"inconstancy" poems
Oh, to vex me, contraries meet in one:
Inconstancy unnaturally hath begot
A constant habit; that when I would not
I change in vows, and in devotion.
As humorous is my contrition
As my profane love, and as soon forgot:
As riddlingly distempered, cold and hot,
As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none.
I durst not view heaven yesterday; and today
In prayers and flattering speeches I court God:
Tomorrow I quake with true fear of his rod.
So my devout fits come and go away
Like a fantastic ague; save that here
Those are my best days, when I shake with feare.
5k
We love to chase the wind through streaks of blinding bliss,
Tagging the glorious ideals of love, peace, friendship, even
The meaning of life, to weeping willows and pensive pebbles.
We admire the monochrome sky in all its barren blue or pregnant purple;
Hues of burple and plue are dismissed as being tedious, or just confused.
Fear not, photoshop will rectify this pigmented aberration.
We giggle at clouds that resemble kitchen utensils or mystical creatures;
“Hey look a teddy bear in a spacesuit with a flowerpot on his head wielding the Sword of Gryffindor!”
We declare sagely, with the acumen of a legendary bird watcher.
We resurrect grass angels by launching into horizontal jumping-jacks, and,
Just as a disclaimer, no flower was harmed in the process. Not that it matters,
As long as we did not soil our Lacoste and Burberry.
We spin a mixtape out of the torrential downpour, our tracks pitting
The pitter of regularity against the patter of inconstancy, synchronizing
The symphony of splashes to an undercurrent of nostalgia.
We kiss against the bark of an elm, and if a tree is not available in the vicinity,
We throw ourselves down a nearby hill, tumbling into a ball of moist romance,
Panting, as we bask in the studio lighting of the approving sun.
Every still is captured by a Lomo,
Every scene arrested in sepia motion,
Every moment ravished by the chichi Bohemian in us.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
as memories of cerulean waters fade,
in autumn’s shade,
new visions unfold.
in this city of inconstancy
the air is crisper,
leaves browner
and love within a stone’s throw.
sipping golden drops of burgundy
simply smile,
cuz our bodies are now one
and our lips have locked,
as i worship you
with one hundred and eight pink lotuses.
one lotus for each secret wish of mine!
the morning moon
gives me
the devil’s wink, 😉
knowing this pristine truth.
© 2021
Oct 2, 2021
Oct 2, 2021 at 11:07 AM UTC
Inadequate to the task
Humbled by the enormity of our love,
The perfection of our joining,
Where are the words kept that sufficient
Honor and portray what we have achieved?
You seated, beside me by the bay, finally,
Two old adirondack trees side by side,
By the sheltered place you bequeathed me,
Where poems are raindrops, so numerous,
And you, if not the subject, the source.
The waves rolling in, mirror the
Fluidity of thy dancing,
Fluidity of the adaptation,
Two lives, now one bay blue colored,
The merging, the unification,
Many waves, but one bay,
The Bay of Us.
Yet so different.
We are cloud worshippers,
Does not the Skye's Tableau inconstancy,
Mirror our ever changing form, individuality,
Yet, one sky,
The Sky of Us.
So many times have I lain be-sided
Even as we this afternoon sit now a-sided,
Tears welling up, above and beyond control,
This man's steady nerves, constant on patrol,
Our secret open, visible, un-hided,
Your are my Magi
My Yogi,
i.am, your, obedient devotee, shaped to you please.
This is the birthday present my words present.
Words, unremarkable,
Except for the contentment
That lies within them.
Let me love you more,
Recklessly abandon norms,
Kiss you at the supermarket, at the opera,
Unashamedly, take you in my arms
Wherever wonderment and wandering lead us.
T'is so very hard to compose
When tears flow upon my writing tablet,
To wipe, blot them away, I refuse,
For tears are joyous emblems,
Salty badges of love,
All compliments of our complementary beings,
The Tears of Us.
The soaring music we gather in.
The shimmering sparkles upon the bay,
My gift of natural diamonds better, this day,
Than jeweled glitterati I hide in the refrigerator.
All this treasure, part and sparkle of
The Treasure of Us.
T'is truth,
I know not, forgot, your age nor care,
The day the time the year,
What matter they to me these artifice markers,
I weep carelessly, undone, overcome,
Every day, but this day, most, united joy.
Need-No reminder,
I am a survivor,
From a concentration camp
That slow programmed to destroy,
Perhaps the kindness you claim
As the hallmark of my fame,
An inadvertent gift, from the devil?
You shook my hand on our first meet,
Don't think, have I ever let go?
Let me be your driver, entertainer, your only poet,
Let me be whatever you need,
Even as now, I laugh-cry, your tissue carrier.
For t'is I who weeps and keeps
These tissues as part of our history.
You are the first,
Who has ever read
The Words of Us.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
Love in her Sunny Eyes does basking play;
Love walks the pleasant Mazes of her Hair;
Love does on both her Lips for ever stray;
And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there.
In all her outward parts Love ’s always seen;
But, oh, He never went within.
Within Love’s foes, his greatest foes abide,
Malice, Inconstancy, and Pride.
So the Earths face, Trees, Herbs, and Flowers do dress,
With other beauties numberless:
But at the Center, Darkness is, and Hell;
There wicked Spirits, and there the ****** dwell.
With me alas, quite contrary it fares;
Darkness and Death lies in my weeping eyes,
Despair and Paleness in my face appears,
And Grief, and Fear, Love’s greatest Enemies;
But, like the Persian-Tyrant, Love within
Keeps his proud Court, and ne’re is seen.
Oh take my Heart, and by that means you’ll prove
Within too stor’d enough of Love:
Give me but Yours, I’ll by that change so thrive,
That Love in all my parts shall live.
So powerful is this change, it render can,
My outside Woman, and your inside Man.
2.3k
When thou, poor excommunicate
From all the joys of love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine own inconstancy.
A fairer hand than thine shall cure
That heart which thy false oaths did wound;
And to my soul a soul more pure
Than thine shall by Love’s hand be bound,
And both with equal glory crowned.
Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
To Love, as I did once to thee;
When all thy tears shall be as vain
As mine were then, for thou shalt be
Damned for thy false apostasy.
2.2k
…i have learned my lesson / One should not give the impression / of being too happy / as you don’t do
happy / you and angry / are comfortable / misery / your longtime friend / but with happy / you are
unacquainted / and / too much joviality / for too long a period / puts the proverbial underpants in a bunch /
too much free-range fondling / and unnecessary emotion / is a commotion / that puts the Neanderthal in
you / into uncharted territory / off the clear and obvious path / with a virtual stick / banging the bushes of
my spirit / waiting to see what emerges / and surprisingly / you are surprised / that what emerges is /
seldom what you expect / but what do you expect? / That i will continually ride this / histrionic
rollercoaster? / apprehensively peaking hills? / uncertainly braving valleys? / stop the maniacal ups and
downs i think i want to get off / on you / and with you / but that just wont do / cuz you / fail to realize /
that I am / percolating and oozing / straight inundated with / sweetness / and to get the full overflow / of
said sweetness / is a privilege… / and not a right… / therefore / to the benefit of no one / and as a
consequence of your / vacillation and inconstancy / i have made the determination / to Cap this most
fundamental Well / sadly / i have learned my lesson…
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 7:21 AM UTC
Start.
Go.
I am one way, but now, also another.
Two separate identities
both compelling and seductive.
Slide.
Run.
How can both so equally demand the most honest part of me?
Is my inconstancy something tangible,
or the result of a post taught structure
telling me right from wrong?
Twirl.
Lunge.
I see them both
One luring with a smile, a toss of hair.
The other charming with eyes so heavy, but bright.
Each pulling my focus and stealing my breath.
Without a sound or whisper of words.
Bend.
Twist.
Delicate and quirky, yet confident,
she understands and listens to the hum inside me;
holding my heart while still falling into my arms.
Whimsical and strong, he picks me up in a rush
like a wild wind and frees my mind.
Then with a full, gentle touch calms me. Stills me.
Blink.
Fall.
What can I do?
Question everything I feel or have ever felt?
Ever known?
They shake my every nerve,
Sending tremors to my spine.
Then suddenly I know.
Fantasy.
Reality.
It's him.
And that's ok.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
A mist lingers,
Haunting and cruel.
Carrying with it the fountain of youth.
Filled with lies,
Advertised with truth.
Clouding our senses,
Tempting defenses,
All in attempt to keep us defenseless.
Blind to lust,
Overt trust,
Miscommunication becoming our crutch.
Victims to the stereotypical dream,
Swindled by the constant need to be.
Bound by such inconstancy,
Which leads to our fleeting authenticity.
Sharing connection,
But never attention.
Festering wounds destroying retention.
Yet somehow,
I still see forever.
A mist lingers,
But then again,
It never quite left.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
you keep asking me why i'm trying so hard this time and i don't know what to say because there's not a beautiful way to tell you that i'm scared to death of my own nature, scared of my innate inconstancy but even more afraid of the intimacy i crave. living on a pedestal isn't as fun as it used to be and now even the sky feels like another corner.
turns out i'd rather be in a corner with you.
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 9:37 PM UTC
"In Modern Drama we turn a critical eye
into the conditions of real life and morality." --- Arlen Rambush
Modern Drama 101
Her life had become an Ibsen scenario,
cloaked, as it was, in furtive AOL chat rooms,
seeking the romance no longer orbed in marriage,
rather to be panned from the internet wellspring.
It wasn't so much inconstancy, as it was whimsy;
more a channeling of Deneuve, than profiling Gabler.
And she found they flocked to her,
pigeons to be shooed away, should they get too close.
Soul of the house, everything to husband and family,
yet, it was in cyber tryst where she flourished,
that informed the powerful intellect at intervals
with mother and a carte blanche ingénue.
It's possible she sought to reform them,
tear them down --- or no --- it was conquest.
It was not she that needed men,
it was she that absorbed them in hedonistic pleasure.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
can it be that the truest form of self
is the last vine still clinging to its battered tree
in the aftermath of the fatal dance
of absolutes and inconstancy?
and the wind that brutally bludgeons the earth
is the full force of life's endless uncertainty
that erodes the façade of innocent intent
and exposes the raw spirit of Honesty's being?
and a hurricane gains its momentum from pain
that has stirred up the waters of Redemption's ocean
and the ocean's heat meets Determination's cool
and their explosive dance serves to avenge Love's devotion?
then a cloud in the sky is not certainly sad
and a drop of rain doesn't imply grey emotion;
if the fury of Nature is not so reckless at all,
let us dance in the torrent and destroy common notion
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
the raw confusion of the nucleotide fusion,
the great concoction of recombinant DNA,
when we cross over our own boundaries
and subsume, integrate, reformulate our
very selves, with inhalation complete of
another human being; the danger’s inherent,
absorbing a foreign body totally is the creation of a new being entire, vulnerable
despite the new totality of the resources of
two hearts acquired for mergence
and the rush of two different bloodstreams
now circulating, stronger by far, and equally
vulnerable to diseases never prior considered,
these tissues patches, interwoven skins, two
fabrics, silk and wool, a smooth itchy, that
makes us stronger with yet unknowns of weaknesses, and then we encounter what
cannot easily be digested, comprehended,
for even new cells split apart, and the terrible
terror of dividing division that is the side effect of integration, new subdivisions never
ever forever foreseen cause volcanic tremors
and trusting your other half is awful,
until the fear subsides
*this is the why
I write of
only love poetry,
the study of this process
so poorly and powerfully
misunderstood
is the atom bomb
of the human psyche
in rivers dark we travel,
oars with cotton muffled,
for there are dangers on each bank,
and in the waters beneath
the salt and the fresh
excitingly & violently blending,
different weights
somethings fall to the bottom,
others rise to the top
*and when the process is nearly resolved
(for never ending,
by default defined,
for end is a conflict
constant
interrupted by truces fraught,
fragrant and vulnerable)
*this then
is living,
this physic of the
bio-il-logic process
called love,
and the endlessness
that it requires
the inconstancy
of the
constancy
of the
deepening well,
and the
redemption of
redefinition
of what is
well*
<>
2:10pm
nyc
10/21/24
Oct 21, 2024
Oct 21, 2024 at 2:11 PM UTC
I told her she reminds me
of a bird chirping at 1am
and she never asked why,
strange yet beautiful,
inconsistant and seldom,
appreciative upon scarcity,
a hedonist of silence
has never found serenity
in the blurred lines of infinity,
but the confidence of
clamour will fade
with every night a chirp
goes unheard,
the consistency
of inconstancy is the hand
that feeds and the
bite that bleeds. MJB
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC
under a cloudless sky
in this city of inconstancy
a perfect half moon
dazzles
the dark half
my tamasic nature
the bright half
your sattvic smile
forget not
any light thrives only
in the depth of intense darkness
cos my crepuscular complexion
alone absorbs thy fiery splendor
darling ambika!
having given
every pore to you
nothing remains
(to be continued....)
© 2019
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 9:16 AM UTC
A constant itch I cannot scratch.
A constant hole I cannot patch
With the right colour material.
The black on black always looks off.
It's the constant promise of something good.
It's the constant darkness under a hood,
With two strings attached I draw it closed.
Never to escape into the sunlight.
A constant tremor in my electricity.
A constant suffocating toxicity,
It breathes nerves in like waves and washes them back.
Sometimes how I wish it would demolish me.
It's a constant knowing that I'm still not there.
It's a constant trying my best not to care,
About anyone else but myself but that's selfish right?
Because nobody teaches you how to fight the beast that feeds on you (internally- eternally.)
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 8:23 AM UTC
All my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.
What ever is to come is not,
How can it then be mine?
The present moment's all my lot,
And that as fast as it is got,
Phyllis, is wholly thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts, and broken vows,
Ii, by miracle, can be,
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that heaven allows.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
Seriousness, maturity, composure and hopelessness: assumptions of an adult man metamorphosed into a beast. It is usually said that no serious man practices certain acts, but, the truth is that no serious man lives.
The concept of integrity has been misrepresented, and today what makes us whole is the same thing that makes us stupid. Men who overrate for seriousness and integrity become dour, sad, "decent men". Composure deprives us of the flame that feeds the soul called inconstancy.
There are also those who confuse good humor and sarcasm with constraints that merit respect. There are those who preach that you must be ruthless and never show weakness. There are those who say that all you need is a lot of pain and a person on the other side of the phone refusing your emergency call.
But it is these same men who commit suicide because they have reined in. These are the ones who keep the world in an eternal free fall. Seriousness is the cowardice of not laughing at the ironies and the bad bits that life puts us. More than good image, seriousness deprives us of life. And that's why a lot of people die convincing themselves that roughness is a victory.
Fool is the one who believes that seriousness presupposes respect, and kills wittyness. For even though most understand it this way, being conniving with it is stupid.
Matheus Peleteiro
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
The
inconstancy
of
others
is
not
your
failing.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
FIRST LOVE
I buried my wild youthful dream
In the sand of a faraway shore
I promised myself
Never to return there any more.
Time had taken flight on relentless wings
I thought I was brave and strong
Still that dream returned to haunt
Like the endless echo of a melancholic song.
Once she said she loved me
Begged that I would not abandon her
‘ You are my heart’s content, my solace
Believe me--I will love you forever’.
How fragile and forgetful is love
Who knows its inconstancy?
Love that betrays murders the heart
‘ La Dame Sans Merci’.
Who knows the secrets of the heart?
Is love an illusion and fantasy?
Who knows the how and why
Of that which is life’s most profound mystery?
Explain it if you may
You would need words to cover
The whole sky and the widest sea
It would be wise not to endeavour.
I am dying, dying now
And that distant shore speaks to me
You must return before your last sunset
Perhaps, perhaps, you will be set free.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
I can feel the love,
fading from my heart,
or rather,
it's not fading,
it's being torn out.
Piece by piece,
people steal it,
when I would have given it,
when I had given it,
and then demand more,
as if I'm holding back.
But I'm not,
I'm loving with my whole heart,
loving them more than me,
loving their flaws and insecurities,
their hatred and inconstancy,
while I let my own drown me,
in their wake.
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 7:28 AM UTC
meet me
neither in this city of inconstancy
where your stress levels
have reached stratospheric proportions,
nor
on the rolling hills of sotogrande
where new devotees flock
to catch a glimpse of thy beauty
but in zen-like thlllai
where we once started
our cosmic dance duel
in shameless duality
this time retracting the universe
and fulfilling sesha’s wish,
where
the one that eventually became many
now becomes one again
© 2019
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC
Night poet moves the wand of winter moon
Across puddles of angry sky.
Day poet soaks up the dark
With white dregs of frosty grass.
Season’s poet is the cold of now,
And warm’s imagined past,
The rustle of wind in leaves,
Telling secrets of other worlds.
The poet of land masters gravity
Of earth and air.
The poet of sea tests colours and textures,
A seamstress of liquid cloth.
The poet of moods fills hours
With inconstancy like a crow pecking holes
In a discarded b-flat mattress or
A lark perched on a bright cloud,
Overflowing with allegro.
The poet of dreams holds
All the world spellbound
In a theatre of slow motion.
The poet of real things
Makes magic out of socks and onions.
The poet of beauty speaks of what is.
The poet of love speaks of what might be.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 5:50 AM UTC