that’s rusted in seasons past and
now swarms in copper opulence.
I often wondered why sky’s most subtle inclinations
did not bleach the meadows into hues of tarnished brass
but will glaciate them rather than pull at the soil’s gums.
How I would thread a coat from those discarded teeth
and wear them out before they abandoned me.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
Each past fortifying moment
tends
to be concluded
by a bitter fall.
Once I awoke
from my
empty dreams.
Standing there,
you were in the distance
with your will
to pervade
all areas of my life.
as I dwelled,
you descended yourself
close
to my reach
as I clasped at
only the amount
of which I could
apprehend.
I was fully aware of
your strong inclinations.
Believe I wanted
nothing more than to
emulate every touch
your heart felt.
But mine was so
incapable of
saturation.
My tender attraction
to torment
fastened me in my
chair of
possessiveness
I was
so faithful to.
My dawdling
from confusion
was so misgiving
until
everything was falsely led.
Your hostile anguish
I comprehend now
so clearly.
So time faded what
was unwanted and
I have this memory
relaying a
message
I am too aware
of now to discount.
Days are just numbers and
distance can
dispose in the past.
And it’s this second chance
I can’t do without.
And this devotion I’ve recovered
from the deep depths
that’s been with me all along:
My subconscious hope was the epitome of you.
Oct 23, 2009
Oct 23, 2009 at 11:14 AM UTC
Gaze at the turn of events myself lost in translation
A purging of the mind
A long awaited ************
that leaves me breathless
with little sensation
but a warm body
with coldly felt inclinations
Turn over repeat
Thighs apart take the heat
Turn over repeat
Want of lust
Love the sheets
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
No young man believes he shall ever die. There is a feeling of Eternity in youth, which makes us amend for everything. To be young is to be as one of the Immortal Gods. One half of time indeed is flown-the other half remains in store for us with all its countless treasures; for there is no line drawn, and we see no limit to our hopes and wishes. We make the coming age our own -- The vast, the unbounded prospect lies before us.
Death. old age. are words without a meaning. that pass by us like the idea air which we regard not. Others may have undergone, or may still be liable to them-we "bear a charmed life”, which laughs to scorn all such sickly fancies. As in setting out on delightful journey, we strain our eager gaze forward- Bidding the lovely scenes at distance hail!-and see no end to the landscape, new objects presenting themselves as we advance; so, in the commencement of life, we set no bounds to our inclinations. nor to the unrestricted opportunities of gratifying them. we have as yet found no obstacle, no disposition to flag; and it seems that we can go on so forever. We look round in a new world, full of life, and motion, and ceaseless progress; and feel in ourselves all the vigor and spirit to keep pace with it, and do not foresee from any present symptoms how we shall be left behind in the natural course of things, decline into old age, and drop into the grave. It is the simplicity, and as it were abstractedness of our feelings in youth, that (so to speak) identifies us with nature, and (our experience being slight and our passions strong) deludes us into a belief of being immortal like it. Our short-lives connection with existence we fondly flatter ourselves, is an indissoluble and lasting union-a honeymoon that knows neither coldness, jar, nor separation. As infants smile and sleep, we are rocked in the cradle of our wayward fancies, and lulled into security by the roar of the universe around us. we quaff the cup of life with eager haste without draining it, instead of which it only overflows the more objects press around us, filling the mind with their magnitude and with the strong of desires that wait upon them, so that we have no room for the thoughts of death.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
The coldness of my unleashed disinhibitions have gracefully succumbed to the wisdom of cosmological forces, despite my ravenous salivations for all that is vehemently forbidden.
As I bark inside the relief of this solitary pound of articulated and socialised liberty, like an expression of abstract artistry within an ethical mudslide; I continue to teeter upon geographical tightropes which span unforgiving terrains across the ancient divides of propriety, where the baron plains of deuterocanonical origin are populated by restless spirits with gnashing teeth.
So, if they could ever be personified, I could easily butcher a myriad of depravities which tangibly characterise my inner Astarte and Ishtar demons – although, such an event would have to occur after we have engaged in a myriad of abominations where raunchy and indulgent copulations shamefully expose our brazen wantonness to animalistic inclinations.
Never offer to tie me down.
Restriction diametrically opposes my socially skilled yet nomadic being, as it sojourns across a psychedelic array of vibrant gardens, and weaves through present pathways which are timeless in their being.
It just is.
That is the essence of ontology.
Can we ever effectively contemplate the philosophies of predetermination and predestination?
As I am not dichotomous in my thinking, there is a legitimate place for being an omnivore within the walls of our societal fabric.
Although I radically accept that of which I do not approve, the psychology of ambivalence has led me to raise questions around the validity of horticulture.
My clock has melted down the flamboyance of those multicolored mountainsides of being and nothingness.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Sidestepping shadow-plays
boxed in bonus-sized portions
for garden-varietal religions,
I've had these scuzzy intimations
great big (voids) lie behind
most altruistic inclinations
and the biggest news is,
we're still expanding
with-in-exhaustible potentials
to be eternally filled greater.
Now I'll admit to being
hampered in my cognitive
capacity for meaningful
pattern recognition
by my debilitating
predisposition toward
concentrated forms of myopia,
ergo, I can't shape
a formless mess into anything
but incoherent flimflam.
I've tried alleviating this
condition with meditative
concoctions and palliatives
of sensory deprivation,
yet I fear I'll need
a silicon-chip-enhanced head
before I can glimpse
the cosmic legerdemain spinning
its paradoxes of endless
surfaces but no top.
If I finally do, I'll smile big
as a great-white gull winning
his first demonstration hand at
the three-card monte of not-to-be
reconciled contradictions.
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 9:41 AM UTC
I can't I can't I won't.
I refuse.
You're allowed, if you so please,
But I won't.
Not me.
I can't.
I won't.
I refuse.
Not when someone
Meant so much
To such a monster.
Tame me.
Please, I beg you
Tame me
And I will be yours
With your consent
So long as I breathe the same air
As you.
Forgive a poet
His silly inclinations
For believing in such
silly things
as forever.
Such a concept has always
Disturbed me
Unless
of course
I saw my own eternity
My entire being
intertwined,
meshed,
with yours.
May 16, 2011
May 16, 2011 at 5:43 PM UTC
Let fresh conscious breath take hold
when another day awaits in present tense.
Expand belly and chest for a stronger posture stretch, as our sun unfolds to shine on us below.
Unknown forms take shape with whispers of support to maintain your core beliefs and direct identity.
You are new too but your eyes remain the same, even when we vary as our inclinations change.
Certain keys can help create a sweeter harmony, tune into stable tones which hit those silent notes.
Time is vast and so the flesh grows old, but decisions we make frame our future states.
A higher sense of self holds longer term goals, corresponding with tolerance promotes fairer play.
Jul 1, 2021
Jul 1, 2021 at 6:37 AM UTC
There is no longer any excuse.
In fact, there hasn’t been for a
very long time.
We have seen bloodshed
on soil around the world.
Over one million lives,
in the name of
freedom,
democracy,
capitalism,
& I can’t quite recall the others
at the moment.
We have connected
through time and space.
We heard and we watched
Bell & Lindbergh
Ford & Armstrong
Gates & Jobs
transform the very fabric of our realities,
uncovering expanding realms
of possibility.
We have healed and protected
our fragile bodies.
Decades ago,
Mr. Salk became part of evening
prayers.
We began having less babies,
and we marveled for 112 days
at the beating of the first
artificial heart.
Wondering or not
whether new bionic inclinations
had affected our humanity.
We have evolved
collective creeds
through unexpected revolutionaries
and in spite of dragging feet.
While AFL & CIO
became household names,
Ms. Anthony and Dr. King
made us cry
and shake
and question
our very foundations.
And yet,
after 165 years of change,
I say, with a heavy heart,
and millions of people,
and billions of dollars,
and a dream,
that the 1850’s schoolhouse
has been only
feebly & perfunctorily
remodeled.
From their graves,
Mr. Mann & Mr. Dewey ask,
“What will it take?”
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
Your touch, a thousand amp wattage
pulsates me into partial paralysis
Our kiss makes me feel like a
slickly, sweet tongued succubus
winged with wicked truth
brings my devilish inclinations deep
down in my core and cuts to the closest
undulations of my undisputed desire
©ShawnaRenea
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
creeping cold fingers slipping
through the cracks in
our-house is built upon old western roots
that sometimes find their way
up into our heads and fill us
with these notions of history and purpose
as if an accumulation of past events
was enough to create meaning out of a shapeless empty
night is where they all seem to run
off to in search of something more than themselves
but mostly just recognition
as they hold up mirrors to the world
imploring everything they see to be as they are and love as
i-love the way she would bundle up her hair
and let it rest atop her
like a curled sleeping little cat
with-sideways-eyes
she glanced but never truly looked at me
which was enough to shatter
my inclinations towards something more
than just acquaintances
or any other empty word
thats less than what
i-always-wanted
to be more to someone than they were to me
and maybe i am
but it never seems to happen with the right people
or maybe i havent been paying attention
to all those I left behind crying alone
before life stopped letting me hurt
because living takes things
that dont exist like
balance becomes impossible in this world of flux
where everything we are and want
just ebbs and flows.
© 2013
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
*You always say
that I always may
declare creation
in those speech-act moments
when words become action
Thus see me breathe life
into hitherto stiff fancies
See me empowered by verbal magic
that conjures up fanciful shapes
in the image of my inclinations
So I say let there be beauty and wonder
a swallow swishing crazily past
and a lonely dove cooing for its mate
Let there be rustics exuding the rich smells of life
from newly-turned earth with neat furrows and fat worms
wood smoke and freshly-cut grass in musty he-goat odour
Variety is the spice of life the sages from long ago said
So let there be good-time girls and pompous pimps too
and petty thieves and flashy conmen in loud clothes
Let the world sizzle with a menu of a la carte activities -
sooty greasy grime and lurid crime to shock good people
In simple terms let the world be a poem teeming with life
and let its people know their roles in the scheme of things
Let them play their parts to perfection
while I try out a miscellany of diction and imagery
to capture and portray the wonder of another complex day*
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 3:35 AM UTC
i once gave all my secrets away.
i gave all my hopes and dreams,
even the horrible things.
i loved whole-heartedly,
one fragment at time.
i did do that once in my life.
burn.
i attempt to unravel, undress
these barriers now standing-between
you a n d me.
i fear the parts i gave along the ride,
are presently no longer mine
to own,
they were stolen somewhere-
upon the irrecoverable road.
i search subdued secrets
and invisible inclinations-
only to find,
what appears to be,
this tattered tangled twisted mind.
is diminished by
long-lost-leftover love.
stale but dispensing
hopes and dreams,
even the horrible things.
so long as you promise
to keep them somewhere safe
i promise one day,
to open locked gates-
and give to YOU
all my secrets away.
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 8:45 PM UTC