"inflections" poems
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation. Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
Have you ever felt like a child in the dark?
Where the whispers become thunder and the gods pound in your heart?
There's no sense in trying to quiet the storm
All that can be done is to embrace it with both arms
I feel like a traveller stumbling on a chest
Filled with something familiar but I can't quite place it yet
I found a picture lying in the dirt
As my mind was turned on by the velvet colored shirt
Some time ago, when my hair reached my eyes
I recall a quick visit that seemed to disappear and die
No matter how hard I try to remember
I can't come up with reasons I gave up that cold September
Now, as time's gone by, and things have changed
Like the inflections of my voice and memories estranged
I hear a voice from many Septembers ago
Like a harmony so rich that I can't wait to know
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds
Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual
My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary
Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments
I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path
The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux
As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate
Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift
Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary
Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode
And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the black bird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
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Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience .
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation . Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
- Wallace Stevens (not me)
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
I am smashed down
By the worlds standards
With such physical expectations
My hopeless heart sinks
So small, so small
so small, I am
As I am haunted by
the images of tender Beauty
Powerless and worthless, I feel
As I walk daily, shrinking inside
I hold my dignity tight
As this shrinking violet
Hides in her great forest
Cheeks all flushed and red
I scurry behind some foliage
Surrounded by my own dead wood
The lashing striking pain
The whips of many masters
Draw blood from my many old wounds
As I become aware of my infected self
Far to much it is for me
As I play pass the parcel
With all my friends
As youth shines its splendor,
its brightness, claiming all the sky's
I am burned by its great heat
My skin scorched
For such beauty can feel
like the furnaces of hell
For what God would curse us
With such inadequacy and shame
In this half life
For I live in a darkened room
Of many locked doors
Where I have cut my own
Arms and legs off so
That I may live in this world
As I live on silent scraps
While the world enjoys its harvest
and feasts on Gods bounty
But better it is to be the limp inadequate
That can only fail to catch
Helplessly left only to observe
As a great physical Prowess
Can be a great curse
For much seeing is lost
In the unquenchable appetite
of hungry feasting Lion's
As there is in the glory of conquest
The soul can be long forgotten
The seeds of my shame
And inflections of inadequacy
Where burdens, never of God's will
But sewn by the devil himself
To hide the majesty of God's creation
So I relax to observe
The weeding of my gracious God
As I am relieved of each passing pain
I fall into blissful acceptance
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
The casket was coming up, swaying and wobbling
Like a novice skater’s layover spin,
The workings proceeding apace,
The stillness of the August heat
Punctuated by disinterested growl of the backhoe,
The occasional out-of-place jocularity by the excavators
The creaky jingle of the chains holding the muddied box
As it proceeded skyward in its clumsy poor-man’s Resurrection.
The affair was being observed by an elderly couple,
Old enough to be of no particular age.
Their car had Carolina plates,
But their inflections, their casually-tossed idioms
They noted that ruefully The grass needs mowed)
Marked them as natives.
They’d returned (Last time, most likely,
The wife uttered mournfully)
To take their son with them; he’d drowned when was five? six?
(The years will do that to a body, apparently)
In Kinzua Creek some half-century ago,
Back when little boys weren’t under a mandate
To be safe from themselves, as it were.
He was our boy! We’ve never forgotten him!
The old man said, the words snapping off
In a manner that spoke of something else altogether,
How the whistle at the Montmorenci
Went off at three and eleven for second shift,
And your *** had better be there,
As those were good jobs that didn’t wait for bereavement leave,
Because there was always someone
Just itching to take your spot on the line,
And anyway life went on,
At least in the sense that television screens went all to snow
And tires went flat and fuses blew
And eventually a dead child
Is not always in the forefront of your thoughts,
Only tiptoeing in when the Press ran a picture
Of the Montmorenci Area Class of whenever,
Or there was an item about some other family
Who opened their front door
To a grim sheriff’s deputy with his hat in his hand.
Eventually, after some time
And in defiance of both the odds and gravity,
The casket was settled into the back
Of the undertaker’s huge old black Caddy,
And the couple cane-toddled back to their car,
Following out the through the old spider-like gates
And onto the main road.
The brief procession fading from sight,
Until there was nothing left to see
Save the hillsides covered in old growth pine.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
When great aunt Maggie passed away years ago, the one thing I really missed was her angelic voice.
The swaggering, sing-song lilt of the mid-Derry accent was as sweet as the confections she used to pass out to us as kids:
The inflection, the intonation, and the slight lisp she brought to it was so gloriously unique but was never heard again.
I often wish I could go back with a tape recorder to capture it in all its glory and relive how wonderful she was.
Now all I have is a untranslatable memory that can't be brought back to even vaguely approximate what it meant to me.
And now here I am again with the same obstacle.
The same tones, the same inflections albeit through a different light have just been extinguished before me.
This time there was no digital device rushing in to capture our time before it ran out.
No instinct for preservation was forthcoming - we were too busy having fun & 'being here now'.
No, once again I am bereft:
All I I have is here (in my heart) and and here (in my head)
The loved sounds I miss will always resound there albeit without backup
Voices lost but not forgotten.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 8:04 AM UTC
Life is a puzzle
That won't be solved
By the argument of your mind.
It can neither be cracked
In ivory towers
Nor in the parlors of grapevine.
The mystery of life
Crowns the benighted
With a twist of a wand
Leaving the enlightened
To commune with the dark.
At best, it is a glass enclosure
Attuning your moves
Along the belt of blessing
Beneath the shelter of stars
And at its worst,
A dungeon floor
Delineating your lot
In unbending reality
Under the dome of despair.
Exposed to eternal pumping
Of raw information,
Student of life knows
But a speck of curricula
At any given time
The process of life's lessons
Extends well beyond the grave
Not even multiple lifetimes
May suffice to scratch the surface
Let alone discover the core
Yet the student of life
Knows no limit
Goes to village today
And metropolis tomorrow
Mounts a mustang to Shangri-la
Hops on a boat to outland.
Tantamount to the amount of stars
Are pictures of life
Full of synonyms and antonyms
Boding inflections and reflections
Of thought, taste and bearing
In the academy of day-and-night.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:40 AM UTC
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
2.6k
We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon.
Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista.
It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again.
We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning.
Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog.
A mottled neophyte -
Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud.
Aching to kiss your skin -
In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence.
Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome.
Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus.
Its intent –
A veneration of you.
It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor.
The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today,
Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage
Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree
Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite
Atomic schism – silent but felt
It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency.
Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore.
Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis.
Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel
The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it.
Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse
Inverse thermonuclear fusion
It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Gene Wilder's ***** Wonka* once asked me
to step into a world
of pure imagination
and I danced to his voice
of sugary imperfections.
The swelling strings drizzled
on top falsetto inflections
captured me childishly
with candy-coated attentions
But even the finest chocolate melts,
and I learned to let purity be
pushed by treacly lyrics
or stern midgets secure
in their fudge-topped zealotry.
It sifts too pretty for me,
powdering my grown-up
infatuations with petty
wants, getting a little messy
What I crave instead's stained-glass contraptions
to propel me past the stretches
of biblical proportion
where light and dark don't mix.
I'm no Idiot, good-hearted
in the veins of Fyodor
or Akira, and I can't see
beyond the pure tedium
of a blurredly driven snow
I like my mental drifts grime-choked and splotched
with some savory do
dropped in to dissolve flossy
confections to a salted soup
of imagined impurity.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 6:08 PM UTC
Fibre optic cables,
clipped conversations,
partial strangers,
networked communications,
keyboard ambiance,
anxious remonstrations,
system failures,
nicotine meditations
smudging frames,
hierarchical mediation,
computerised bleeps,
opaque mechanisations,
brightening windows,
verbose inflections,
silks ties,
limited reverberations,
exaggerated flirtation,
bowel eliminations,
pointless days,
power imitations,
numeric values.
insurmountable situations,
digital bleeds
eventual discontinuation
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
against my face and ears.
Forever pummeling the
inflections across my jaw
like a teacher who is overworked
and underloved.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 6:05 PM UTC
a coffee shop
a normal saturday morning
i wait at the speckled counter
and count the deformed donuts with sickened reassignment
a little girl is sitting at a diner table to my left
she stares at me with awe and darts up
handing me a picture she looks right at me with glee
“oh wow did you make this?” i ask
in the way an adult talks to a child
she nods and i say “this is great
do you draw a lot?”
she shakes her head no
“well you should” i say
and she, laughs and says
“no, i don’t need to do it more.
it doesn’t matter
i do it when i want to
i just like to”
i think of the way the little inflections upon her talk
mirror in my mind the voice of camus
you are not just what you do
you are more than the opportunities in your environment
absurdity arises in the aperture between you and the world
the world is real but the choices it allows
how can you exist when they close around you
from all sides, like a test from hell—i mean school
we have to choose a b c d
it doesn’t give a human space to breath—i mean, be
what i’m saying is
i’ve been washed up into the land
you go to when the fairies die
i’ve learned to lie with a very straight face
i’ve been had by the dollar bill
and in some twisted way
i only work for the prize these days
and still i’m willing to admit
a child outwitted me
and i’d rather it be that way
because sometimes i need to be put in my place
while rational and logical and adult
i have been living without being
and she
has tripped the strings
attached to the knots in my fingers
and my throat
this poem, i owe it to her
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 4:23 PM UTC
When I'm with you
My only enemy is time
I force myself to forget to think about it
To focus on you
To focus on your eyes
The inflections of your voice
On the way your skin feels
To focus on the way you hold me
I just want to take as much of it in
But I know it's getting late
So I pull myself away
To recount the moments I spent with you
And wrap them up in memory
To keep them warm
For as long as possible
Because in the next second
Time's up
And we depart
And they're all I have to remind me of you
Until we see each other again
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
She wore an air of mysticism
Her memory bore prophetic visions
From ancient egyptian
And judaic traditions
She knows every star system
And every night is a mission
Where she wishes and wishes
For help from the legends
Feeling the kundalini extension
A timeless moment in meditation
She rode a chariot of ascension
With many faces
Facing in all directions
Interpreting new races
There was
Communication retention in
Multidimensional dimensions
And convoluted intentions
Creating dense tension
Leaving her in suspension
Then, there was a call for attention
And she witnessed the mention
Of helping Earths' ascension
Words whispered with foreign inflections
Melted away her apprehensions
With familiar definitions
And promising space faring inventions
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
Make love to me with
your poem ,your poetry.
Flow slowly-do not rush it.
not so fast.
Let your words last.
Stroke me slowly
Put your back into it.
Caress my totality
Draw me into your world
let me succumb -to your glib tongue
I hear your commands
As you slowly express
how capable you are
Expanding my mind
taking me places I've never been
Firmly holding me in the grips
of your suspense.
I was tense
Waiting for the end - you letting me
down gently as your poem ended
I bask in the after math-of a poetry bath
Thinking of the ecstasy of
where your poetry took me.
I let down my hair-because
you swoon creativity
I get off on your enunciation
and affections- inflections
Word erections-sensitivity
and vulnerability
Allowing me to feel every word-
as you speak slowly
you enter me with your "diction".
Slow and easy you speak to me
Stroking me with your poetry...
You took me to peaks
of ecstasy-with your
sweet glib tongue
and that's why I -
let you make ...
Make sweet Poetry to me..
.© Vicki Acquah
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
Isn’t it strange
how in this brief exchange
of the creative impulse
we gain
a certain kind of intimacy
with each other
yet we never
smell each other
shake hands
breathe the same air
put up with personal idiosyncrasies
and off-putting voice inflections –
all the things our friends and loved ones have to.
Yet here we occupy hearts and minds
many of our friends and loves do not know
with such closeness, interiority, and connectedness.
What a strange and magnificent gift!
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 12:32 PM UTC
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!"
(from the libretto of Handel's Semele -
opera.stanford.edu/iu/libretti/semele.htm)
think of your ears as an
ever alert, high pitched,
sensory tuning fork,
an aural radar, searching for that
acute, oblique,
perforating and poking phrase,
that lost airplane of solace
buried and too well hid
in the vastness of
empty, characterless searchable seas
that rarely yield up their
comforting finery
when discovered, tripped upon,
instant recognition pleads
"write me down,
write me up,
delve me,
determine me,
make me more!"
t'is a thrumming vibrato
interfering with mind,
that phrase, that phrase, that phrase
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!"
content coursing through the eyes,
piercing veils of hum drum dumbing down,
a life spying drone eliciting excitedly
a high value target,
an unexpected mission,
camouflaged amidst the
chit chat droning of the
choking ordinary and commonplace
*murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own
tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life,
You
murmur me again to peace*
even the words
be prepared to sacrifice, surrender,
but promise me that
the Justice of
-just-
thy tone,
thy inflections,
will gentle
the infecting turbulence
of being a plain, tried and trialed human
let me not
catalogue the onerous,
the burdening barbell weights,
we carry for no purpose
Give us
our daily bread of a singular
phrase~prayer~poem,
our verbal bond, modest sequest,
honey oatmeal, cut up strawberried
jewel,
give it, me this day,
my daily soothing
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!"
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
You messaged me yesterday.
Snide words about present company
and then wanted to see me. I agreed
because I no longer remembered the
sound of your voice. Those tones
and inflections that make the
ugliest insults sound like a church choir.
Spiritual. Soulful.
Your laugh rang through the car
like it has through the hollows
of my mind every night when
eyes are closed, beds are empty
and I try to remember the sound
of your voice.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 8:39 AM UTC
I venerate and hold memories
That cover my hands like you did
Conforming to my flesh and warming me
A pair of gloves to stave off the cold of missing you
I taste what you left me
And I am reminded of your lips
That impressed upon me
What it means to wish
I am ardent for that seeping joy
The deep chords that your hands would play
Softly and sweetly entreating me
To desire and sing for you
I hear your voice transmitted
Missing inflections and a face
You are half realized
In this way- but
You still cover me with care
Your affection tailored to my tiny hands
Love is all encompassing
You are my definition.
Apr 18, 2011
Apr 18, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
In particular evinces of comparable obliviousness
To implications of extraneous misunderstandings
That bring a melancholy of limited constrictions
Makes one articulate anxiety in dazzling reform
Of vibrant linguistic experimentation of lawless incongruity
Resulting in rhetorical pyrotechnics that defy inflections
And a wild farrago of tongues that boast a fecundity of speech
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 5:49 PM UTC
Ripples of water, reflections of the night sky
and inflections of why, words came but all authors’
pens dried and faltered, moments of the divine
lost to the sacrilege of time, feeling came but altered.
Darkness came and surrounded,
confusion came and confounded,
as deep as valleys, as tall as mountains,
heartbeat in chest pounded.
Little lamp lead the way, the end is not today.
Tomorrow will come and stay, so do what I must to stay
a lit by this gentle flame, as all of will not be in vane.
I said aloud in a moment of panic to stay sane.
But time came and the light did not falter,
faith grew in this little, little light of mine,
and it grew to shine without any signs of alter.
Hope flickered as the flame stayed a lit on the twine.
Alone and afraid, frayed rope dwindling
burning as vibrant kindling, however closer did it fade
luckily in the darkness laid, countless stars swindling.
My heart rejoices as I have made it to the rekindling.
No longer alone, no longer afraid
pulse dropped, pounding stopped
the stars came and a lit my flame
I need to thank them all by name.
As I laid staring up at the stars,
feeling so small and alone on Mars,
I forgot all of the people who have came
who shared their soul and flame.
I hope I can keep being your flame,
and a piece of yours mine.
Days will be dark and dreary,
but shine on and shine forth into the night.
Mar 25, 2021
Mar 25, 2021 at 12:03 PM UTC