"indolence" poems
I wanted to know the sighs
Of mercy. On the bed she lied,
Laid bare in the shocking light
That twitches, as she rolls
I hover and cage her in question,
With moist eyes, abandoned
By loves interrogations,
I stab at the untruths and confusions.
I wanted to hear the supplicant
Murmur of indolence and shame.
With windy caresses I break
Her arms, she ropes me red
In tangled hair and I struggle
To let go. I wanted to taste
The twin defeats of victory
And indifference, when in the light
Of darkest night there are cries of yes
And no and false accusations,
There is consuming pain and excruciating
Pleasure and as we squirm
And seethe, she teases,
Goading me and then,
I loose it.
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 10:25 PM UTC
I am darkness I am light, I am chaos I am might, lies and truth unite,
Fear and bravery, envy with hatred and love finally combined,
I am the difference between illusions and dreams, nothing as it seems,
Nightmares and mirrages, a realm of infinity and finite by its means,
I am fusion and fission, with one simple yet very complex misssion,
Energy and indolence, a wall, another fence, questions upon answers
If small lies give rise to grand falsities, what is the truth gonna bring ?
A place where you should be able to feel reality and fantasy's sting,
Apathy and concern unite, come closer I don't really bite, trust me,
My teeth look sharp, yet they are blunt, you can rant or stay calm,
I am a living death wandering yet standing still, does it make you ill?
Generosity and greed are both present while they are missing, still!
Control the lies of your uncontrollable tounge, listen to the silence,
Could we possibly agree that this unanimity relies in total dissension?
I am the discouragement for your precious, little yet pure intentions,
Aimlessness for hope of a future unexplored yet near enough to grasp
I am the rue in pride, a lamp without light, elusive but not transient,
A harmonic ramgage, riots over the horizon in undefined dark light,
I am malevolent and benevolent, bent yet straight, right behind you,
What am I ?
~ Umi
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 7:53 PM UTC
I trace the memories kept behind like fingerprints.
The love we had is now crushed and swept away by a wave of
our indolence and insanity.
I go back to the time of sadness,
Because it was the sadness of her eyes the made me
happy
happy
happy
and somewhat sane…
All I have left are the mental photographs of what happened
and of wanting what could have been. I leave now with all the
things that I traced—things that can never be erased
like fingerprints that never
ever had changed.
I sit here alone in this disease-ridden couch, with my
disease-ridden hope. And I will memorize your eyes,
blinking to the rhythm of you heartbeat, dancing in a starlit daydream—as
I am wishing of a memory where you gave me
everything you had
and where I offered you the pieces that were left
of me.
I kept all memories of you in a heart-shaped box,
where it is slowly crumbling as time goes by.
I kept all your secrets,
your playbook,
your cards,
your broken cassettes and cigarettes
our now and always,
your sad eyes and the happiness you had
and which made me smile again.
So maybe fingerprints and memories share a common thing. They say
that “good things happen to those who wait”, I’d say keep on waiting,
******** I have been waiting, and still all I’ve traced is
the measurements of my
indolence and insanity. So yeah, keep on waiting.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
Texting somebody close to you,
Gossiping,
Chatting,
OMGees are all flying around,
LoLs flooding your tiny box,
Yet you're determined to stay aground.
I always have wondered why to limit,
Why to cap English or inhibit,
Replacing good ol’ words with some wicked text,
Emoticons they call,
Insipid, dull, and sluggish,
Emoticons they’re called.
Although indolence has reached its bounds,
And although my vote is utterly trifling,
Admit it,
Concede it,
Conclude it,
Emoticons’ presence should be abolished.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 7:30 AM UTC
This sore saviour keeps a straight-faced stare
Lips pressed tight, tongue wedged in teeth
While watching indolence twist in haste
To reach the next refuge
Revulsion that we two symbols share
That same motion-sickness fear
One of action, the other of consequence
Or lack thereof; without / within
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
it’s windy i think,
at least the windows are rattling.
the men in hard hats,
yellow motes off in the distance
and their jackets the colour
of poison,
they scale the façade
of the contralateral building.
they’re speaking, yelling,
probably catcalling, singing
their ugly songs on cherry pickers
like some crowned nest
of wagtails.
it’s early i think,
though the lights are always on.
they’re fluorescent, staining,
unflattering colouration, rinse
your skin to poverty,
to jaundice.
i’m here because of pills
i’m here because school is out,
i’m here because i’m tired
and i’m here because of you.
flowers sit at the side,
already dry upon purchase.
gifted awkwardly;
do we give flowers to a man?
a boy in sheets, foolish drunkard,
balloons with helium
to lift my spirits.
its lonely i think,
though it’s filled with people.
wristcutter, lupus, chemo
all thrown into one.
we’re what’s left post-production,
left to sit in an outlet store;
buy me for half-price
or else half an hour of company.
i’m the young one,
nurses scan me with motherly eyes,
the radiator warmth,
their rounded bosoms,
‘you remind me of someone’.
at twelve to three, she washes me,
asks me to lift my *****
so she can get at the two-day grime
of indolence.
it’s sad here i think,
at least the television is boring.
daytime ghosts and broken families
make my bedsheets gain weight;
even the balloon sags
in heavy misery,
nothing is mine.
sleep comes in fits
and starts in blankness.
it ends with my questioning
of where the dream began
and where hope had perished.
you haven’t come,
i knew that you wouldn't.
it’s hard to blame you,
what with my post-use pinings
long after you’d given up
and the way i act familiar
after treating you like a stranger.
i long to leave here,
so much the windows are rattling.
i’m here because i am
i’m here because of my job,
i’m here because i’m tired
i’m tired because of you.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
It is time to wake up
from the languid daydreams
that once I treasured so.
The place that used to be a haven,
an escape from life’s banality,
now feels like a gilded cage.
The mind wanders, untethered,
through sunlit corridors of indolence
pushing to see how far it can go.
Tantalizing me with possibilities,
never reality, this limbo
is only good for the occasional vacation.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
Indolence always gets the best of me
I feel like a jab
painting images without metaphors,
avoiding the intense visions of the lot
Indifferent, inebriated.
All demons slayed. Spread eagle.
Life seems to be a hassle,
in two ways on the same street
I am the attention *****
who wants to be left alone
Pushing them back only draws them closer
Today is no different,
a muse, a good laugh, a realization
my schedule is full again.
I just want to spend my time
anything else lacks luster
Goal: (noun)
1. aim, 2. end, 3. target, 4. purpose,
5. intention, 6. objective, 7. ambition,
I have none.
You can't force me, try as you may.
What does pique my interest is art
If I ever get over self indulgence,
which I will market emphatically,
I may consider starting a career
Controversies are fun, so is ******
to balance them both in one hand
and collect with the other
that is art.
Form, the world has never seen.
Abstract ambiguity rewriting itself.
Displeasing parents and loved ones around.
The one the perverts idolize
the critics would bow in awe to
Ah yes...
I feel so lazy.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
When did loneliness in a crowded room become a goal?
Eavesdropping on inspiration; indolence.
Like my art, pockets of brilliance are found
in the wreckage of a market town
with nothing left to sell. All those discordant
ideals of escape and of nothingness.
Still waiting for that ***** of light
which must always break through.
Isolation becomes a component of personality;
a need for space in overpopulated surroundings.
Like my art, pockets of living
congregate in moments torn from the clock face,
in lines of laughter and grief; the five o'clock champagne.
All that revel in maladjustment,
all who laugh at death,
those who had given up on The Lie.
When did my life reduce to words and symbols;
stealing poetry from the street-preacher's leaflets?
Like my art, pockets of reason
form amongst the senselessness of meaning;
how love sits different on every tongue,
how wine hits sweetly only in the need to run.
I have grown tired of running away,
this stalwart need for acceptance.
A want for a panic room,
a need to fall to pieces, undisturbed.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
.
I wanted to know the sighs
Of mercy. On the bed she lied,
Laid bare in the shocking light
That twitches, as she rolls
I hover and cage her in question,
With moist eyes, abandoned
By loves interrogations,
I stab at the untruths and confusions.
I wanted to hear the supplicant
Murmur of indolence and shame.
With windy caresses I break
Her arms, she ropes me red
In tangled hair and I struggle
To let go. I wanted to taste
The twin defeats of victory
And indifference, when in the light
Of darkest night there are cries of yes
And no and false accusations,
There is consuming pain and excruciating
Pleasure and as we squirm
And seethe, she teases,
Goading me and then,
I loose it.
.
Apr 15, 2021
Apr 15, 2021 at 6:56 PM UTC
reveries of sun-drenched prairies;
windswept under cottony clouds
golden-yellow in summery indolence
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 11:24 AM UTC
my thoughts, so potent just before--
like fresh-pressed olive drops
that lingered, lipping from the fragrant spout--
now pass, diffuse atop an ocean vast.
i imagine willing it to be a pond,
not for its lesser size alone
but mostly for its calm,
reflective height; yet
these waves are
distort ruthlessness
of liquid dust
by slapping, tower-high
the central ocean rip-whirl tide:
and gone--
as Homer's heroes screaming as they drown,
deaf as oars but for their final gasps
of yearned-for clarity:
of nameless pride's Ithacan king
abrading lustful wrists
restrained to blind a god's son's single eye
by tentacles of twisting, tactful fate.
by threaded loom rethreaded
soon i see my salty self in suit
of sameness, tricking time
by indolence or theft--
from truth, from others' hearths--
the difference winks in bubbles on the cosmic shore...
foam so clean i grin to call it spume,
grin to brace the seabed to my algaed chest
in salinating crush of sand, of blood-sharp shell and rock,
in sungreen warmth of blue and life
in crashing sinus wince
i grit aegean nereids in my sneeze,
splay their formless sexing into pelvic scrapes
of quickened starbursts anciently reborn,
squeezed in pleasure tears and laughing drops--
as all pelagic ***** must
within the pressure of a world,
its breathing darkness spotted with transmuted sun,
expel itself in sensate gusts--
as octopodal spurting flings
in liquid ****** of purpose forth,
(or backwards, sideways, in and out)--
so too i think
and thinking, drown my ink
instead of drowning thinking in my ink
.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
I think it better that in times like these
A poet keep his mouth shut, for in truth
We have no gift to set a statesman right;
He has had enough of meddling who can please
A young girl in the indolence of her youth,
Or an old man upon a winter's night.
1.6k
An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades.
It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms.
“Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.
“Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog.
“Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s *****
“Every man’s dream,” I confirm.
“Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word.
“Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add.
There’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught.
“We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested.
“Why me?” he whined.
“Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?”
“These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?”
“It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.”
There’s another knock.
“Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat.
“Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a lynch mob.
“Women and children first,” I remind him.
There’s a third knock.
“Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door.
“You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 9:06 AM UTC
a subversive poem is nutritious
a bowl of magic soup
to throw in the face
of complacency
and indolence;
but watch out
and its magic can go any way
like if writing a subversive poem
one is
in due course of time
made to eat one’s own words;
still
potion for oneself
or medicine for others
it's as necessary as the doctor
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 8:45 PM UTC
Standing under a waterfall fully wet
Mind was upset, now totally set
Drained all my tears with the water that fall
Now nothing can make me feel small
Fresh water falling from my head to toe
Cleaning my body and mind from the woe
Promising never to give up my dreams
For the sake of some bootless screams
Walking forward with perseverance
Leaving backward all my indolence !
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspiration of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,—
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights,—
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.
1.4k
Give me stairs
To attain some lofty pinnacle
For stairs are sheer simplicity
An elegant solution to reach some apogee
Incapable of failure unlike the
Mechanical complexities deriving from indolence
Presumed superior to the apparent drudgery
Of clambering upward unhurriedly and
Thus assembled ultimately to fail and frustrate my overwrought soul
While archaic stairs continue unwavering ever upwards
Give me stairs
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
*Is it sunbathing on the vast seashores
Of infinite indolence?*
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
the joyful indolence of a summer's day,
the siesta lull which wakes
to a slow pushbike ride,
or momentary lapses into conversation
under the shade of the banyan tree
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC
On the L:
She is simple and frivolous
You are far from chivalrous
She is fueled by fearlessness
You are pumped full of stimulants
She sees the entirety of innocence
You focus on the sombre imminence
She is bright & heavenly but wingless
Your eyes are dark with wickedness
She flicks her hair, always vertiginous
You are both unawarely synchronous
She smiles to her self, radiating magnificence
You feel the bitter grimace of indolence
something is changing, slightly, hardly noticeable
But her light, it shines on you
And you find your self shifting
Glancing at her sun tattoo
She turns to you & smiles
Then everything is changed
Everything floats for a while
As she puts her hand on yours
She scoffs - 'You look gloomy & brooding'
A chuckle escapes, long ago abhorred.
And slowly it'll spread
With the help of this lovely woman
But it'll take awhile for you to get into her head
And you will show her that the glass isn't half empty,
It isn't half full.
It's just a glass of water.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
Oh! Indians!
In this land of Harischandra, India,
The wheel of life moves indifferent
Why this indolence, seek the media
Come to inferences sadly different.
Pre-independent great leaders sacrificed
Disinterested in material benefits; they
Rooted in struggle for freedom, though crucified
The dripping blood stirred their spirit gay.
But, now the blood and the spirit are diluted
Generations of ingratitude grow up lazy.
Sans sense of history, love and being looted
Whereto we move, Oh! Indians! on way greasy.
Awake brothers think why we are betrayed
Like a hound chased sheep we are strayed.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
Gout.
I have heard of this obscure disease
Maybe in a Dicken's Novel once
A disease of indolence and wealth
Of red meat and alcohol
Of excruciating pain with no cure.
It winds up being in
The top ten most excruciating conditions
And my husband of 28 years has it big time
We are neither indolent or lazy
We don't drink hardly at all
We have almost no risk factors
Now this gout is chronic
Driving my husband from sleep
To the ER at 3 am this morning
Try prednisone this time. Sigh.
Aging is not fun
There is something as bizarre
As chronic gout
Who would ever guess
Such a weird thing
When you are 25?
I feel entirely powerless to help
Other than to pick up the slack
Do more chores,
Bring him pillows or an ice pack.
Enjoy your youth because
We are feeling it at only 53
The Buddha says we will all suffer
We all become older.
We all get sick
We all die
The mastery lies
In having pain, without it
Turning into suffering
But you can meditate a lifetime
On one koan
And still never achieve
Liberation.
When I was young I took it for granted
Smooth muscles gliding past each other
Tolerance for imperfect situations
And a general ease about life.
If I had to do it over again
I would have appreciated
My youth more than I did
Now that it is gone, it is most
Revered,
like the Buddha.
Maybe next lifetime
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
I fell in love with a poet,
a composer who sang his thoughts
I fear I hum the words he strums
Serenade, lullaby, his darling good night
His poetry heeds the universe and infinity
Forever is fairytale, forever there is hope
Surrealism is all he desires
Art is not perception, rather it touches the soul
Every inch of the poet is constellation,
not a speck of imperfection to my eyes
He knew what's in my heart
Synapse to synapse, untraced
The heartbeat chimes to the damsel who evanesced
Eternal, he churn and cling to her strings
Days, months, years
Endurance, indolence
I sit, I read, I decipher his thoughts
In hopefulness, someday,
the poet will devour me as his own.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 3:09 AM UTC
Who is the Artist and who is the Man, What differences lay therein?
Who is it that struggles more or less, is it a monopoly one over the other?
It is in the minds of all men to seek serenity and peace, to stand and hope for this is common to all.
Yes, we all have this in common, but the Artist has the tools with which to utter man’s dissent. This dissent to the injustices and violence’s waged upon the world and upon ourselves.
However, if the Artist believes that he is inculpable of these same injustices; his beliefs are that of indolence. For the Artist is no different in terms of the flesh and bone we speak of; this cage is inherent to all.
Struggle is also inherent. Who is it that has not done so? In this day and age as in most ages past, we have witnessed the violent upheaval of country against country, neighbor against neighbor. Americans and the world have watched towers and airplanes fall from the sky. And while this is agreeably horrific, we enlist and unleash a nationally based reprisal against our fellow human beings.
Yes, justice must be served, but it must be served by calm and learned hands. Some nine years later we find ourselves wallowed deep in the decay of war. And to what end has it been justified. The soldier will say that it is to bestow honor upon his fallen comrades and that is why the fight must go on. The politician will say it is to ensure stability in the affected region. The businessman will say it is to regain stability in the markets.
But the Man, the Woman and child only ask when will this end? The laid off workers, the new lower class of America, the grieving Mothers and Fathers, the limbless young men and woman. What is it that they see? The world’s future lies wounded upon an uncaring street.
And yet, what is it that an artist can do that a man cannot? The artist is a part of the melee, part of this violent soup. He may sit outside the bowl separate from the rest, but he cannot deny his complicity with this.
We must come to terms with our humanity as artists. For the artist to deny this would surely be the greatest lie. It is the twenty first century and we are the Writer’s, the artists of this age. What is it that we are prepared to tell the future? What is it that will be said of us and our work?
Let us not lie to them, let us not squander our opportunity to convey our perceived truths in the most laudable of lights. However we must all confess that we are first and foremost,
Man, simple men and women who struggle, who live, and die, who at times celebrate injustices, who embrace blind thought and bias’s, who breathe and bleed just as they, just as we… We are heartbeat and pulse of these times. But let us not hold that above our brothers and sisters, Let our combined works embrace the common man. For if not for him, Art is meaningless.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 4:33 PM UTC