"inscribe" poems
*consciously, willfully, I wish it
quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment
the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity
consciously, willfully, I wish it
once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?
consciously, willfully, I wish it
the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place, be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically
consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*
8/27/17
6:35pm
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
Mother Mary, Mother Mary,
Whisper in my ear.
Give me something tangible to touch –
Something audible to hear.
Send me a sign, so I know I am alive.
I want to know it’s not in vain
The I let the world inscribe
Such a mark upon my soul.
Give me a sign to make me whole.
Help me find peace through the chaos.
Just let me know you’re in control.
Mother Mary, Mother Mary,
Whisper in my ear.
I know each breath could be my last –
Yet, my death I do not fear.
I’ve been shackled by my questions
And I’ve watched them as they’ve grown.
I searched endlessly for answers –
When all along I should have known
That the answers I seek are not ones that can be found.
So I pray that you’ll whisper. I pray I’ll hear the sound.
I pray that death holds more than what we bury in the ground.
It’s been nearly twenty years, and somehow I still have faith.
But I fear the truths I know are lies; I fear that virtue is a waste.
Still, I wait for your whisper,
Mother Mary, Mother Mary.
Despite how much I’ve suffered; this burden I still carry.
Because I trust this world holds reason.
I trust my struggle wasn’t worthless.
Mother Mary, Mother Mary,
I pray I suffer for a purpose.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 7:01 AM UTC
*Poetry moves from within our souls,
It's emotions pouring out
Covering us in rhymes and flow,
Like rain from the clouds*
***Infinite letters, words and phrases
In various permutations we play
Collaboration between heart and mind
Breathed into these pieces that we lay***
*Touching lives with our written form
Healing with words, what's poetically true
Freedom of expression, thoughts and ideals
Crying out in ink, until our sadness is through*
***Similar in thoughts but meander through individual routes
We all sing the same but to different rhythm and tunes
Inscribe our innermost but to varying worthy causes
We all draw inspiration but from the same loyal moon***
*A different form of art, yet art none the same
It's in the eye of the beholder, so they say
Poetry is life drawn in pen, it's not an erasable game
It truly breathes life, looking forward to each new day*
***We proudly fly our diverse flags
United under one banner
We revel in words of poetry
In the hopes they'd last forever***
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
I don't know how to describe
But they all seem to inscribe
Their every pain on me
Whenever someone feels down
I just kind of start to frown
But they will never see
I know it doesn't make sense
My feelings are so intense
And they drive me crazy
What I feel is much deeper
The cliff doesn't get steeper
Will I ever be free?
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 2:41 AM UTC
Long ago, on my
unpatriotic ways,
with anger patriots
turned ablaze.
They ill-treated me
with words of abuse,
even classes on patriotism
was of no use.
One day patriotic
tonic I drank.
It made all the difference,
to be frank.
Now professor of patriotism
I've become.
To hear my lectures
many patriots come.
And before my patriotism inspires
enemies of North and West
and before my nationalism
they easily bear and digest
and before Chinese
people of the North
have understood my
patriotic lecture's worth
and before their Olympians
represent Nation of mine
and before we get medals
in abundance this time
and before Pakistanis
decide to turn traitors at once,
inspired by my patriotic views
and my eloquence
and before Indians use golden
words for me to describe
and before my name
in history they inscribe
and before people start
giving me much respect
and before my big and
large statues they *****
and before my replicas
and dolls are put on sale
and before I start competing with
likes of Gandhi and Patel
and before this poetry
becomes too patriotic to comprehend
with slogan 'Jai Hind ' this patriotic
poetry must come to an end.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
Museums as art
Art as museums
Sail the trail to my mausoleum
Psychopaths and physicists
Psychiatrists and philosophers
Philanthropists and pilots and painters
Declare now, that these are our days –
Our hours, and our days
These are our city, our hours
Our time, our days.
This is our world –
At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it
And searched it and found it wanting
Of civilization that I could so easily supply
By means of wounds and iron
And brawn and truth
(and just a tiny touch of influenza darling)
By means of our Lord,
Who grants us all that we desire
If only we **** enough of those he did not choose.
This is our world –
And we shall make it what we will
Make it in our own image
Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong
Raise it to hate no one
But to love itself so deeply
That all other love seems hateful in comparison.
This is our child, love
Yours and mine.
Here the first shall be last
And the last shall be first
But once the first are last they shall be
Last
Last
Last
And once the last are first
They shall make it so they can never be last again
This is our primitive accumulation
Of necessary materialism
Let’s cultivate matter
To make objects that we can place on shelves
And in cases –
These are our cases
And we love them as we love ourselves
Museums as mass graves
Mass graves as museums
Kiss me in my mausoleum
Priests and prisoners
Prostitutes and prophets
Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans
This is our time –
And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments
Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons
Buying ample earplugs
To seal in the silence
So we can somewhat say
“look there is peace –
Look we have done it
In our time it is accomplished” –
This is our peace –
And we know it by the signs
The lions and lambs lay quietly together
In our brass-barred zoos
For as long as shelves and cases
Are intact and the first are first
And the last are last
And the civilized are organized and holy
There is peace –
Oh, look
We made peace!
And as for Solomon and Socrates –
We take their words to weave through our new wisdom
And when we re-chart the constellations
We shall give them each a star
And salute them once a year
When they come around the universe
Oh, look
How wise we are!
Mass graves as art
Art as mass graves
There have been no better days
There has been no greater time
Politicians and pornographers
Professors and pirates
Psychologists and pastors and pianists
This is our time –
And we are doing with it the very best we know how
The last are toiling and trying
And the first are trying to think to try –
But there is a shortness in our hours
And a violence in our peace
There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom
And disease in our cities
And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases.
This is our world –
We crafted it and declared our truth to be true
We sculpted this, our colosseum
Please inscribe my mausoleum
With “we know not what we do”
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
Shema (“Listen”)
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You who live secure
in your comfortable homes,
who return each evening to find
warm food and a hearty welcome ...
Consider: is this a “man”
who slogs through mud,
who has never known peace,
who fights for scraps of bread,
who lives at another man's whim,
who at his "yes" or "no" lies dead.
Consider: is this a “woman”
shorn bald and bereft of a name
because she lacks the strength to remember,
her eyes as void and her womb as frigid
as a winter frog's?
Consider that such horrors have indeed been!
I commend these words to you.
Engrave them in your hearts
when you lounge in your beds
and again when you rise,
when you venture outside.
Rehearse them to your children,
or may your houses softly crumble
and disease render you equally as humble
so that even your offspring avert their eyes.
Primo Michele Levi (1919-1987) was an Italian Jewish chemist, writer and Holocaust survivor. He was the author of two novels and several collections of short stories, essays, and poems, but is best known for If This Is a Man, his account of the year he spent as a prisoner in the Auschwitz concentration camp in Nazi-occupied Poland. It has been described as one of the best books by one of the most important writers of the twentieth century. His unique work The Periodic Table was shortlisted as one of the greatest scientific books ever written, by the Royal Institution of Great Britain. Levi's autobiographical book about his liberation from Auschwitz, The Truce, became a movie with the same name in 1997. Keywords: Holocaust, poem, Italian, translation, man, mud, woman, bald, nameless, houses, homes, bread, eyes, womb, empty, void, frigid, lifeless, horror, horrors, hearts, write, etch, engrave, inscribe, children, offspring, disease, avert, reject
Mar 14, 2020
Mar 14, 2020 at 4:58 AM UTC
Lord,
i pray to You
with a heavy heart
and brittle bones
please let confidence
unfold like flowers
that sprout between my ribs
please take the butterflies
out of my stomach
because they crowd it
and make me sick
please fill my mind with the knowledge
that Your love is stronger than
all of the hate that fills the earth
please inscribe on my flesh
that You have a perfect plan for me,
and with You i can conquer
all of my doubts, all of my worries
please never let me forget
what You have done for me
please hold my hand
while on this wearisome journey
and allow me to find life in You
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
I don't know how to talk.
I don't know how to express.
I don't know how to understand.
I don't know how to undress.
I know how to feel.
I know how to see.
I know how to write.
I know how to sing.
So don't make me speak
let me endure until all is done.
Don't make me divulge
let me behold what can be won.
Don't make me learn
I beg you, let me inscribe.
Don't make me unravel
let me croon
don't let me die.
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 12:46 AM UTC
Solid black lines
Framed the naked lives
Of a million loved ones
Belittled and turned lame
Another year passes
So fast one can't think
Standing on the brink
Of a thousand other free passes
Lives stop short
As another speeding boat
With faces frozen in fear
And mother's choosing invalid rear
Roaring typhoons of child-like playtime
Makes millionaires question their ethics
Nature whistles and human ears
Are forced to beckon and listen
Messages sent from a void of eternity
Plans made, destroyed all in the blink of an eye
A poet dies and another is born
To inscribe in the air the eye of a coming storm
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC
“May they be scalded at the post,
Drape from the limbs upon our pine,
Inscribe into their stripped bare skin
They are the weak, the faulty, of sin."
I could compose a ballad of time,
Profound, compelling reason and rhyme,
Impeccable stanzas,
Phrasing flowing as a river—
As could all of us,
But what impact would succeed?
To pirouette in the aching of others,
Leer in their ****** their night
**I’m a dashing *******
Bound from birth to do nothing but receive
While others around me
Shall pale, wither, die
Never for any other
Have I so much as cried...
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
Poetry is when I play interpreter to my heart
Fumbling to find the right words
Stumbling to convey love beyond a four letter word
A million things get lost in translation
I inscribe loneliness most times
Happiness she prefers left unwritten
And you, she'd rather kept hidden
But I know you from all the unintended traces that spill unto everything she says
I try not to write about you
Or at least eclipse you in between the lines
But it's impossible when you're the one all her words are meant for
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 12:21 AM UTC
~
we the people,
long have known
the write of
passages and poems,
whether bellwether,
envisionist or revisionist,
too oft have thought
this journey long,
and weight of hope and change
to another there belongs;
yet i subscribe
that we as scribes,
can right this ship,
not merely write it's wrongs;
for we it's pride
with hearts ascribe,
and note-by-note,
as carpenters and soldiers,
we its authors and its poets,
in words, in deeds,
writers, of a patriot’s song;
with deepest definition,
and inner soul reflection,
it's stanza, chorus, bridges,
we must lovingly inscribe.
~
*post script.
i know i am but one of many, who disillusioned, feel alienated, and could just as easily choose withdrawal as my reaction to our nation’s political plight. this then my belief, my plea, my hope we’ll see, withdrawal is not an option, that our words, deeds and even our writings carry weight, and bring with them hope and change to each community within which we each serve. we are not merely writers of our history... we are authors of our destiny!
if you are not an American, hope and pray for us, please, for we desperately need your support!! if you are, pick up the pen... pick up the charge... be the change!!*
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
I will not write you into poetry,
because you are worth more than these few lines deserve.
More than my metaphors could muster.
Beyond my simile.
I will not inscribe your name on my arm,
nor place you as a seal to my heart
lest my gestures be rendered meaningless.
Instead, I will trace my dreams
in circlets around your head.
I will draw upon the back of your hand
my good fortunes and pleasure.
I will seal each moment
with the softness of your skin
and lay my anchor between the tips of your fingers.
I will mouth non-sense syllables,
and laugh out of turn.
All, in turn, just to see you smile.
Because in a world where everything seems fleeting,
this moment is forever.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
I should have known it was starring in a movie,
When they said that writers also get groupies;
As these women continue to swarm by the flock,
I get rid of some, more come to me nonstop,
But you knew before I was even deeded such,
You saw potential in me when did not see much.
If you only knew...
Can I have YOUR autograph?
Inscribe it dearly over my heart on my chest.
Can I go between the scene, backstage?
I love women in uniform, watch you get dressed
As you star in the role for your life
A hardworking single woman who needs no man,
I have a lot of respect for a lady like you,
I need to be on your mailing list as the biggest fan.
I write and serve in the Army of the United States,
But I support my hardworking single women always;
Your determination give me the strength to try,
Thinking of you work and study all day and all night;
You say that you are ordinary just to yourself,
I say that you are extraordinary beyond anyone else.
If you only knew...
Can I have YOUR autograph?
Inscribe it dearly over my heart on my chest.
Can I go between the scene, backstage?
I love women in uniform, watch you get dressed
As you star in the role for your life
A hardworking single woman who needs no man,
I have a lot of respect for a lady like you,
I need to be on your mailing list as the biggest fan.
No matter if I write music, books, or serve,
I still know the definition of a woman's worth
And prove it with the right given chance
For me to be one of your very biggest fans.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Part One:
I hear music in my head
but I can't learn the notes.
I can read novels in my heart
but I can't arrange the verbs.
There's poetry carved into my skin
but blood doesn't work as ink.
It's all here in my head
but it won't come out with my crooked soul.
Part Two:
Failure to communicate.
A hunger I cannot sate.
While a poet bangs away at my brain,
My clumsy fingers inscribe only a fraction of the pain.
Hands cold with confusion.
Numb to the heart's passionate intrusion.
Searching blindly for the spark of life
To finally rid me of this desperate strife.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
1.
Inscribe all your heartaches on my lips.
2.
Convince me that I'm not worthless.
3.
You're my ocean and I'm drowning.
4.
She loved like she lived, recklessly.
5.
Brave words die on my lips.
6.
You and I were never we.
7.
Sometime you are your own trigger.
8.
You echo through my bruised ribs.
9.
Your heart needs bifocals to love.
10.
I'm getting lost on purpose today.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
*them inscribe
"Born in a Romanceless generation,
loved her to death,without question"
on
my
tombstone*
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 3:09 PM UTC
Deep ridge,
deplete elitists.
Gold flows, layers,
Dbridge,
enriched tone, gates golden,
heavenly.
San Francisco, incomplete,
switch robes.
Can't be beat, Klitchschos,
barking up the wrong tree,
rich tones.
Switch flows, risk it,
rich tea, gifted.
Unwritten, no gimmicks,
smooth months,
pale ale Guiness.
Wrap presents,
gift wrapped,
signed sealed delivered.
Dispatched,
Spit fires, spit facts,
die for the art.
Mismatched.
Calamity believe, nose dive.
Kamikaze.
No harder, fuel,
nose powder.
White knight in shing armour.
1688,
Spanish Armada.
Cut sharp like barber,
bananas,
permanent like markers,
malleable like lava,
pop like cava.
Polova.
Inscribe minds,
magna carter.
Magnificent bars,
gold tales told.
Slaves sold, reigns over.
Cold shoulder,
rainbow coloured mistakes,
shoulders shudder,
steer clear brother,
execute rudder.
Destitute,
Scuppered.
Destination under breath muttered.
Spread like wildfire,
butters, blindman, blackout,
blinds again, shutters.
Dunces, run ****
Jump **** loose lips,
loosing grip.
Tip of the iceberg.
Tip of the tongue,
no nice words.
Stigmata.
Godfather,
go harder for our forefathers.
The time is ours.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:35 AM UTC
I am enraptured,
completely and utterly
caught
in this moment
in you
the beat shakes the air
my heart is stolen
and follows it
time slows achingly
slow enough to catch,
every moment
but not enough to savour,
not enough to appreciate nor inscribe,
fully into my being
yet even still
my heart soars
as now it knows
that it still can.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
Do not rewrite the past.
No hand can erase
what time has carved
in wounded skin.
Let your oldest notebook
inscribe the first line
of a new tale —
written in fresh tears
and the sweat
of becoming
a future still unfolding.
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 5:07 AM UTC
12:53am, January 3,2025
New York City
<>
*A Traveler notates these words to my attention, but only because I make myself
a convenient target, for truthfully,
it is addressed to one and all,
to the royalty of:*
We,
*who speake out loud, to all those who ***** these damp woods full of wet words, that spring up overnight, ripe for the plucking, there for the taking, an exacting where & when they did not even exist
the twenty four prior*
These purloined overnight creatures are
white and black
*lettered truffles, like the pages on which we inscribe, the letters raw, exquisitely tasty, shaved, measured in grams, but only when shared with others, in the privacy of our open minds, after being spooned from within us with exquisite care upon the pages that decorate our lives, sprinkled
with great care and cunning*…
*but when consumed, our five senses rage with aromatic pleasured pain, for these letters, so tiny, so powerful, grow only when
combinatory, individual bitty granules,
but when leavened, they enhance, provoke!,
they sauce, the*
flavors of the ordinary
*of our experiences,
creating the extraordinary
when interacting upon
our five robust senses*
*for without the spaces of delineation,
our jumbled words are but the
random jingle jangle of the sounds
of night winds, rustling a tune
pleasant but incomprehensible*
*Here I take your leave,
with the liberty taken
for speaking in all our names
to a Traveler
who so succinctly captures our work,
the glue of our interactive Us,
Our,*
Collective of Individuality
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
I do not think much my place upon this earth,
I am second, and you are first,
and when your voice is louder than mine
it is a familiar for me to sink and recline
into my chair, wilful to listen
to your unappealing, witted opinion
and programmed flair -
from which your talent glistens,
and has always been there.
Oh to be part of your vision.
I walk comfortable in high heeled shoes
that inscribe me a waggling soft tongue,
and when your pace is faster than mine
in brogues, and trousers that are looser,
I am simply undone,
at your ease to summon as the prime task-caster
of more tasks to come.
Your achievements are set with a slapped wet plaster.
Oh that you share a crumb.
And when you laugh, it is a big bellied echo
that chimes in my throat to strike and produce,
a small bit of fruit, just for you.
As I mimic your billow in an octave but lower,
that feels like part of the very same tune,
but my chuckle is actually a choke,
and what I could say would only provoke.
Oh you laugh much harder than me.
My almond eyes are softer than yours
and in the day you lock them only for an answer,
to some chore which requires a limited goal -
don’t get me wrong – I am no prancer,
my shoes are far too tight, and I’ve been taking the toll
of your papers, your personal sciv, your faxer.
A sniffing, weezling mole.
Oh I could dig deeper…
You **** much harder than me.
And when you *** you look in the mirror
at yourself in white unbuttoned shirt, heavy brow, so chipper
that when your sun sets it does in a vulvonic decree,
but you do not know that when I go home, I secretly scissor
in a way that would make your morning clippers shake violently.
Oh I love much harder than you,
I am better than you,
but somehow you are better than me.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
we lie amongst the scattered , shattered words
i wonder -
are we one voice or two?
our thoughts sail down the same stream
life throbs as one rhythmic beat within our ink necklaces
linked by our joint instinct to inscribe
engrave patterns of hope intertwined
amidst the drawings of despair
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
25.10.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 5:44 AM UTC