"inscriptions" poems
It all begins
With pronouns
I becomes the subject
Of my project
Adding you
And collectively we
I choose you and me
And I exclude the he and the she
Until I am certain of we
You and I pick verbs
actions
Inflect them to match
fit
begin narratives
Transitive verbs take objects
You touch
tickle
tease
taste
take skin
*******
lips
me with words
Words have become a clause
But still a simple construction
So, you tickle me where?
For this you need a preposition
To position your tickling ammunition
Do you touch
tickle
tease me ON my *******
*******
thighs
buttocks
****
Do you feel me INSIDE my mouth
****
soul?
Positioning is envisioning.
Then you use adjectives
To modify descriptions of
Sensory inscriptions
So, gentle complements touch
Soft and passionate kiss
And you become superlative
And adverbs elaborate experience
expression
exploration
You fill me deeply
thoroughly
violently with all that is you
But adverbs can also mean time
Not sweet or cursed time
Or time denoting age
But timing is always important
And grammar dictates
That
Time adverbs are placed
As a beginning or an end
Like a lover's embrace
Thus,
This morning, you woke me with
A demanding "here and now! " and I will reciprocate this, tonight, I vow.
Conjunctions are sentence connectors
And sentences behave like detectors
Bodies balancing with and, but, or
Otherwise subordinate
And the scale tips towards
Conditioning hypotaxis
Making actions a complicated praxis
(before my mind can connect, you will have to pursuade it /pursue it)
But we coordinate conjunctions
Equally
I touch you
You touch me
Exploring
Exploding sensory functions
So, together we cry imperatives
Completing our ****** narratives
Moaning
Whimpering
Begging
Yelling: Please... bind me!
touch me!
bite me!
take me!
come!
Oh! Please, come!
I love the English language... ;)
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
cemeteries worn
delicately fall on chests
like grandmother's old necklaces
and inscriptions from headstones
draped in cold bronze
bought and sold, their epitaphs
like grandmother's old word
her lovely verbs
swathed in gold,
and ever were costly rhinestones weaved in
until every meaning to her lovely words were lost.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
When poets die
It's sad and true,
It matters not
What their bodies do,
The spirit flies
To Poet's Corner,
In Westminster Abbey.
You'll not see
Busts or inscriptions
For all the poets
Whose spirits linger
Alongside Chaucer, Browning, Spencer,
And a myriad of authors.
Dead Poet you have earned your share;
Dead Poet I will know you're there,
Composing in the Laureate's lair.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
The flag, a white crescent and single star
on a field of crimson — kırmızı, not just 'red' —
tells of Islam. The men drinking beer and rakı
at pavement tables, even in Ramadan,
and the short-skirted, bare-armed girls,
parading with bare-faced confidence,
tell of other influences;
but at the appointed hour we hear the call to prayer
from the marble minaret, a slim finger
pointing to the sky beside shining domes
reflecting the vault of heaven.
At five a.m. we hear it faintly through hotel double-glazing,
or at sunset, as a peaceful accompaniment to the spectacle,
and we remember where we are.
But especially at the midday hour,
when the voice of the muezzin echoes
over noisy street or market,
and from another minaret and another
the duet becomes a trio, a quartet
of different melodies, out of tune
with each other but never discordant
(in these tones the word has no meaning),
the faithful are reminded, however busy they may be,
that their God requires something of them.
Then, entering the cool calm of the mosque,
entering the quiet forest of pillars,
feeling through the soles of our bare feet
marble polished by the tread
of generations of worshippers,
fine-grained wood,
the rich softness of crimson carpet,
we luxuriate in the textures as they combine
with the formal floral patterns of the tiles,
the ornate calligraphy of the inscriptions,
the rich colours of the glass,
and we realise that the builders of these mosques
knew what they were doing, so many years ago,
how peace can enter the soul
through the senses.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
After the two, I underestimated you.
Time was wasted till four days left to finish.
Piece of cake drove me insane.
All the more did I rip my hairs out
When you gave me that smirk
Daring me to complete you if I could...
Ever.
The more I tried the more I knew,
Petrified before the reality
As I scrutinized at my reflection in the mirror
With saggy eyes that lost its light
And back at you; unfinished masterpiece of Frankenstein.
Chained down by the inscriptions of nightmare
I give up all hopes to be free.
The last 2 days I perceive to be
Long yet way too short.
Truly the hands are moving forth without mercy
As I am writing this poem instead of
My 3rd ten page paper.
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 10:11 AM UTC
I have come humble to seek your knowledge
With exhausted feet and weighing burden, I bear my heart
I have travelled far to arrive at the world's edge
Ready to receive what wisdom you will impart
I'll set myself cross-legged on the opposite of you
I see you peering, examining my physical entirety
With one good eye, you gaze right through
Makes me uncomfortable, if I may... But I'll hold steady
I notice you muttering but no words could be heard
Your hands hovering over a glassy globe with an ominous glow
You turn to the left, as if conversing with an invisible third
Whispering secrets that I will never learn to know
Shifting your gaze now into the crystal orb
What do you see, Wise One, in that ball of yours
You shudder upon it's touch as though it's power you absorb
Tell me, Soothsayer... What lies for me in this course?
You swiftly pull your hands behind your back
I flinch with a start at your sudden display
You bring back your hands revealing cards out of a stack
You tremble in spasms, dropping the rest leaving one for play
The card you place face down, right in front of me
You motion for me to pick it up and flip it round
I see the card bore inscriptions and ancient runes, quizzically
You ****** the card and begin chanting in odd sounds
Reciting your incantations, in a tongue I do not understand
They sound like curses rather than the answers I seek
It all ends almost as soon as it started... I can't comprehend
You then place your warm palms gently touching my cheeks
Your features softened as you stared into my sullen eyes
A connection like eternity trapped within seconds never going astray
Then you turn away to fetch a bundle roped in knots and ties
You hand it to me hastily before ushering me on my way
I am now perplexed much... What does it show?
What did you see, what does my future hold?
Please enlighten me what you've come to know
From all of that, what could you have foretold?
Bundle in hand I turn to leave your rundown shanty
As I leave, you speak in your voice, different from before
Soft yet raspy you say, *"Do not open till the end of journey"
"Open only when in house, behind closed door"*
Moon is up illuminating, as I make my way up north
Armed in hand a strange, scented, tied up bundle
Leaving with the same questions with no answers, I amble forth
Wondering if in the bundle I may find the missing pieces of the puzzle...
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
*** dada dum dada
*** *** ***
Melodies cradle my soul just for fun
*** didi dum didi
Dum Dum Dum
Soliloquies burst off the tip of my tongue;
Lyrics illogical and beautiful, some.
Brilliant by accident, sudden, and young.
Tra lala di lala
Do do do
Convinced of the magical things words can do;
These lovely inscriptions, all assumed to be true,
Are not carefully built, nor genuinely glued.
Fa dala di dala
La la la
So from sockets comes streaming oblivious awe;
Silly and shameless, and secretly flawed,
For unknown was my motive until these stanzas were thawed
La, lala, la, lala, la la la
By the warmth of good fortune, and mind’s last hurrah.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
I have heard the haunted whispers of screaming and necrophliac anguish from the depths of the eerie crypts of ancient mausoleums.
There is a damp smell in disused railway tunnels which generates a fearful sense of grateful awareness.
Flying down the streets in astral projections of nocturnal liberation reminds me of the warmth of hateful urinary incontinences.
Does a Gold Star adequately represent a brand of brown sauce, or does it represent something else? Please enlighten me, as the guise of Rabatak inscriptions unravel ******* dismay.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
*There are times when
you are not yourself.
You blend into something
unwantedly & unwillingly.
Something that is
too distant from your
psyche & guise.
The transfiguration makes
you a whole another person,
one beyond your bridle.
But you always hit back to
your archetypal persona.
The endeavor to recrudescence
is always tenacious,
summating unscrupulous inscriptions to your crasis.
People will judge you
on this substructure of your psyche.
But this is not who you are
& what you are!
It is mere an icky phase.
Your elucidation lies beyond
this transfigured self.
Never relinquish your
pristine pneuma.*
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 6:40 PM UTC
You require at least three similes.
A metaphor or two.
This section needs more sibilance,
and another allegory on alliteration too.
Creative writing
now a standardized test
where a poet seems
to do slightly poorer than the rest.
You receive a checklist, told
bye and buy the book.
Drain away the colours upon your pencil
or face the examiners sickle and hook.
Creative writing
now a slog a convoluted use and reuse
of that which
"improves"
your descriptions and inscriptions.
You need a conclusion.
something befitting a happy end.
Try anything smart
and a bad grade i'll be "sure to send."
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
I misread
a lot of you's
I proofread most of your mistakes
you ****** at grammar
I silently made my red pen dance
on your blue inscriptions
that you thought
were unique
I scratched the wrong words
I indented your run on's
I even added a bit of sincerity
to all your reality
I stepped back and looked at you
you were blotches of red on scribbles of blue
you were a mistake
that I thought I could fix
at the end of the day,
I took that paper crumpled it
and aimed at the trash
and scored
My red pen yearned for correcting many more
but my red pen gave up scratching
and wanted to create its own story
of its very own mistakes
of its own doing,
so it can create a masterpiece of
"me"
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
It just hung there, rusted shut
Black as coal
Cold
Vibrations
Feeling's
That was not meant to be. I seized
My limbs frozen as if blocked upon
There reach.
Inscriptions placed in tongue
Of old.
"signati inter stratis universi"
I took my camera
Photos where as if nothing seen
Static,
White,
Blank
Visions of a black that cant be disguised around
Blossom of pink delectably spread around.
But beauty often hides the thorns,
That which is perpetual
That which seeps unto this world
Old,
Malevolent,
Malignant
Darkness that is like a whisper
Permeating into this world.
It is a gate,
A portal to a place that light does
Not enter or exit from this place.
The gate to......
I walk away as if hurried from this moment,
Ushered with a momentary....
"Where the hell am I"
**"I cant ****** remember the last few days"**
"I sense a smell of blossom"
I fell heavy as they tell me
"It's temporary"
I had hit my head some place,
I'll get my memories back.
I open my back gate and my hand retreats
As if knowing of danger,
But I once again reach,
"Nothing"
My head aches,
As I sleep I dream of pink blossom
I see the gate...
They find me three days later
Fear distorted upon my features,
Scared to death, died in my sleep, finger frozen
Out of reach,Scratched into my headboard
"The gate is open"
"The blossom has fallen"
"The gate, the gate the ga............"
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 7:57 PM UTC
I inherit the tome of your life nearly complete.
The first pages well-worn and traveled by your daughters,
Now yellowing and stiffening before the onslaught of grandchildren.
The middle is clean and organized,
The pages laid out in the brick of a self-built home,
The words of 'wife' and 'child' recorded with care and detail.
As the chapters progress, your handwriting turns.
Tidy inscriptions widen and loop, and mastery becomes primitive.
In the mire of your later stories I am lost, as - it seems - you are.
It is hard to discern the fact from the fiction,
The present moments from the conjured memories.
In the final pages, there is a remarkable renaissance.
You shed the child's scrawl and the dimwit's jargon,
And the master stands before us once more.
You write of pain, of struggle, of fear,
And the pages crack and fall out.
Closing the book and adding it to the shelf,
Your story is not yet ended.
All around are novels of lives,
And they take from yours their inspiration.
There are four novels of daughters, and four of their husbands
Twelve of grandchildren, six of their spouses
Thirteen of great grandchildren, and three to be delivered.
There are books of neighbors, books of friends,
Pamphlets of patrons, and journals of soldiers.
Each a part of your story, each a part of the library
Each magnificent, and each unique.
And in the center, care-worn and complete,
Is you, grandfather.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
*yeah, they cut out my third ****** from my shoulder blade and i turned into a bond girl; oh god, you're not one of those bulletproof people confused about love like a nurse confused by a disease? you are? oh god help me... you'll go far! straight to daddy's pocket purse and saturday night... you'll throw stilettos at chandeliers and expect a catwalk blackout... god forbid that should happen with everyone biting their toenails.*
between us we share the bathroom
and the bedroom,
we sit on the stilt framing see-through of it admirably
airy and welcoming stars:
wishing for foxes and women respectively,
all you can hear is a meow... meow... meow...
meow meow... moo... µ... meow... meow interchange
between these two rooms in the garden air,
it’s like a fetish orchestra giving ‘prior to sleep’ crescendos,
and it makes sense to write a forgivable poem
of this least content, content with the least as me writing it;
well d'uh, of course i had to write it,
i wasn't going to stage a boxing match with stella artois
losing care for words and taking care of action,
i was going to mediate the page like a kite being passed
on with paddington bear's secret inscriptions to get from
london to sydney; i hope it worked.
the drunkard? oh... he's either silent, crying, laughing,
or simply reading.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
Catatonic inscriptions etches through my textile discernment
Insidious cycles of turmoil encased within a festering distress
Uncertainty obscures my comfort into a chaotic complacency
Transforming the subtle movement of thought and bewilderment
Through the re-occurring sequences of paranoia and my uneasy psychosis
Haunting the whole of this psyche and the mental state I've come to fancy
A tell-tale apprehension of merriment and contentment may be a dismal reality
All the while being obsessed with the unfavorable outcomes I conjure within
But, I can't get enough of the disarray that breeds within my frail skull
So distant from what I feel in the ecstasy of my self-selected normality
The meek proposal of sanity has little to hold against these crooked grins
As this chaotic thought process leaves rationality as a vague ideal to null
Expansive introspection has no limit to what is perceived as validity
And, to be enveloped in the ambiguity and delusion of fact is so enticing
We all know that we've all come to recognize the fabrication of our own truth
The futile attempts to obtain an immaculate conviction in pure solidity
Is so wondrously perfunctory and constant as the life that i'm living
That I dread the day of departure from this hysteric observance of aging youth
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
When we chance upon loves opportunity, no wonder in the universe could move us from the inevitable pain and sorrow. We are casually seduced whole heartedly into the spiraling supernova swallowing up everything in our fusion of love.
Other worlds and other ways are suddenly all opened! A connection unable to be lost by the simplest act of acceptance. It clings. It is a forever thing. Good, bad, ugly or beautiful it will never die in us. it is born in us to grow like an infant and thus return to its infancy. It will transpose to fire and ice and a delightful inbetween but it will not fail to stretch your limits or tear them apart and carve a new dependecy or inspired independence.
The world will ne'er understand how the boundaries of love will crush common understanding and prevail through darkness and light, sick depravity and ulitmate compassion. We love this beautiful thing by its very own perameters and inscriptions. Its meaning brings meaning and how tied we are to its presence scraping its essences from cracks and hovering over its residue- we need so much to connect with it again through one path or another.
Our beautiful agapi has an escape like none can ever plan for. And, when I fell into the clutches of this truth, I understood most happily the indemnity was nil and this made it the most beautiful thing of all! I took the leap and I am still falling in a thousand places through a million spaces and an infinite set of times and places. I am completely protected by loving the climb and the fall cloaked in the hope of never understanding...
It all...
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
You pulled long wings from my back to my ribs-
deep passion inscriptions and hieroglyphs
with your nails as I whispered unholy
prayers into your ears with your mouth closed.
I tripped into your superstition that started with a kiss
outside your door after midnight,
pressing my shoulder blades into the palm of your hands.
You said you didn't try any games.
I said I didn't like to play.
Be careful, supernova, you'll burn out.
I attacked you right from the start.
"Shut up, would ya!" you'd say with a smile,
laughing when I'd scream back at the television commercials
when they'd ask me stupid questions.
I drove you insane.
But when you'd fall asleep I'd trace your eyelids
like crop circles with my fingertips,
making a thin bridge over your nose
connecting pinpoints like constellations.
Sometimes I'd ask you to read the stories
that you wrote on my skin.
You'd pass the message along through your lips
gently against mine the way a shadow sits
on a figure.
I'd sigh when your hands skipped over
the space between my thighs.
Be careful, supernova, you'll burn out.
I took a chance on you.
You didn't bid on me.
I guess it's true that some things
burn too bright.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
During the long winter the town cemetery is chained off,
Two thick cables across each entrance to insure
That foolhardy drivers don’t attempt the hill that divides
The new from the old sections.
The upper half, the “New Cemetery” as it’s called,
Offers more level ground with polished graves,
As if “new” somehow made a difference to those resting there.
Anyone who knows the difference prefers the old, lower section,
With stones leaning this way and that
And inscriptions that are barely visible on some.
Old stones offer personality, truth be told--
Even the names seem more real: Caleb, Ezekiel, Matilda.
I think of them there through those cold gray months,
Blanketed in snow disturbed only by the occasional deer walking through.
I know it shouldn’t matter but I feel sad for them all
Forced to suffer through that blank desolation,
Denied the warmth of sun or the curious gaze of some passerby.
As if death weren’t bad enough, the white loneliness of snow
Drifting over their one last piece of property
Seems a cruel and unnecessary gesture on the part of the world they left.
As if to say, “You’re still mine to treat as I will, alive or dead.”
That’s why, when the weather turns and the cables come off
I make it a point to pass through each day on my way to work.
The snow, gone now, lets the earth breathe again,
And I can’t help but think that, with the trees about to sprout
And green grass just around the corner,
That life has its place here too, even among the dead,
And that I’m not the only one waiting for longer days and a warmer wind.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 9:36 AM UTC
The Spirit of Winter carefully tiptoes her way along the continuum of forgotten Gaelic intensities, whilst mischievous laughter resounds throughout the geographical conveniences of complacency.
How gorgeous is the anatomy of madness, as she perches on gorgon ledges of sophisticated depravity.
I do not even hail from the land of the Gauls.
Yet, ghastly and seductive are those flittering silhouettes of fortitude and perceived harlotry, as they penetrate damp walls of ancient entertainments with multiple partners.
Harken to my lament and do not banish my soul into eternal blackness, as we conjure the sword and kiss with fivefold and unconventional intensities beyond the circles of the forest.
You are now given permission to ring the bell sevenfold, Oh master, where scientific inscriptions are splayed with the blatancy of wanton chastity.
I was born by the river that is never the same whenever it is stepped into with more than one dribbling expectation.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
Fragmented wails
Shards of a broken hourglass
Decrepit candelabras ––
Dusty relics I conjure up
When your scent dances my way
Desolate sighs
The farewell letter you never
Cared to address to me ––
Memories that corrode like acid
When you idly spell my name
Glistening strands of gold
Inscriptions on my back
Daybreaks that infuse vigor ––
Things that vanquish my resistance
When I wallow in the past
***
*We were never compatible;
Of different calibre and breed
But our besmirched souls
Are as indistinguishable as twins*
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
She hides her Bible underneath the ****** box
because he doesn't want to have kids,
but she still prays
for his keep
every night
after he pulls long wings
from her back to her ribs—
deep passion inscriptions and hieroglyphs
with his nails as she whispers fake, unholy phrases.
She tripped into his superstition
watching him fashion his weapon—
a rosary noose
to choke blessings and psalms
out of her throat.
He rarely remembers to say goodnight,
but she traces his eyelids once he's asleep
like crop circles
making a thin bridge over his nose
connecting pinpoint constellations.
She kisses his neck and chest
over and over again,
secretly hoping
he wakes up and puts his arm around her.
She paints in the basement
with an old light bulb
listening to the hum of the space heater,
gagging on the acrylic fumes,
because he thinks all art
is useless
and all power is manmade confidence,
and the stars are just coincidence,
and he only married her
so they could ****
finally.
Sometimes he doesn't come home,
but she makes the bacon the way he likes it,
and she presses all of his shirts twice.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Once we were lost.
We were gone to music
we couldn't hear,
dancing in tribal tones
dust encircling us,
draping us in secrecy
these whispers keep
feet grounded in time,
hoping to hear tomorrow
on a dying breath.
When was nothing before
and after an illusion
but the secret's been sold.
Found out,
we must run, sweet baby,
run in the darkness
for it's the everyday trap
we're about to fall into,
wearing away this world
the surface too weak
for us to both continue on.
I can't lose you to sin
our earthly expression deemed demonic,
concept without credence
our revival's television gold
for commercial advertising,
but I can't lose you to a baptism.
Being birthed from tainted water
will strip that clay keeping
you connected to me,
water down these bonds
until the weight
turns them to shackles.
I can't lose you to the pyre,
firing will strip you
of your raw truth
and transform us
to tangibility,
transform us from being to thing,
a point where smiling shows
naught but cracks in your face
and breezes blowing through,
stealing away that cloak of us.
In their eyes, dust clinging to sweat,
our yelps primal and joining primitive,
we are filthy.
In ours,
emblazoned.
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
What once ruled the mantel
Now shrivels beside outcasts
Rust crawls toward the heart
Shredding all relevance
Abandoned aspirations
Achievements left unrecognised
Images remain unfocused
Whilst consumed by encroaching demise
The tarnished skeleton
Unveils an aspect of reality.
A youthful audience bears witness
As coarse inscriptions sing
A corrosive chorus.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 5:33 AM UTC
I gaze into the lapis lazuli embedded behind your eyes
And I read the words that are engraved on its pristine surface
“I hide in the dust of diamonds and bathe in Luna’s glow”
Inscriptions of a fiery passion from the heart of Aphrodite
What deities were praised to conjure such an immaculate apparition?
A vesper turned mortal by the north wind
Gilded in the feathers of seraphs-on-high
And garbed in the fineries of the seventh son of a seventh son
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
When walking through a gravesite, you forget that several feet under lies the body of a person you may or may not know.
I have a surname and plot number...
This could have been my family.
Maybe it is.
Maybe it was.
I don't feel worthy enough to sit in the grass before the tombstones.
To place my hands on the stones... they're so cold.
I've read the inscriptions.
Never forgotten by wife and son.
Faithful unto death, may he rest in peace.
A soldier of the great war.
Known unto God
Known unto God
Known unto God.
I have a surname and a plot number written in roman numerals, somebody tell me where I can find the plot under the number 30.
I ran through the gravesite only to find 29.
And I ran out of time.
So tell me where I can find him.
After all... an unknown family wrapped in a common surname is all I really know.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC