"insular" poems
his hobbies include
invisible girls
bubble wrapped
shielding their eyes from the sun
up the side of his mountain
holding fast to the cable
and the eventual terror of drawing
paper moons
framed a bit too
insular
binocular
funicular
vermicular
these out of sightlines
opaque and cobwebbed
screening off
his ***** little secrets
Jun 29, 2021
Jun 29, 2021 at 11:45 AM UTC
~
*Lift the veil from a grayscale morning. Vividly imagistic. An odalisque no more.
Her shape beneath the gown is a foreign land, a series of quiet revelations. Its pattern manifests as pinpricks of light perforating the shirred fabric of his heart.
The preponderance of dream in her eyes becomes a call and response evoking purely imaginary spaces. The contained chemistry is beautifully insular, monochromatic.
And there her lips. Into claustrophobic kiss. This lower register of love comes in unadorned, subtle colorings like the darkest part of night.
One thousand shades of gray.
One single light of white.
And everything merges in the night.*
~
Nov 24, 2023
Nov 24, 2023 at 11:47 AM UTC
Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
We braced the chill and last shared voices in November
When with reasons unknown you suddenly lost your temper
And in faceless avenue unseen you put it all in a damper
Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
Two minds steep in years hoping to revive a dying ember
Angling wisely for the solace of light in a peaceful chamber
Rising for noble ideals each a worthy conscientious member
Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
I stoke flames and called out doves in days before September
Not for glory or gain but in delight to fly a friend wishes tender
Homage to a smile Lisa, like that made by da Vinci the painter
Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
Now its time to seek the Sun afar in the land of greens and timber
soothing words that shows the grace and give of a friend keeper
Remains aloof to a joyless onerous mind that will only get sadder
Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
Empty pride rousing clouded mind makes it fittingly simpler
Strength and clarity to atone chimes only wit now't sinister
A truer pilgrim seeks pardon and deftly shames attitudes insular
To the wise what cost affinity in the garland of true harmony
Copyright. LaurenceA31stJuly2018.Allrightsreserved.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 6:51 AM UTC
She is his
You can see it just from a glance
It can't be chance
that he sits so rigid
Their PDA almost frigid
in it's clockwork execution
we kiss now, here, then, when we should
Their public nature behind a hood
of do's and don'ts,
should, could so would,
but never must
never need.
I don't feel she's ever breathed
just for you, she
feels too insular.
Too
Egocentric
His posture is pride,
A look; a challenge
A touch: assurance
This one is mine
Look, don't touch
Envy me
But find your own
In his arms his serpent glows
and coils around his throat
dote
Their words are whispers of
solidarity
A secret society
who's key they ate,
their touches tempt fate.
You're going to hurt him
But for now she coils, and
boils his blood
and throws his rudder out of
control.
And he sits, a deadbolted frame,
clinging to a paper Mona Lisa
which could flap away
or, at any moment,
bore and
stray
But for now,
they're proud and
loud with public love.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
Most late summer days fade into night holding a tepid dreariness in their breath, beating away with the tedium of the sun from late July through early September.
Yet ephemeral as it may be, the life of early summer is purely sanguine in the face of its oncoming age, as willowy saplings sway in the blustering breezes of June, and sprouts of vivid animation appear all around.
This is when the soul heals, and out of the mulch rises new beginnings and the ripening fruit of various works.
In this early season of summer, many taciturn inhabitants of the flourishing earth made their home, and among them, Lily: a creature of reticence and intricacy.
She burgeoned in attitude and character as days crept forward, extending her limbs upwards in an eternal paean to the heavens― as such was her sinecure and quiet delight.
In this, she stood insular to her ubiquitous family, an outsider to the sisters who flitted about carelessly on the wind, satiny gowns of pink and yellow billowing as they twirled.
Always invited into the fray, Lily was evermore stalwart in her choice to keep out of their plainly sordid affairs.
Yet in her isolation, the night whispered to her many a berceuse.
The sleepy stars implored of Lily’s indolent nature as she gazed into their eyes, trailing across eternity into peaceful slumber.
The night sky held wonders and questions that filled her paltry existence but placed her in stasis with the decorated heavens of her dying season,
Left to wither away with the insidious heat and vibrant splendor of late summer evenings.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
Listen closely and hear our collective vernacular in a state of constant mitosis.
Live and see our language begin to rival our own complexity.
A myriad of inter-connecting word highways with more twists,
turns and travelers than that of any physical road.
A body of thought massing in our collective conscious,
an infinite man-made addition to our finite physical reality.
Every addition is another color, another taste,
relative to the user in enunciation,
becoming ever less limited by geography.
Emotion attaches and tints the tone of individual words as we grow with age.
Without it enabling us to define ourselves, we are left ignorant and insular.
Memory accumulates casting a shadow and adds depth,
communication cultivating perception to leverage change in corporeality.
Pulsating slang spreading locally with fresh life to be globally colloquial.
A wordsmith may use this power to celebrate
or condemn their perception of reality,
more still- will wield words like plowshares
and escapism flourishes with such an expansive field
where all of humanity is brought out to play.
And sometimes-
for me,
it is just barely enough to grip a word with impunity.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 9:11 AM UTC
1.
I feel
fractured splintered defeated
entirely insular
and spread to thin
all at the same time
covered with insecurities
like a cheap suit
or hollow exoskeleton
nothing more than a lie. I grow tired.
I'm bluffing my way through this life
a brutal honesty
I lack the courage to accept
hiding my face
from every mirrored surface
a halfhearted attempt
to prolong this detrimental denial.
I can't ******** my way
through self-reflection
and trying to improve my image
feels positively improvised.
I lack sincerity and authenticity
an individual breathing without zeal
I need a break.
2.
Here I am again a lonely itinerant migrating
to the proverbial and often visited crossroads
rather than contemplating
a direction worth navigating
be it following in the worn footprints of others
or a path long overgrown with neglect.
I'd rather lie down on the gravel road
and nap in the open air
just to wake up confused and temperamental.
The destination remains unknown
my indecision remains intact.
I give impetuous a bad name
by reputation and repetition alike
conjoined twins that speaks to
fate and circumstance.
Like Houdini
I'm secured in a long sleeve shirt
dangling upside down from a burning rope
placing blame on the flame.
I need a break.
3.
I'm not as intelligent
or insightful as I once thought
my wasted youth is a testament.
A modern ruin
like so many a Blockbuster
I've outlasted my usefulness.
I imagine what could have been
clueless as to what lies ahead.
A jovial repentance
seems as likely as
success, or stability, **** simplicity.
Is it all too much to ask?
I've been on break too long.
4.
reboot jumpstart
Alleviate my stagnant, vacant lot in life
and cast off these first world problems.
Consider not the flat champagne
or the distance that separates
today from death.
Speak positively to the people
that would not otherwise attract minimal attention.
Set goals both grand and plausible
with no worry of dividends
and release cynicism
and determine a trajectory
that I may see through to completion.
If for no other reason
but to say that I tried.
It's not so bad this imagined and dire circumstance.
Relax and go on break.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
Baffled this was a question you’d have to ask, I sat tremulous. I’m insular; I’d be enamored with even the most amorphous love, but I’m not inept, and won’t preclude that answering the question is salient. And although I’m not taciturn, I’m rarely extemporaneous, so please excuse my need for verbose prose in answering said question.
You’re attractive. Your strong jaw, small chin and cheekbones were sculpted to make your own eyes glow and an artist’s eyes expostulate dreaming of anything else. Don’t dismiss this as delirium, but rather relish this recondite fact—my first crush came in the fifth grade. It was on a diminutive, outspoken girl, and I was enormous and timid, which developed into a village girl vs. Mowgli, me Tarzan you Jane, King-Kong-Ann Darrow complex. And although I believe with zealous fervor in your strength, your size still incites the young jungle boy inside me. And I hope I can say, without being terse, I’m afflicted with a mysterious affinity for red-hair.
Although I could dwell in the obvious all day, I’ll redirect from the blasé.
Abandon
beats within us both
like hearts to the same pulse,
we don’t coax smiles, we let them slip,
we aspire to happiness like falling of a log.
I have to pry open time’s lockbox and plunder
the night just to relegate the dawn. Bliss becomes
a tangible ****** making even the most existentially
exasperated docile. Knowledge that every other thought
is dominated by one another without it attenuating the magic.
Knowing that if all I have to say is it’s raining outside, you
want to hear it. Twenty-one years of my life I thought
I’d have to hunt love with a knife but you showed me
roaming where you like to wander can wake
the irreverent gods. It’s your superlative
honesty that’s only for me; that virile
smile in your eyes that bid
doubt vacate my mind
Knowing that if I went catatonic, one reproving look from you would cause my heart to break and force my hands to put the pieces back before I stopped breathing. If I could, I’d dawn you like a blanket before every dinner, dusk and dream. And most importantly, we both like crowns.
Jun 10, 2011
Jun 10, 2011 at 8:17 AM UTC
They sell sandwiches and little nightmares with vanity inside.
i glide to a booth and schmooze the next wet group of compromised -
And Charlotte's web
of insular jokes,
snare me from outside my comfort zone...
and i own the green eggs and ham of our sepia tone in the septic lake
of our laughing groan.
We enjoy the view.
I drink to be We and Apart from you.
But the kegs dredge.
They plunder the blunderbuss of our best shot. With Silencer.
We crowd loudly in the Big Easy of our modern strife.
We scrape with dull Lives,
save those with sharp Eyes that see spigots
as unseen Blithe !
We gather in the Hemisphere of our Wanton Anonymity,
as divulged mirrors
in a House
of Cards....
All of my Best Jokes
are Friends
With hearts....
and Then
some...
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
A lonely singular flower stands
Inbetween one fully grown tree, luscious in colour, ripe in fruit and full of life
And one new sapling sprouting its first leaves in exploration, a whole journey ahead
The flower moves in the slightest breeze
Feel isolated
In all weathers
Insular
Alone
The trees whilst varying in their size have strength in numbers to weather the storms
They are solid to the core
They protect themselves
Their roots stretch far and wide and hold onto the flowers tiny roots
Their stature shades the flower from the harshness of all that is out there
They bathe in her strength and individuality
The flower adores how they make her feel safe and welcome
The flower is never alone
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Don't tut at the karma thing,
And roll your eyes
Like I did.
There's nothing supernatural about the concept of fate,
But there are lessons to be learned,
And if you dismiss all,
You will become insular, and brittle.
Don't stick two fingers up at what the world can teach you,
With all it's coincidences, comebacks and reveals,
Accept everything that's thrown at you, absorb it, respect it,
Learn, evolve, grow.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
fitted dots
to particles
fasting on
insanity
dreaming of
a brittle
sack battle
on beaches
silted rocks
on depth
paternal
hereditary
slush of my
guts and my
guttural
attempts
at
insular
perspective
these
thoughts
are alive
now.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
They all gather to the deadhouse
Like actors taking to a well trodden stage
Whether from London's' Kings Cross
Or the finery of NYC's Queens borough
Back to the fold all prodigal sons must return
To join with those that could never find a way
From this barren cold land and its insular bitter lies
All united now in a grief of one that has been lost
All divided by a rivalry, a rumor, some generational feud
The priest commences his weary and over versed tone
As he summons his God, his Jesus and his Litany of Saints
Incense burns as a symbol of the prayer of the faithful rising
Yet rising no further than their hypocrisy descends
And where do you look when even Jesus lets you down
As you turn to wipe that burning tear from your face
One not born from holy water nor from their devils grace
Doors are opened and a captive audience awaits
A procession of mourners to take their turn to the stage
Heads bowed all and one, as hands are extended
In weak and feeble grips amid their mumbled exchanges
"Sorry for your loss" and "taken too soon"
None hesitate too long as they navigate this fallowed room
An occasional recognised face among a community of strangers
A moment of warmth emanating from this ritualistic parade
All gone too soon unlike those memories of years past
Of wanting to get out and get free, promising never to go back
Yet to the last of this line they swear that they remember you well
Whilst retiring to The Old Stand with promise of more stories to tell
Where the whiskey chasers flow like the Guinness on draught
Helping to swallow the lies on how good it is to be back
Rehashing of old platitudes but nothing really said
For no one shall ever speak ill of the dead
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 4:39 PM UTC
Love carried on the whistling wind,
It screamed your tag initially,
Now in a wild whirling whisper when you wonder what each message spells.
Semaphore and smoke signals, carried on the winter wind as storms collide within your eyes.
Deities of chaos, went and wrote a book of words.
In shreds of insular letters written on ice, in crystal clouds.
Something like I love you.
In Sanskrit symbols, carved in old woods.
Where women run naked, who say that it's good.
And all the information thereby, carried on that whistling wind.
(c)LIVVI
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
Rattle on
And do so backwards
In the insular hole
Strangle lo’
To and fro, in herds
Build for me a pole
Wail along
And do so sweetly
In my crooked glyphs
Sail strong
To lands discreetly
A flintlock at your hip
Walk across
And do so sideways
In a tiled oasis
Count the cost,
To hands that play
Deal out epistasis
Swim away
And do so upwards
In a veiled monsoon
Drown the day
In Carinae
Seek its vagrant moon
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
All sound is muted
Vibrant colours overlaid with gauzy grey.
My skin, my hair, are damp,
As if those things were weeping, but have ceased,
As if I am made of tears
Or, have bathed in them,
Yet, I feel nothing, nothing but numb
No pain, ah – well, a faint, dull ache
As if my etheric body were trying to escape.
I am lost within and without myself
All insular, enclosed
Boxed, redundant, closed away
Grey is the way to the end of today.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
From the depths of my duvet sleep
Your voice commands;
An arrow through the distance between
You and I, it made me
Take up the shutters
Of my insular shell
To welcome the night,
Lit by a mere halogen moon,
No Goddess for me to praise-
Only thick wraiths of choking smoke,
Absorbing what to you is a perfect orb
Of singular clarity
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 1:21 PM UTC
The Gregorian calendar has evolved from insular Celtic languages, whilst the epitome of death is witnessed by desolate tree-tops of silent and haunted hills.
As we bask in the radiance of harsh winter precipitations, I acknowledge his birthplace in Ayrshire. We are asked to give credence to the important lyrics: Haste Ye Back.
The national party has pronounced Brosnachadh Bhruis, whilst partaking of the offal pudding at the address of the laird.
Our sectarian intercourses are ceremonial ejaculations in the bedlam of staunch affiliation.
I can feel the spirit of damp historical ancestry on this Presbyterian eloquence which surpasses Hogmanay by a mere 25 days.
One more thing: Don’t be a stranger.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
Alone?
I stand insular in my world,
my wings are clipped,
It's my only option, Hobson's Choice is mine, no fears,
No more tears, hearts divisions, between one or two, only, not going to be lonely,
I eternally seek his lust, as a sin it's a must, same with my envy, heralded sin in emerald green,
Not really a sinner, to me, myself, I,
I am ever the victor, I do as I please,
I sit in sight of a future, fulfilled , extricated from a bubble once burst,
Burst.....long in the past,
I am myself, my own figure head, my own mast, my own support,
Guide myself through, stormy seas, tremendous turbulent tempests, always out to get me, not,
Last word on the subject, Forget me not!
Plummet into darkness, so deep,
Then rise, rise once more,
Up above, as the dragon fly flies,
where butterflies flit on the wing, in the sun,
A solar eclipse greets my sweet lips, when we fall in my bed, fed each others' sweet heads!
Only one soul shares my bed, he's the one lives in my head,
He makes me feel sincere unto myself, always,none filled with bigotry,
Bounce right back, with self-esteem, always feeds my mind,
Walk along the tightrope wire, taut with desire
Feelings strong, feeling keen,
Mind aphrodisiac based within in myself,
Chains of resentment, rusted , dusted, deconstructed,
I love myself with all my wealth,
The chemistry I feel for me is freekin, so unreal,
Emotions, never thought I'd shatter,
Copyright Livvi Kent 24/03/2013
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 8:57 AM UTC
it is
important
to see
both sides
of the story
sometimes
you need to
step back
to take
the bigger
picture in
sometimes
you need to
leani in
to see the
real, reality
we can all
stand on the
mountain
and proclaim
our views
but very few
stand in the
valleys
and join the
rescue crews
it used to be
a neighbor
was a friend
(mostly)
on whom
one could
depend
for a cup
of sugar
to stand
by you
if payday
was late
or
heaven
forbid
if the worst
happened
they would
be part of
the recovery
team
pitching in
til you
recovered
your steam.
now
we are
strangers
with doors
barred
against
the world
living in
insular
pockets
barely aware
of those
who live
beside
atop
or below...
be brave
people
lean in
knock on
a new door
let society
begin
learn a different story,
share your own
create a village
expand your home
plant a garden
to feed a crowd
sit on the steps
with a book
read out loud
look after
the old
learn their
wisdom
look after
the young
feed their
curiosity
swap recipes
and meals too
create a village
within your city
one run on love
with compassion
not pity
this is hard
but simple
as well
begins
with words
and courage
no magic spell
be brave
see both
the large
and small
lean in
to lean out
to grow tall
then climb
up atop
the mountain
and see it all
the hustle
and bustle
of community
make that
the real
reality
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 9:42 PM UTC
Suspended pause before,
Stop
Insular, still and calm
Wait
We breath carefully more
Listen
The mellow evening psalm
For
After night before
See
Princess beauty balm
Watch
With solemn awe
Before
God's almighty arm
Binds
Hearts young and raw
Within
His loving palm
Tomorrow flying closer fast
With panic air of freezing blast
The best laid plans
All late conceived now ripe
And tomorrow fruit in measure
As Godly fusion writ before
The congregation sings in praise
And two now one step from the door
A life to make, a marriage raise.
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 9:45 PM UTC
The city buskers don't speak til six;
After they've stored the aluminum paint,
Their instruments packed,
The clever boxes stacked,
The clink of coins counted.
Now ready for a pint, a blink and stretch.
Flame spitters, robots, Victorian mannequins,
Chimney sweeps, a Little Bo Peep,
All muted on the street.
On the steps I asked,
Which one are you?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
Yeah, said I, *I know what you mean.
I did the same for thirty years.*
(A perfect metaphor, thought I).
No, really, I continued, What's your gig?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
He wasn't being poetic.
Here's a man who stands on his head in a bucket, I said,
More than once.
So many do this on their feet,
Hearing the echo of their own voice,
Shutting off our daily travails
In an insular pail,
Seeing one's reflection distorted,
With little involvement.
He said he learned his trade
Watching the pigs on his father's farm,
And perfected his talent
Watching CNN.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
I come to a bulwark
of quiet flesh, beating
to a hum of worldly
duress. And cling, bare-handed,
to stiff ledges, bone tablets as steps.
And look upon irradiated, insular eyes,
bathing blue-bleached irises
in wasteful drowned drops,
and find light-toothed ducts
emitting serrated levitations
of a tender sort of might.
There are women who stride
along on spherical streets,
and men who talk
to a range of idle watchers
and lonely listeners in a
dreamlike commotion
beyond.
Spurred whistles flow through
lunar clipped doors, and curtains are
drawn closely to naked blades
and are grafted as reborn skin
and contort into a breathless maze.
And the blaze blows wispy ash plumes
that tremble down my legs.
And scald the rest, my bare, bare form, pressed
inward, into another,
into fast entwining, shaking hips.
To tongue-bound kisses from red tile lips.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC
~
may you ne’er reach
wealth without a struggle;
may you ne’re grasp
success without the pain;
for ’tis life’s struggle
that purifies one’s soul,
and ’tis his pain
that will make
the broken more whole.
but a silver spoon feeds
the want of one’s ease,
and a deep-cushioned couch
gathers only the
lazy and thieves.
for...
wealth is the great insular,
and money is a magnifier;
the core of one’s heart
that beats deep within;
success is the incisor,
that lays bare the soul.
place one the other afore,
regret will sorely follow;
for it magnifies a fool!
but the one who earns,
by grace discerns,
virtue’s voice to listen learns,
attains a stage from which to lead;
his a stature most uncommon,
by wisdom’s mere simplicity
were his mouth to ne’er open
his footsteps and his life
would surely, loudly speak!
this the cost, the
elusive expense,
this the price
of un-common sense.
~
*post script.
i am no philosopher;
these are but a lifetime
of observations made;
and mine are mere shadows
’midst an elusive sun’s shade.
the precise formula
i profess to know not
but of this i am quite certain
wisdom isn't given
to any without cost.
yet she is less elusive
than one might think...
for,
“wisdom calls aloud
in the open air
and raises her voice
in the public places.”
Proverbs 1:20*
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC