"incognita" poems
Spring upon the rose and live on the flow—
delve into the fragrance that goes full tilt
on petals that never drift with the wind.
Let it be—without form,
without a visual show.
Let’s not forget the truth:
even in pitch-dark invisible moments,
the Moon puts up a show.
Believe it or not—around that sweet spot,
the artistic paragon, Paradise, may be the next stop.
The butterfly paradise slips out to fly,
wafting into the enduring scent of a paint so bold.
Lo—on its picturesque wings it holds every eye;
where it reaches, no one knows.
It’s on the other side of the pool—
only Queen Fathima knows that sweet spot!
Any pause is deadly, heavy-handed on that route.
Death is no more; it’s unknown now.
And time—ripe for beauteous sight—is on for good!
If only one can hold their gaze,
walking the secret alleyways of God!
Oh, they flower in the fire,
dip into the sea in a single drop of water,
and pan out to another world within this world.
This time, Moses resists not—
his eyes peep beyond the burnt Mount Sinai,
gazing through burnt kohl,
across the shaded pollens
of the Ultimate Burning Beauty!
When it’s live in the true terra incognita,
it could be beyond the paradise rainbow—
the one show the true seekers sought the most.
Before long, all the rest may fade into the kohl.
Godsent, the most beautiful feminine paragon—Fathima—
lifts the black screen off at once, casting her gaze
from every never-blurred, myriad fractal pixel.
All in all, even the never-known pi digits in toto
soak into the one true description of reality's show!
Be en route—
it’s only the chosen eyes’ wonder-show,
where the handsome swans of Paradise stand on their toes.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 11:17 AM UTC
The darker my dreams get
the less I look for the light.
I can only see the duality
between my perceived reality
and the one you present.
I wake from gravity slipping
from the rot surrounding me
where everything is meaningless
unless there's someone to tell you that it isn't.
where everything is meaningless
once someone tells you that you are
and it turns out to be true
because they’ve shown you the nature of man.
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 7:13 PM UTC
The flying didn't cease, nor did the gravity
but I stayed close to the ground
my mother had told me not to drift too far
but that one time I did
that one time, I,
I tried to stop, I really did
that day I saw the prodigy there was
that wasn't anymore
I saw sanctity gasping for breath
choking on its own emesis
it shouldn't have gotten so drunk on sin
an aura fighting to survive against pretention
hands holding on to a fading faith
slipping like a baby, yet, tripping and trying
my wings set ablaze by the heat of raging insanity
A memory that day was cast forever
A pithy precis comes charging to me
My eyes opened to what I assumed hell
an old man nominally clad in a tattered sheet
pressed a medicinal red cloth against my anguishing wounds
in a hut that barely stood up
hay dripped off its exiguity
drops of water leaked everywhere
but the 4 feet cot that I lay on
the gracing peacock feather near my feet
gave the only colour to my grey eyes
He shivered of his elderly age
that seemed younger than his wrinkles
poverty seemed to have worn him down
but not more than the wickedness around
"My child, are you feeling alright?"
Affrightened and confused by the terra incognita
I merely nodded in affirmation
My eyes looked around to discover a nurturing,
smiling face,
then to a corner with a *** of water
and food meagre for an infant
he took a morsel in a leaf
and presented to me what was left
"This is enough for me my dear,
do you mind finishing the rest,
it is a bit dry,
here, have it with some water instead
now eat well child,
you look like a stick for a girl your age."
then he smiled again,
and walked away
with nothing on his leaf, but the satisfaction of a whole on his face
I looked at the dry bread crumb
moistened by a drop of my tear
trying to force his bites through
I wasn't ready for the hope he shared
my throat was taking bath in ice
his altruism healed my bubble that was burst
this wasn't the insanity that burnt my wings
this was the one that stole a morsel of my love.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 10:26 AM UTC
My lips are a band of Gypsy wanderers
thieving their way across the landscape
of your body.
They are telling fortunes to your flesh,
They are selling potions to your ***
They mining beauty
from your oceans,
from your caverns, and caves;
to use in their witchcraft;
that they may make others their slaves,
as your beauty has enslaved them.
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
In your eyes, I see my own.
I waited so long
for your presence to become real.
In that crucial moment,
I felt something
changing my awareness,
and the soundless vessels were filled
with joyful abundance—
colored by
pain and sadness
that time goes so fast
in underrated moments.
Materializing all these silent dreams,
this one little girl who is growing,
watching me with defenseless trust
like nobody has before.
Gestures, smiles, brief anger, and talks—
I gather them in endless memory.
Sweet Melody, my Purpose
from the first breath,
you chose me,
and I felt beautifully complete.
I know that a real journey
begins through terra incognita
Every day is surprisingly different.
I accept with relief my passing.
I see your blooming wisdom
in thinking smiles, and authentic recognition.
My Daughter, I want to give
as much love and acceptance as you need.
Taking your hand and letting you go
when you’re ready
to walk into life on your own—
watching the indigo sky.
Breathing freely, without anxiety.
After each fall, another resurrection comes.
I am here, I hope to stay a long while
to finally return to my last home,
without fear, with some tears.
Please, keep embracing this existence
with good and lost people around.
Be sure that I will smile
in your still-beating heart
giving you warmth.
.
Mar 6, 2025
Mar 6, 2025 at 6:44 PM UTC
Our nights of assessing God,
With our heads conjoined to the windowpanes,
Our thoughts permeating throughout the glass.
Two lukewarm coffees embellished the windowsill,
The synthesis of our cognition and entwined fingers,
The soft touch of shoulders leaning upon each other,
Brought forth beatific vision, we saw God;
His blemished flesh, the formation of his bones.
It began,
His vertebral column, intangible lights, the Aurora Borealis.
His archaic vertebrae, stained in ethereal fluorescence;
The curvature, swirling, as the Deity writhes in euphoria,
A childish game,
Our God, content in the night.
His hands, formed from the dust of Bethlehem,
Grains of sand corralling to form flesh upon the detritus of Rome.
His Holy land, The Vatican; Structures of marble and stone,
Merely his cupped hands,
As his disciples' feet caress his palms.
His organs; The planets in orbit;
His heart, our sun.
The rays of light that adorn our skin,
Merely the palpitations of a hidden pulsating heart.
his divinity, subject of uncertainty in the petulant eyes of his children
walking in Terra Incognita.
His skin, Lo, to the stars;
Our hands yearned to touch the celestial freckles,
outstretched to feel the fibres of God;
And like our limbs, so did God outstretch,
his flesh, but space; suffusing within the translucent contours of the cosmos.
To be told we were made in the image of God, is to be deceived;
Our childish conjecturing, truly a theorem to be displaced,
Our augmented minds, illuminated;
An aureole behind our heads,
We became biblical as we touched lips by the mantelpiece.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
Trekking terra incognita
With some cranial damage
Below there’s tide-pooling
And no one has a bandage
There’s turbulence and opulence
There’re roads that are reeling
Floating along this obstacle course
When all I need is high ceilings
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
I lowered my bucket into the well of words
And raised it up, hand over fist,
While syllables and phrases sloshed about,
Some spilling over
In my eagerness to drink them deep.
Oh, how I wanted to be filled up.
The words poured out,
And they emptied into the clay jar of my disconnected soul,
Rubra terra terra firma incognita
Plant me deep and water these roots.
(Am I real? Will I always be?)
And oh, how they filled me up.
I spoke the words aloud,
And they slithered between the cracks of my shattered glass self,
Amber crackled sunlight streaming right on through,
It looked like I would go on forever (and ever, ever)
And oh, the words broke me open.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
There's this ********** incoherence...
and obsessive cut and paste of mind.
Whatever pasture made its green bed,
has serial murdered...
painted...with head and heels, a lifetime of
tumbling.
Bipedal...the fallacy of bragging rights since
birth.
There's too much to engender without choice,
involuntary antipodes of mind...variations on
madness pawn their humours at storm-crossed
gates.
Strewn...the scrap metal of such limbs.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
Esto es inaudito
Amarte hasta el infinito
El infinito de mis pensamientos
Es que te pienso y te pienso , y miento.
Te miento si te digo : no es cierto .
Ciertamente estas en mi mente
Incognita me entra de rrepente
Sera que deseas un minuto verme,
Un minuto porque con eso me conformo,
Ahora en mediocre me transformo ,
Que mas me da si me conformo..
Verte por un segundo multiplica mis fantasias
En mi mente todo el tiempo eres mia
Y se acortan mis agonias.
Mas la igcognita sige presente
Si es que me llevas un ratito en tu mente ..
Incognita con espranza y fe
Que algun dia, me lleges tu a querer.
10-23-13 EveGaby
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
I aspired to be an explorer of the human mind
So I started with my own
Terra incognita, babe
Words of yours
The only ones I'm allowed to remember
I found you when I found problems hidden in the thickets of my mind
The ones I didn't realize were there and breeding
You were a graceful beast
Said you wanted to make artwork out of me
It's all broken now
My mind is a 'pretty' stardust archipelago
You deus ex machina, you
My problems are solved now
Because I can't feel me
But I also can't feel you
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
Our deaths will be
transformed into
driftwood washed up
on terra incognita
and gathered
for firewood by
savages who cannot
imagine what we were
but will enjoy the
anonymous warmth
we have gifted them.
~mce
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
Every poet is a fake
eyewitness, peddler of make-believe hearsay,
A conveyor of love he never knew
in a city he never saw in a way to make you
feel the passion as if it were true,
He is an air-brusher of reality,
Thus a proselytizer of the Absurd:
That you can paint pictures with words;
That you can travel by verbs;
That you can conjure nouns by saying them;
That you can lead several lives within your only one.
Every poet is a fake
taxidermist, seller of second-hand stuffings
of souls that were never alive
Every poet is a fake
imperialist, would be explorer-cum-colonizer
of the terra incognita of your mind
Every poet is a fake
poet
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 11:03 AM UTC
Ice arcs through the air
like solid lightning.
The large bolts strike with a rumble
and clatter to rest
where they gleam with bravado
at the dispirited winter sun.
The small bolts explode
with a skittering hiss
and trickle down between the bricks,
prodigal drops returning to the watertable.
Cast out from its plastic host,
the ice bears grooved testimony to their symbiosis,
but this testimony concedes to the crafting thaw
a bevel smoother than a human hand could fashion.
Some ice lies clustered on the brick paving
like terra incognita wrought on a vellum map
by the feverish imagination of an Olde World explorer.
Some lies scattered among the purple and white alyssum
in imitation of a Tyrolean spring.
As a breeze releases
the olfactory history of myriad fridge dwellers,
a cloth rings over a wire tray
in a crude arpeggio which segues into
the basso profundo of the resurrection hum.
The cycle begins anew.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 3:37 AM UTC
Entombing the scream
into my body to hide
the banshee
for the sake of guarding
this terra incognita;
the peacetime of ours.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
I am a champion of Longing.
Full of gratitude, yes,
but born with an irrepressible
Desire to Chase.
I am always
peering around the corner,
staying up all night,
and stoking the fire
for only the greatest of dreams
of art, adventure, and pleasure,
of science, nature, and mind.
The beginning of romance too,
is taking on the role of explorer,
setting forth into the unknown,
getting my feet wet,
and splashing forward
by drawing a map.
I am exuberant,
(sometimes forwardly so),
not because I seek to plant a flag
and claim connections as my own,
but because I seek to chart the boundaries
of hearts unknown.
I wish to delight in each waterfall,
spelunk each hidden treasure,
plot and survey each peak!
Is that not the greatest joy -
getting to know
that which finds your soul,
multiplies it,
and hands it back to you anew?
Perhaps after thorough study
One may find a home.
And yet, there is also magic
in just passing through,
an extended holiday,
a retreat when healing is needed,
a reminder of that which makes us
ourselves.
And thus,
I will love, and love, and love.
Not always thoroughly -
sometimes in small explosions,
sometimes not as much where I'd like,
sometimes too much where I'm not needed -
But still I will.
Still I will create, do, inspire,
wonder, and love as much as possible,
Knowing that which does not nurture Longing
is temporary.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 4:37 PM UTC
Do not think because I have a roving eye
that I am any less in love with you.
A knowing wink, a bashful smile, a haughty stare,
these are the terra incognita
which I, beauty's student, must needs explore.
But like Raleigh in Guiana, in search of El Dorado,
thinking of his Bess,
or Daniel Boone in Kentucky,
it is you I am thinking of, always,
and it is to you I will, Odysseus-like, return.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
Look around and sulk in the envy of happiness.
The smiles on the faces of the people who regret.
Because we as humans are never fully satisfied.
We receive a blessing say that it’s a stressing and throw it away.
Like it never existed. Goodbye, so long to the one who cracks a smile.
Who makes me laugh, and fulfills every fantasy that I ever dreamed.
Soulfully on behalf of my interest of another woman.
It seems, like my life is torn between two.
I love you I really do, but there’s Incognita
The mystery beneath my bed.
The monster in my closet, the woman that’s in my head.
I try to be a better man, but I can’t.
I wish you would understand that I want you.
Or at least I think that I do. I don’t know but hear me out.
Try to listen without having to shout.
It all happened three months ago.
We had an argument, I got laid off, and I ended up sleeping on the couch.
Days past and distance took it coarse.
I found someone who listened to me, joked with me, things I thought you didn't do.
Being with another woman was always a thought but never a reality.
Until today it seems like I found the woman for me.
Incognita, woman of my dreams.
As you wear your Prada and red bottom heels.
You look at me with your mesmerizing eyes and steal.
Every feeling I had before you came and showed me real.
Now bless me with your eternity and goddess like aura.
For this lifetime, is our lifetime.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
history invents the art of crying
writing its darkness manifesto
when the tear is hidden
the path follows a forced destiny.
what is there, to be found inside ourselves
something is looking at us
tribulations of mirage, the hazard of necessity
the word, the gun, the bone -
the threads of the revelation of time
sometimes history flows backwards
and my skull hurts like a broken umbrella
we taste the past, an obsessive memory
future, this Terra incognita, casts a muddy light
what is there to be found in the history of bones?
Feb 27, 2025
Feb 27, 2025 at 1:28 PM UTC
Who am I more like, my mother or my father?
I have my mother’s face and my father’s humor
But my eyes are my father’s and my hair is my mother’s
Although from a certain angle it seems that I have my mother’s nose
And my father’s teeth
But while my lips curve in my mother’s smile
And my eyes crinkle into my father’s
And though my shyness is my mother’s
And my temper belongs to my father
I sense, through my mother’s worry and my father’s words
That maybe some part of me
Is hiding
With my father’s tenacity and my mother’s silence
Some part
Is hiding
Under my parents’ skins
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
No one is a fool
who falls in or out of love
for life is an open inviting field
to be played on
and love is the terra incognita
that has to be explored
(unless one wishes to wither away)
one has failed--so what?
lessons are learnt
experiences are enriched
ignorance and folly drop away
(those who love should not fear
and those who fear should not love)
All that life is
is action and progression
the libido
the will to overcome
the courage to be
to test one's mettle
(to be unafraid of bleeding
or of crying)
and not to yield
thus
here lies
the raison d'etre
for living
It's in making sense
of the unknown
to discover
the truth and meaning
of things
that we become
what we want to be
But those
who have not known love
will never know what it is
to **** life's sweetest nectar
a drop of which
is enough
recompense
for the bitterness
of love's pain
and the faithful vow
they are willing to die unto love
No one is a fool
who falls in or out of love
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
Carrera scrawling his notes for the
‘War for Australis Incognita’ sat beneath
a lush fruit bearing tree; Bob’s plan for the boy
seeming to going be into effect despite Bob’s
abandoning his original plan for him.
Charlotte putting the boy in shorter skirts
and matching the light lavender fabric
with purple stockings and red garters.
The boy’s bustier barely held his
flat-chested frame and she had pulled the
laces straight and true tight around his
torso squeezing the breath out of him
to give him cleavage where none was
to be had. Pinning his longish hair
into pigtails, scrubbing his face clean
with an astringent cold cream and applying
powder to his smooth face over which
she painted rouge, eye-shadow and lipstick.
Seeing Carrera writing busily below
the glistening red arctic apples, Nancy
approached the distracted writer.
Carrera was lighting his ***** pipe
when the boy whom for all the world
resembled an attractively winsome female
came over and sat with him.
“Excuse me, sir, may I ask the greatest favor of you?”
Not recognizing the boy despite having
never seen a teenage girl on ship
Carrera hastily pocketed the smelly pipe
and turned his attention to the big blue
eyes before him. The lips were thin squiggly
lines that spoke is a whiny rasp
that was not entirely unappealing.
“Yes, my childe, what can I do for you?”
“I would certainly love to eat of the tree
growing above you but alas, I cannot reach
the sweetest fruit. Would you be so kind
as to hoist me up so that I may gather
a few you would perhaps share with me?”
“Why, of course, girly. Here, stand on my
shoulders,” said the poet kneeling to allow
the slim fellow to plant a hobnailed boot
onto his broad shoulder. Carrera couldn’t
resist raising his head once the boy
was up on both shoulder reaching for the
ripe apples of a new sort, the boy using
his petticoats like a basket to catch the
fruit he could swat from the low branches.
Carrera was staring straight up his petticoats
to the visible stocking tops and garters.
Carrera’s mind swimming with fantasies
of derring-do and adventures that he assiduously
avoided any first-hand knowledge of,
his gaze locked on the baggy breeched bottom
below the boy’s skirts, Carrera thought he’d
been struck by something like love at first sight.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
This fool doth not consider himself wise,
writing paltry poetry difficult
to read and/or actualize
methinks perusers of great literature
snub nose how I miserably advertise,
laughable attempt to aerobicise
fifty plus shades of gray matter
lobbying showy words agonize
zing effort perhaps best to cauterize
near petrified glob - boon
for scientists to analyze
baffling laboratory technicians
unusual crenulations
a profound surprise
pitiful peremptorily doth apologize
unlike verbalization feasible
after webbed whirled fist size
terra incognita reveals numbskull years
wrought yours truly to anesthetize
smelting, squelching,
and suppressing emotions
scored how tree rings annualize
environmental conditions definite
premature imp of the pervert
poe fella lifetime channels,
where bullies did antagonize
upon death requested autopsy authorize
zing eager scalpels to apprize
miniature dried river bed
formerly streams of consciousness
lake never seen before engendering
crowdsource to hypothesize
baffling every expert,
how terrible fate did baptize
ala lemony snicket series
of unfortunate events
multiplied power bajillion times
number only Google could surmise
obvious tell tale signs did brutalize
as if smacked upside the head
one unfortunate gladly apparently
suffered maelstroms of armageddon size
poet chars evidently
succeeded to burglarize
more successful than Watergate
psychological ploys hackers
noninvasively did cannibalize
(perhaps bored furloughed
government employees)
albeit noninvasively deeming
imposible to canonize
resultant cerebral corpus
understandably did capsize
entire body politik (Democrat)
faced, booked on hatred did demonize
verbal assaults indicate
suffering did caramelize
cerebrum, cerebellum and brainstem
resembling burnt offering
impossible to categorize
glommed hardened integument colleagues
hard pressed to characterize
highly rendered anomaly,
hence unfair to criticize
erratic schizoid personality disorder
quite evident amyloid plaques
did significantly crystalize
definitely explain aberrant quirks
resultant incessant emasculation
unquestionably led him to demoralize.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 1:39 PM UTC
It‘s in your eyes
and how those honey-clear gazes draw small circles around the sky, whenever
a lovely smile vanishes in the dim afternoon light,
like a swarm of youthful birds with wings wide spread,
ready to conquer the earth's terra incognita,
utterly remaining unread.
© fey (10/03/21)
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 4:21 PM UTC