"inhabit" poems
~*for M. both
a living one, and
imagined, too*~
10/5/25
just woke up and began to work;
the muses are cofuse-ed
they think when head hits pillow.
it is there then the~moment to
refill my head
with verses glorious, alas, alack,
into the sub-subconscious furnace they go
to melt, meld or even die
iron of ironies; 90% of these words,
were adrift in my head when I
to bed, "for to be repaired" last night, and
only came to be recalled @ 2:34 am
when them muses and you guru,
woke me to 'get outta bed', and you
who
bids me sleep,
this clashing arousal,
starts engine's cylinders to begin
live~composing, stoking and stroking,
to awake, create, reassemble and uncover
the poetic notions trans~versing my head
one-day, someday they will depart,
for cleaner, greener Champs-Élysées,
where reborn poets speak all languages
with equal fluency, eagerly awaiting
my spouting in Hindi (already ✅), in
Hebrew and any/all dialecticals this
god earth
ever mothered
And there you have it, my FPOTD, dear m.,
SUNday 10/5 & writ in the city where I am alive
in the Den of Writing, where the muses
like to hang out with their old companion,
until such time they will come to inhabit
a younger, well rested, equally restless,
a not-my-mine mind
<nml>
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 3:08 AM UTC
can you promise me
that you won’t commit suicide.
so there will be a
slight chance that you’ll
inhabit my future.
we could do amazing things together.
(...make happy memories and
have fights that will be made up…)
it’ll be a great story to tell our children—
(a great story indeed).
i promise that you’ll be satisfied—
(you’ll be satisfied).
i don’t care about the hugs and kisses.
(...that’s not love…)
(definitely not love.)
love is being with who makes you happy.
(you make me very happy).
i promise that you’ll be happy—
(i’ll make a million promises).
(...that will be kept…)
but can you promise that there will be a future.
for there to be a future,
you must stay alive.
(...don’t die, i love you…)
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky ----
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly **** out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness ----
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence
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Out here there are no hearthstones,
Hot grains, simply. It is dry, dry.
And the air dangerous. Noonday acts queerly
On the mind's eye erecting a line
Of poplars in the middle distance, the only
Object beside the mad, straight road
One can remember men and houses by.
A cool wind should inhabit these leaves
And a dew collect on them, dearer than money,
In the blue hour before sunup.
Yet they recede, untouchable as tomorrow,
Or those glittery fictions of spilt water
That glide ahead of the very thirsty.
I think of the lizards airing their tongues
In the crevice of an extremely small shadow
And the toad guarding his heart's droplet.
The desert is white as a blind man's eye,
Comfortless as salt. Snake and bird
Doze behind the old maskss of fury.
We swelter like firedogs in the wind.
The sun puts its cinder out. Where we lie
The heat-cracked crickets congregate
In their black armorplate and cry.
The day-moon lights up like a sorry mother,
And the crickets come creeping into our hair
To fiddle the short night away.
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Some day, if you are lucky,
you’ll return from a thunderous journey
trailing snake scales, wing fragments
and the musk of Earth and moon.
Eyes will examine you for signs
of damage, or change
and you, too, will wonder
if your skin shows traces
of fur, or leaves,
if thrushes have built a nest
of your hair, if Andromeda
burns from your eyes.
Do not be surprised by prickly questions
from those who barely inhabit
their own fleeting lives, who barely taste
their own possibility, who barely dream.
If your hands are empty, treasureless,
if your toes have not grown claws,
if your obedient voice has not
become a wild cry, a howl,
you will reassure them. We warned you,
they might declare, there is nothing else,
no point, no meaning, no mystery at all,
just this frantic waiting to die.
And yet, they tremble, mute,
afraid you’ve returned without sweet
elixir for unspeakable thirst, without
a fluent dance or holy language
to teach them, without a compass
bearing to a forgotten border where
no one crosses without weeping
for the terrible beauty of galaxies
and granite and bone. They tremble,
hoping your lips hold a secret,
that the song your body now sings
will redeem them, yet they fear
your secret is dangerous, shattering,
and once it flies from your astonished
mouth, they-like you-must disintegrate
before unfolding tremulous wings.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
In frames as large as rooms that face all ways
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise
Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine
Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves
Of how life should be. High above the gutter
A silver knife sinks into golden butter,
A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and
Well-balanced families, in fine
Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars,
Even their youth, to that small cube each hand
Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs
Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars
(Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats
By slippers on warm mats,
Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares
They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise
Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam,
Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes
That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made
As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home
All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs
Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs,
And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents
Just missed them, as the pensioner paid
A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea
To taste old age, and dying smokers sense
Walking towards them through some dappled park
As if on water that unfocused she
No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near,
Who now stands newly clear,
Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.
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Catapault me into chaos,
I wish to get a little closer.
Your tainted eyes speak to me.
I wish to get to know you,
just a little bit better.
If I can handle it,
I'll stick around and play.
Too much pain is a killjoy.
If it burns too much,
I'll blow out the fire someday.
Criss-crossdresser,
I'm seduced into your submission.
My identity remains in shambles,
I'll see you on the otherside,
as I walk through this transition.
A possible phase,
or a permanent reside?
I am lost in mindless self indulgence.
If I dance in the rain,
I'll no longer have to hide.
An eternal blue flame,
made of youth and spirit.
Love could only feed the madness.
To remain the same,
is something my mind could never inhabit.
So dance, and dance,
and sing the tunes of duality.
I experiment with composure.
And once I find balance,
my dream will be that much closer
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
Watch me as I fall
without you.
I've spent years
perfecting this dark energy;
you are not the first
to leave me longing.
Watch closely.
I can build a statue
from ashes,
inhabit order
surrounded
by chaos.
Watch as I consume,
without myself,
myself.
I can fall,
but I cannot fail.
Watch.
You only scratched
the surface
of who I was
and am,
but you let loose this
agony -
my flood,
my fuel.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
Be the Warrior Spirit and
Fight for the light
A soldier for creation
With all of your might
Projecting the love
Of all Saints
Day and night
Walk with great fire
With a passionate rattle
Ignite and inspire
An affectionate battle
Beam from the heart and
Jump into the saddle
Be
A Lightworker
A Healer
A Mystical Weaver
Stand with Divine Mother
As a Cure-all Receiver
Spirit will guide you
Empowered by faith
Our weapon is love
****** forward with grace
As we kneel down to pray
We
Push light in the earth
Watch it roll through the cracks
Crawl up every fountain
Follow the tracks and
Inhabit the mountains
Spread out in the grass and
Reach up to the sun
Reflecting it back
With love
Only love
Be the Warrior Spirit
Fight for the light
A soldier for creation
With all of your might
Projecting the love
Of all Saints
Day and night
Projecting the love
Of all Saints
Day and night
© tHE tERRY tREE
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
Precise and organized
is the place we live.
A chair, a city, a country, a world, a galaxy,
all have systems of organization.
Running like clockwork,
precise and intricate,
everything in the universe is perfect.
But I don’t understand why.
I think to myself:
Why is the universe not a messy soup?
How is everything so independent physically?
The universe was once chaotic, random, and tumultuous.
But now it is neat and calm.
We live in a tranquil era of the universe
where such a world we inhabit can exist.
This entropy has served us well.
We don’t have to worry.
Everything will be alright.
Yet as I write this war and struggle encompass our earth.
People are dying in the hands of their loved ones.
Screams, tears, shots, explosions.
These frightening realities
come from a beautiful blue marble of a planet.
Life requires just right conditions
to grow and evolve.
Yet life is the sole imperfection in this universe.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
By my dear angel Sandalphon as he has been lead in my hand, leaving a clear trail of a cursive writing on a transient sheet of paper,
A crimson sight, so black that one would be caught in trance, reflected by unnatural light of a lamp flickering in the dark of the night, as his feather releases a sweet scent of fresh yet unused ink,
Together with Zadkiel's blooming and happy memories I then am capable to write such down, in an attempt to create poetry, focused,
The sound of scratchy, itchy, rasping echos through this room I inhabit, but already left spititually, engaged in the world of fantasy,
Word by word, the paper is penetrated by this pen, pleasantly, thoughtfully, gently sliding over it to not damage it by accident,
There is no need for haste, heartache nor rush, not is there the need to be concerned about this angels work, duty and his mission to accompany me throughout each and every writing which unfurls,
Alike a story from my mind, from my emotions, deepest wishes, cast on the physical realm with his help,
And once his strengh weakens, fades, loses might and goes out alike an dying ember he will be dunked in fresh ongoing determination, so that he can repeat his duties with exuberance, joy
Casting a smile on my face once literature has been created,
As then I lay my dark knight, my servant for the night to rest,
Until another poem has to be written and his duty awakens him,
After all, in this dreamlike tale it is well to remember;
You don't have to die in a dream
~ Umi
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
All we really want is to make our mark
Getting caught up in the what and the how
We loose track of our ground, our feet
That have been in motion since breath
And there we’ve already begun
And left remains
Our desire for remembrance clouds
Our ability to pulse in the zone
We currently inhabit
Like animals we compete
To find the best of the best and the rest aren’t important?
The dew of the new is just as fresh as the old ones tale revived
on a cold night but
by the summer sun
I am scorched
By each,
equal
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
*We are all painters
Holding a color palette
Conceiving a painting
It’s how we mix the colors
Depending on our imagination
Whether we paint happiness
Or scenes of saddened gray
Situations yield the paintings
Sometimes splashing all colors
Or else black colors gloom
Universe has mostly dark energy
Yet, we have found our colors
To paint our abode, we inhabit
No matter, colors of joy and sorrow
We celebrate all colors
We are all painters, wielding the brush
To create new colors of hope*
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
split the atom an we get fission
mass becomes energy
but can we split a second
enter the essence of the present
what would it mean to us
to be that mindful
ask your self doesn't your mind
only occupy past future
abjectly incapable of living in the present
in the true present there could not be even a ghost of a thought
theres no time to think
can we enter
an incalculable split second
and totally take in that instant
with a forgotten organic technology
is it the big bang in perpetuity
yet quiet as a mute
a raging ever expanding sea in a connected
but distinct dimension
if you entered it
would it not utterly erases all of history
the thinkers and doers along with it
the step beyond the alpha and omega
the great underlining reality
imagine the penetrated moment
an all consuming unimaginable
trans-mutational merge
omnipotent
yet forever imperceptible
to those among us
time locked
an irreducible limitation
like an ant in a closed paper bag
a fixated reflexive machine
wandering aimlessly
with an unknowable mission
and a relentless survival mechanism
with no chance of survival
time as a cosmic metabolism
its medium space
a vast cauldron
an infinite vessel containing endless points of light
everywhere
myriad phenomena
its terrain and the temporal creatures that inhabit it
both exquisite and hideous
an incalculable zoo
histories victors and victims
one and all vanquished
by the curse
consciousness of dis-juncture
a merciless countenance of limitation
yet could time be an illusion
rooted in a narrow awareness
bereft of an eternal
inexhaustible self effulgent now
the rapture
an eternal ******
if we could only penetrate into it
would it swallow us
and blot out the drama of creations theater
is the
now
conscious
illimitable
ecstatic
a perfect meta moment ?
we hear from sacred texts
like the Vedas... Bhagavad Gita.... and Kabbalah
that we may enter beyond the veil
passed time and its ravages
passed mind and its distortions
not to the heaven of religion
in its endless
closed system precepts
anthropomorphic metaphors
theistic gobbledygook
and
sophomoric social engineering
a kind of cliffs notes
god for dummies
we can enter
the eternal abode of the divine
a point between
the splitting of seconds
revealed through the simple act of mindful breathing
pierced by the effort of a focused mind
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 8:09 AM UTC
Humans are demons to creatures
With whom we inhabit the land.
And the sea of course,
We destroy their life source,
No one is exempt from the wrath of man.
How does it feel to be a monster?
A plague on this fragile earth?
That can't support our greed
Or our irrelevant needs.
Who are we to judge an animal's worth?
To look into an animal's eyes
And say our actions are justified
Requires more denial
Than is my style.
I can't support the way they died.
We treat animals like commodities.
Use them for food, sport, game.
It isn't quite right
To crush them with our might.
The way we treat them is a shame.
So when you ask me
Why I choose this life
Maybe you'll see
Animals should be free
From the human inflicted strife.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
I am a controlling boyfriend.
No, I am not a male, nor do I have a girlfriend to abuse. But I am the crazy stalker controlling boyfriend.
I have realized something in myself:
I am free with my boy and his casual flirtations, but am extremely jealous and possessive of my girls, when I have one.
Or even in my present case of not having one, I want to possess her as she has possessed me. I want all your time, all your thoughts, as you inhabit mine.
“How do you handle the jealousy??" It's funny, I don't get jealous when I have both partners in my bed, or in my arms. That is when I’m most content.
I get jealous when outsiders are flirtatious or show interest. It's also funny, I'm more annoyed when people flirt with him thinking he’s unattached.
I don't get it either; just a quirk of mine.
Perhaps my nonchalance with my boy is merely grown out of our time together. In nearly seven years, not one has managed to create a rift. Those who have tried have failed, and he and I have come out the better.
Patience is a virtue I do not possess, and the longer I go on incomplete... mayhap my own fears make me dig my claws into a new potential. Fear that someone else will charm such a rare unicorn away from me/us, and we’ll be left again, searching.
Nor is this a new feeling, for this young woman. A year ago, I felt the same overwhelming possessiveness. Then again, it would not do to compare the two; they are two different people, who hold different qualities.
The bitter jealousy I now project I have tasted before. The shock that I’ve become my own controlling high school boyfriend fills me with disgust.
Unbeknownst to her, I imagine her not only in my bed, in my arms, in my life… but also on my knee. I’ve never before considered someone as both lover and submissive.
Unbeknownst to me, would that make my jealousy grow or fade, were I to possess her in every way I’ve imagined?
Obviously I have some things to work on.
Firstly, finding our unicorn.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
During her blood moon was the best time to make her moan,
make her legs shake and weak,
Feel her scratch down my arms and peel up my skin
Only 3 days it would last
but during those periods...
she would release multiple times
With the red moons spawn
a bear in the woods would evolve,
hunting her flood through a blessed disaster
finding what I was after,
in a late night spatter
Her finger tips hiding
the stake in my pants,
she'll soon be riding
In these moments I feel a crave,
a longing to misbehave,
Within blankets and sheets we inhabit this cave
Our leveled off breathing
will not reveal harm
Take shelter in the warm of more than apparent
and reside until morning in the arms of the inherent
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
This here...my heart is a book
Sadness and hope inhabit most pages
Marred by past experiences that took
Scribbled are the ironies and broken adages
Worn pages tainted by the lowest of my days
Dark ink leave them smeared and stained Fresh ones stay crisp; free from nays
Awaiting dreams and wishes I have not gained
Silent are the pages still left unwritten
As though I have saved them for something
For future chapters yet to happen
For you to come and begin your writing
Welcome the pen that would herald a new start
Imagined it's ink to bear the flightiest notions
It would speak in volumes ensnaring the heart
It would sing a song with the sweetest of emotions
Seep in, dear ink, into my pages past and new
Seep through, dear ink, feel free to make your mark
Seep strong, dear ink, maybe you could undo
Seep true, dear ink, and bring light to the dark
But rip not the old for they forever will speak
Lessons that are learnt, strength that was bestowed
Tears that's been shed, happiness that I seek
Gloom that was braved, hope that I have sowed
Come, my heart is your book
You are the sole pen to my infinite pages
Ink are your words that would fill every nook
Eternal is the bond that would last through ages
This here...the rest of the pages are yours
Occupy them as you have in my everyday
I was saving them not knowing my course
Almost as if I knew you'd come to pen the words you'd say
A promise as sure as the sun would rise
A promise made as good as the noblest of men
My book is open to our laughs and cries
As long as you would forever remain my pen
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
there is a darkness
that the silver song
of soft illusion lights
in symbolic equivalents
of images real
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
the breakage
at the jagged edges of the world
and lays hostage to impersonation
that resembles fragments
of smashed oval shaped mirrors
reflecting pieces of broken
brown terracotta soldiers
and causes the eyes to hurt
with a watched inner holocaust
of disturbing coloured detonations,
implosively autonomous
given to a deceived departure
a departure from reality
given by the advocacy
of ideological rationalism
that sees three kings
with blood on their crowns
in amplified convulsions
call mustre for
disturbance, disorder, destruction
and death
as blood stains the Balkan streets
and all emotional impulse
is volatilized
and a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy
stalks the land
where sustaining minds
are subject to a brutal insensitivity
that dazzles on the edge of a spiral vertigo
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
a vocabulary of incoherence
like the rancid stains of *****
that inhabit the jagged edges of the world
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
By my dearest angel Zadkiel as he moves in a clear path, round,
rhytmically, step by step his gears lead him through the passing time.
A golden sight, sparkling, twinkling from the reflection of light.
Locking me, tugging me, embracing me into the deepness of my
own thoughts, which unfold, bloom and become happy memories.
As reality and illusion become one, on the peak of their pleasure,
By time ticking on, now they share the same heart.
This golden coloured pocket watch, cuts through the darkness
within me, with my very own wishes as I yet sink deeper into
deeper thoughts, hypnotic, pleasant, I watch how the minute passes.
The memories created by these thoughts are becoming love,
So that the world I inhabit in is filled with even more light
Tick, tock, making delicate sounds, as he moves unconditionally,
Round and round again until the time has come and he is put to rest.
As then with newfound strengh, he repeats his daily duties as
an source of energy, an ember of determination enters him.
And so, another smile has been cast on me by his gentle movements.
~ Umi
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
Antimatter mirroring our existance on the pathway of a reverse world
Imagine it, time stands still, halts without a will to continue its flow if it were to possess one to begin with, and everything is but fragile,
Illusionary moon, shine on in this distorted realm in which not even gravity is reliable or even trustworthy at this point, up is down here,
An imperishable night caught under a spell of eternity, uninterrupted
Everlasting, permanently shining, the fake moons appearance is clear,
Unremitting, sweetly told as a if it was a lie, the rumours of this world spread more likely like a disease through the ancient, young earth,
A line parallel drawn to ours, a dimension coexisting without sense,
It appears to be fragile, like a newborn child, the smallest disturbance would mostlikely ruin it's balance, bring tremor upon it wretchedly,
But where that life sparkles as then fades, two dimensions surely would overlap, of course, maybe it will be the world you inhabit, no?
In the realm of the dead, a loitering, lingering darkness thins the borders of reality and illusion, causing them to exist as one, now with the same heart and soul, a fantasy heaven which became reality,
After all, that place is only temporary,one surely could even call it a;
Short living eternity,
~ Umi
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC
A sea of love,
Hard to find, yet refreshing as the sea of tranquility,
Love blooms on the water's surface, filled with joyful tears,
A moist mare of serenity, coming with the open eye of the heart, to embrace what it holds so dear, sincere, pure and precious,
Free of the cold, the warm water tugs its beloved into the deepness of the ocean, causing them to become lost in this sensational emotion,
Alike a holy place, the sky above is compareable to a sea where clouds inhabit; fluffy and comfortable, made in heaven,
But beware; beware of the mare of storms, the fight to the finish only the ocean of crisis has followed, patience has proven to be the key,
Sometimes, all it takes is an closed eye of love to witness the beauty of this world, beyond measure, may a sea expand in their hearts,
So that they may understand, that even the dark side beholds light,
So that it can be easier to coexist in peace, harmony and serenity,
Free from all what is bad, except the pure fury and hate against the worst of all deeds and of what follows them in this regard,
Maybe then, humans would understand; living is very beautiful
~ Umi
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 6:02 PM UTC
Gold glitter
Only stays on the ceiling
When the upholstery is gray.
Church gyms are suddenly
Piggy banks to play
Basketball upon.
I will draw a city on
The bulletin board
And owl pushpins will inhabit it.
My mind is no longer in a
Casing of gray rick-rack
And suppositions I do not feel.
It is a precarious thing to
Play a solar piano
Under the midday sky.
Have you ever heard
A pumpkin-flavored
Volkswagen van?
It happened suddenly
That everything I could possibly
See became a photography contest.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
***Boundaries are in our minds
The land is for us to inhabit
Peace will prevail
If we transcend our mind’s boundaries***
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC