"intelligible" poems
This is how it goes
your hands will be proxy for mine
my hands will be proxy for yours
your fingers my fingers
and my fingers yours
what I describe, you enact
told in detail so exact
Just to begin
I squeeze your *******
knead and pinch
tweak a ******
give it a tug
Stroke your tummy
work over your thighs
move up the inner
where skin is smooth
circle around, moving in
till soft contours are caressed
through pants that burn
to be removed
that pain you to wear
and I see in my mind
as you describe
the spreading, darkening patch
that fills the gusset
Now they're pulled down
removed quickly, completely
and you are revealed
spread, opened, shameless
Gentle fingertips tease
dance in circles, barely touching
yet the fire within grows
back and forth, round and round
dance the fingertips
as both reciprocate
with growing pace
and firmer touch
I hear you gasp down the line
and your breathing quickens
as you hear mine
as your excitement fuels mine
as mine fuels yours
in our feedback loop of lust
And I tell you how
my fingertip would give way
to tonguetip if I could
that I can taste you
in my imagination
fragrant, salty sweetness
with musky undertones
the tip of my tongue now circling
then flicking back and forth
beating out the rhythm
that you best harmonise with
bringing forth your moans
Then darting down, back
between wet, glistening folds
exploring each ridge and valley
working remorselessly
Breathing faster now
with animal grunts and moans
directions of pleasure gasped
breathless down the phone
As fingers again
take the lead
find the opening
slip readily within
probe, explore, ****
find that place
on your front wall
yes, just that spot
that's a little rougher
and feels sooo goood
Add a second finger
working and *******
licking and rubbing
moaning and gasping
barely intelligible now
...yess...more...yess...ohhh
are all that have meaning
Finger three joins one and two
then the pressure builds
demanding release
and shaking and thrusting
grows to shuddering
and...yes...yesss...sooo clooose
******* faster furiously
till we both explode
hearing each other's
voicing of our ecstasy
in language intelligible
only in this one context
Brains and voices return
as we bask in the afterglow
and what passes between us then
in those moments
is the deepest intimacy of all
Cynthia Pauline Jones 01/02/2014
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
there is no value in a poem that reads
____________________
____________________
____________________
M M l i f e s u c k s x x x n o p o e m i g o t
just
nerve; crap bs, a denial of craft
seek the intelligent intelligible,
kiss the sensational thrill that
emotion harvests with resonating tenses
that beg our brains to differ, sense
this claims,
there is no value in no words is
a hoax cloaked as art by the weak,
make thy metaphors metastasize,
my every cell, a preposition,
preposterous and precious and
comforting in their
privations and provocations
speak to us in alpha and
line our eyes wide,
with pictures at an exhibition
of a faun immobile and beauteous
let me hang on every word of yours and
let it be the raft that sees me happily
unsafe home
take your bs line poem
shove it down your silent voice
this is not avant garde; this is insulting
p.s. write me a smile and all will be_______________.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
The worst part is
I loved you back
Adulterous affair,
Absolutely abominable!
Maybe you didn’t mean to love
Me, the girl inside
the young woman’s body,
you only thought you knew
Flirtatious banter
once hinted at thoughts
Unsayable;
Intelligible abyss once linked
unsuspecting minds;
Understanding so
Deep, so
Accidental.
Praise me, praise me.
Be careful,
Time is taking over,
How could you, you fool
You can't beat the clock!
You're in love now.
Did you intend for this?
But was it Me you sought to love?
Or was it just my body?
The thrill of the ilicit,
The power
Over a child?
Origins unknown
Grown out of your control.
Say goodbye to reason
I’m your master now.
What’s happening to you?
You’re afraid and I, well
I am the child
who will destroy you
Words, your last weapon
Escalating, no wait, stop
You’re killing yourself.
It's too late
I tried to warn you
You failed me, embarrassed
Me.
I egged you on.
I loved you back.
I’m sorry.
#MeToo
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 11:55 PM UTC
THAT crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, "O sea-starved, hungry sea.'
5.9k
i am convinced now that
no passion exists
like that between
a man and his craft.
no love
like the love for solitude,
by which one can enter
a world all his own,
and plunge to its unfathomable depths,
carelessly disregarding his return.
no quest otherwise compares-
oh how could it?
when countless years of history
can never be retold,
never be reenacted
with different players and different settings?
a man plays a role for
a day, a month, a year, a decade,
then withers in the sun, a palm in the desert.
no amount of memories can be remade,
and no amount of care is remembered.
he is destined only to be vessel of loneliness
for others to mistakenly join and unjoin.
but in his craft
a man loses himself.
he has only his love to invest
and only his love to be returned.
when stricken with failure
he selfishly laps it all up,
gathers it close to his heart,
and holds it as treasure, locked and filed.
he searches for the bottom with lighted torch,
the end with relentless fervor,
finds no evil along the way to be a hindrance,
has no expectation dashed and destroyed.
his eagerness for success drives him deeper.
his delusions of grandeur,
perpetually emboldened.
come find me, i am waiting for you
the solitude beckons him into its fissure,
the cleft in the crust of civilization,
indescribable and hardly intelligible to others.
yet its perfection is infinite as the stars are remote.
with enthusiasm does a man pursue that perfection,
does he pray to be with that god,
Lord of his life and Giver of his breath.
he is a post for flags to be hung,
seen only by those who wander the same mountains,
searching for a chasm of their own.
he is unaided in his walk with the stars,
windowless and guided by celestial phosphorescence.
a man needs silence,
darkness beneath his eyelids,
and space in his bed to breathe.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Your forked soul and tasseled persona,
Penetrated through the orifice of anomaly;
Intelligible; Marked by an insane cognition,
Quadrangle of engrossment preceded by revolutions.
~F.A
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
Edgar Lee Masters. 1869–
Silence
I HAVE known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence for which music alone finds the word,
And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young.
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities—
We cannot speak.
A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
"How did you lose your leg?"
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, "A bear bit it off."
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would he deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.
There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of a deep peace of mind,
And the silence of an embittered friendship,
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered
Into a realm of higher life.
And the silence of the gods who understand each other without speech,
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blesséd Jesus"—
Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.
And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
On good nights, I like to send messages to space, outer
or deeper though direction and dimension are lost on me.
I get answers but no translations, no key or stone to this alien
and spacy thought. What? You say you bet you could
rephrase space in a language even I could understand? After all
you passed algebra, walked around school a big shot, finding X
or its equals. I should have paid attention, but mine was fixed
on Linda, Lucinda, Corinna, Corinna where you been so long?
I might have learned the meaning of words from long forgotten
gods, frustrated issuing commandments, ok in their day, but
ignored now, passé. I was absent for those god talks, apocalypse-isms,
missed out on saints with half-moon halos and beatific visions.
I heard only rumors of women, words like smitten, enchanted,
obsessed with love like striated bark on trees, canals on Mars,
rain and that sound that creeps under sod. And so I wait
for an unambiguous, intelligible answer from anyone in space.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
Mixy-Twixy
Atom-Smasher
Take my brain
I hope it's matter
Break away from all the things we said we'd be
Internally
False pretense
On happenstance
All my socks have holes
Breaking molds
Of wither and tither
I keep your family on standby
Hand-holding lullaby
There was a cake on my doorstep
And a front porch on my brain stem
Again and again
And Asian
And never have I ever
Played a game with this many fingers
Following muffin-tops to your local coffee cart
There's a joke there
Breaking, breaking
Silence retaking
I haven't heard from you in a fortnight
Mind's eye
Zip-tie
Bedroom follies
I hope you get better
As I write letter by letter
And hope that you're not mad
Sad, enraged, but glad
Butt-mad and tired
Fired the liar
Who broke the back of the cat next door
Heart attack on front porches
Cause distress and sores
On the back of the man
Who did nothing but hoard
For more and more and more
God be with us, I do pray
But Mary take my prayers away
Make them better, I ask, I say
And send them to who needs them most
Today
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
count thy words
like you count your breathes -
not!
the estimable statisticians
can estimate
the proximate number
of breaths
our lives will take,
the inventory of words,
we shall on average aggregate
we breathe recklessly,
never stopping
to slow down the rate
with which we tirelessly
consume ourselves
think of the
mess of words,
a brain store,
like a breath,
use it and then
purposeful lose it,
once employed,
nevermore,
so write often,
even longingly,
as in,
write long,
write hard,
every word expelled,
a treasure,
returned to
brother poets
for their
consumption and reutilization,
the monoxide,
of a shared oxide
when thy stock of
words in trade,
almost all used up,
perforce,
must write only
short little sweet nothings
well,
in happy desperation,
compose
alliterative allegations,
nonsensical noises,
aiming to pleases
summation of essential humanness
remain few breaths,
issue rhythmic sounds,
colorful grunting noises,
outed
one last intelligible poem
that cannot ever be read
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:31 AM UTC
terror in portals of rapture
twin mirrors reflect possible dolor
untrusting, yet entwined
so amenable.
immediate submergence,
reverence of marred flesh
intelligible infatuation inevitable.
howbeit, efflorescence devotion
find a way through;
transude into pores
inebriated in their fumes.
reverie becomes eternal sleep.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
What has life made of me?
Where has life taken me?
This body has never been mine, nor will this mind ever be.
There is a terrific sadness in every time
I look in the mirror and pretend to smile.
Dear Adam,
I have missed the spring and I am coming to you soon
The eyes that flicker, the stories behind the eyelids
The heart that ***** in the air
Like a flightless bird that dreams to fly.
Make sure you open up those heavy arms of yours
Make of my thin body your prisoner
Forever
See me for the second time,
Look at me as if it was the first time.
Adam, the ground has never been mine to walk upon
This Earth is selfish, she wants us all
But I am weary, just like you.
Everywhere I look, I find wrinkles
Old objects full of dust
Young people full of lust
Golden hearts full of rust.
Adam, I have been reeking of desolation
Since the day I died
Right there on grass that has never been greener
Under a sun that has never shone brighter
Since I died
Of longing
I have been reeking of desperation
If it wasn't for the books you left me,
If it wasn't for this letter today
If it wasn't for the hope of finding you again
I would have long turned into a portrait
Copied off of a portrait of a portrait
Of a portrait someone painted off the back of their mind
Intelligible and faint.
Adam, the lines on my palms are fading
Drip by drip
The water in me is adding up
And drowning what life has left of me
Poor little soul, good for nothing but the sadness
Adam, I wish I was sad like you
But I am not sad
I am bored,
Like a writer that never learned to write
A painter without paints
A mermaid on land
I am bored like the zoo.
I am coming to you soon.
But I know you're not there.
Goodbye summer and everything that's as clear
I will miss you my dear.
-- Watercolour
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
Analytical minds share symbols like currency, defining the present's possible.
Tip an 8 sideways and infinity tumbles out,
but sadly for us, there is no word for , so it doesn't exist.
Modern idioms can string together only hints of divinity:
A Hebrew Prince raised by Egyptian Pharaohs wrote a book about the I Am.
Our language fails pathetically, scarcely the words for what Moses saw in that burning bush.
We know he saw God, lived to tell in writing.
Grasp the Key for the 6th Angel's Little Scroll, unlocking his original Ancient Hebrew.
Like math, each letter is a picture hieroglyph, and a meaning, and a number.
Add letters together, each word is a painting, and a poem.
One sentence is paragraphs of meaning, on four dizzying levels.
One concise chapter speaks a vertigo of encyclopedic volumes.
First to Analyze the most important hieroglyph in Genesis,
so important, do not pronounce it, so its sacredness will never fade:
At top, the sign of Life, then doubled, and the sign of Intelligible Light between.
So becoming a unique verb; all other verbs derive from this, the Creator.
Then add the sign of potential manifestation, with foundation in eternity.
IHOAH
a verb/noun signifying exactly The-Being-Who-Is-Who-Was-And-Who-Will-Be
A vertical hieroglyph pictorially resembling a Man.
Then:
The letter with the sound of A looks like: , and means the physical manifestation of
A= the physical manifestation of, D= man, A= the physical manifestation of, M= woman.
ADAM, with its root word in red clay.
A noun, collective humanity in physical form resembling spirit. (one meaning)
Vertically hieroglyphic one sees a man; but it is smaller (another meaning)
Adam, a shadow of IHOAH.
Let me explain how Moses reveals DNA....
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 2:14 PM UTC
burning celebrities in effigy
chaos as all we know
a huge mess
a strong fear of anything important
core meltdown
frustrated with life and love and writing
invisible invisible
self-immolation
just broke twitter and made everyone's day
pretending you don't exist
pretending nobody exists
pretending nothing exists
nothing exists
growing old and staying that way
covering myself in bots
hi bots
thots and bots
bots > humans
bots do what humans fail at doing
bots are the master race! eliminate the human race!
neutral garbage
say something intelligible and see what happens
chaos prevails
high heat
stranger zoned
learn the ******* etiquette
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
Moral depravity is a commercial asset
*** is love
Love only happens to beautiful people
People with chiseled jaws unstrap silken bras
Bras are meant to be **** and not intelligible
Intelligence is secondary to primary skill sets
Set up the idyllic world in your imagination
Imagine that you will one day know the answers to everything
Everything will be simpler and no one will hurt you
You, the delicate breadwinner who scored perfect SAT's
Sat down by harsh lessons that cannot be studied with the help of Adderal
Add up all your triumphs and they will only be a 63 percent
You have failed life
Li[F]e.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
Must there be the voice of an old man
To be inspired by wisdom?
Must there be intelligible words
To guess out the intention?
Must there be vulnerability
To presume the proper truth?
There ain’t a single channel
On the interface of dialogue.
Must we lie only in whispers
To keep hurt under the seal?
Must we sigh only in earnest
To show others where we bleed?
Must we die only in peace
To pass the torch with ease?
There ain’t a single channel
On the interface of dialogue.
Jul 19, 2020
Jul 19, 2020 at 2:37 AM UTC
It was just like this.
Being without you was just like this.
Uttering that I hate you under my breath
and letting it carry through the wind
while my mind screams that I love you
Because on a late September night,
you held me like I belonged somewhere
besides the cracked sidewalk under
the tears of the moonlight.
And in an intelligible dream, you held me
like there was no other place and time
and state of existence you wanted to be.
Being without you was being reminded
of the times I was with you
when you didn't want to let go.
Being without you was knowing how it felt
to be a portion of a soul that was not mine
and walking about the next morning
with an arrow stuck in between the arteries
of my bruised heart.
Being without you was feeling you tell me
you loved me while you hand rested on
my thigh and living every night wishing
we had stayed a little longer.
Being without you was not being able
to tell the difference between reality
and a daydream because it was all real.
It was all real.
Being without you was being torn apart trying
to explain to my heart that your hands
never held it and that you never really wanted
to stay for longer than needed.
Being without you was hearing your voice
telling me you wanted a few minutes more
before you had to leave
and waking up to a cold bed
far too big for one.
Being without you was like being haunted
by phantom limbs trying to inflict their torture
of making my hands feel yours intertwined
with my fingers and feeling what it felt like
when you lowered your walls and let me have you -
or at least, a part of you.
Being without you was having a constant nagging
in my head telling me I should've kissed you.
I should've kissed you when you were close enough,
when you reached out for me and knowing that it's too late.
And it was just like this.
Being without you was just like this.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
In violent light,
shadows are sharp, crisp and clean.
Heavy is the night.
The salt of your skin
rests uneasily on my swollen tongue
as I **** you like your life
depended on it.
How many times have I wrenched
the impossible from the ether
and left you slick and aching,
bereft of any intelligible thought
save for the feeling of having
been entirely filled and
completely consumed
in the same
endless moment?
One moment can change
your universe.
How long
does it take to lose an arm,
to come for the first time,
to surrender?
How long does it take to cut too deep?
I can become your
deity in the violent light
of our sanctuary
and you can take my
blood while I sleep
in your hair.
Heavy is the night
but your skin is cool
and all I want is to
die inside you.
The salt of your sins
my only meals as I
burn in the furnace
again.
I can't take my eyes
away from the edge
of our shadows
in this
violent light.
I can't take my eyes away.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
He wears lots of light blue and close to gray
so young I wonder where does he come by
such tender knowledge with King Kong depth
I fantasize;
Here I am in his world
and my hands are on his shoulders as he writes
Stolen knowing
(must be lifetimes before, how could it be otherwise?)
I see the mist that circulates and falls like dust
dancing round the light
filling up the room we share
and I take the temperature from his body
as he makes love to me where inside his mind
already brewing
a becoming
of a thousand different ways to express
his heady stroke of my skin and darling wet flower
Books spewed (so many) about
are dog eared
all the greats are here
and a few I must purchase oneday
He is contained and unsure just because he is
young
but his heart beats like a grand scale of octave notes
who’s perfection between pitch
sirens those who want to feel his world
(like I do)
Lounged and laid back, surprising shapes of figs appear
In this… my own version of the best lover for me
Figs, pear shaped and small and dark purple
All ripe with my desire
I love his smile
It’s mine in this scenario
the parting of his mouth is like kings table
desserts
endless like his words; delectable, pungent, foreboding
far reaching
Sometimes un-intelligible for a less than writer like me.
But that’s why I wrote this,
It’s still delicious to find power in flesh and word.
I’ve simply fallen.
Linaji 2011
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 10:37 PM UTC
I chanced upon an old letter
That had clearly sailed legless on seas
Crumpled, damp but inside the envelope
Intelligible writing by sight
But by comprehension I was lost
Disorientated by sea-sick phrases
Somewhere a long way from our
shore a man or woman, very desperate
to find their way on board a ship
going in the right direction
When those who could speak
a second or even third language
were called forward
this person’s mind reached far,
back to french lessons at school,
every country visited and greeting noted
and piped up: I speak very good French!
But French speakers were common
Try harder! shouted a polite man
I can speak Zulu!? silence...
*Pashto is very useful…
Ah! my mother tongue,
I dream in that language
Yes I am still in touch with my mother
with whom I speak, of course,
in Pashto*
Setting sail on the lonely sea
There is nowhere to hide
besides the engine room,
And in there you will be used as fuel
Put to good use
—Well I did think once that I was being summoned to an underwater land but in fact it was a ruse, a trick to rob me of wallet
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
My mind swims when I see you
As I say "hi"
All intelligible thought leaves my mind
To only leave behind
Stick figure drawings of me and you
I mean that figuratively for given enough time
I would paint you a masterpiece
But this drawing was all I could muster for the sheer surprise
Of seeing you before my eyes
I try to regain myself and maintain my "suave" facade
Yet I find myself looking more like an awkward giraffe
I continue to jumble my words like a frustrating jigsaw puzzle
Also I'm pretty sure that my last sentence was in pig-Latin
I sprinkle in incorrect quotes from obscure 80's movies
And you still look at me with that unfazed look
A third party looking at my performance may have thought they were watching some sort of comedy routine and a poor one at that
I try to close my mouth to stop this mess
Yet my brain doesn't spare me such pity
I continue till I am sure that I have buried any chance of ever knowing you
Yet when I look up, I see a smile spread across your face
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
A simplistic paradox;
Infinitely finite and finitely infinite.
Now and Never,
Once and Forever.
Logical and Mythical
Real and Illusion.
Reality is all of these things
yet is it none
for these are but words
which oversimplify, by definition.
Reality is a state of mind.
Nothing can convey the true vividness of Reality
except the whole experience of Life itself.
Art tries and comes close
and is a sort of Temple in the Mind
to the once and always infinite;
the secular Divine.
Inexplicable and intelligible
Ineffable and described.
Secular and Holy
All and None.
There is a pattern here
of polarity as unity
of duality as singularity
of simplicity as complexity.
Humans make of simplicity, complexity
and of what's singular we divide.
Of a unity, we polarize.
There is a pattern here.
Reality and all it's subsequent domains
are both holographic and tangible.
It is a paradox of obvious nature,
with an obvious answer hidden by Mind.
It is what it is.
Live it as such.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
I reckon every day is another page, another chapter to the storybook of your life. Some people have every sheet numbered in neat chronological order or categorised according to A-Z, while others are blank pages waiting to be filled, waiting for words to come. Occasionally there are stories that have been left unfinished, tragic end or dire fate, and there are those that end in the quiet melody of unsung heroes.
Of all the life stories in the world, mine is fragile at the spine, paper thin and translucent. The ink is splashed across several pages, words intelligible and smudged with tears; blood stains dotting the edges. There are countless tales that lurk beneath the binding, and even more lives entwined with mine. You, for instance, pressed thorns between the pages of the book that is my life, leaving flowers wilting amongst the splotched ink words and tears in the paper. It is funny, because only when you look back do you realise that nothing would ever be the same if you didn’t exist.
I am older now, the accompaniment to the author that is destiny and fate, overseeing the paths I am to take, the people I still have yet to meet, the places I will go. There is no promise of calm ahead, and with every recollection there are flashes of hurt and pain, of times when my heart was torn apart at the seams, shattered beyond recognition. Despite this I continue on, the naive hope that things will get better and that I will recover, lingers in the core of my soul; sparking a new hope down to the ends of my fingertips.
And while page after page is filled with cutouts and photographs of the memories I have had, none will ever shine as bright as you.
-
"When you’re here it’s like the sunrise, and when you leave it’s like the sunset."
(A.H.Z)
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
I chanced upon an old letter
That had clearly sailed legless on seas
Crumpled, damp but inside the envelope:
Intelligible writing by sight
But by comprehension I was lost
Disorientated and sea-sick.
Sometimes you come across
an object, and in no way
can you explain its origin,
it’s purpose, or the frame of
mind of the person who last
encountered it,
The letter was dry and slightly
smudged but the envelope (and stamp)
could not be made out at all
I could not send it back
If I could I would be lost for
words, as it seems they were in ways:
*...and I have little leaves, I love you and I miss you so much.
When he finished the day in the ocean waiting for you to choose from Aserahosov read our son and apricot. My shirtsleeves damp in your memory. Our subject is expected later to the rest of the flight path of the earth ready to kiss a little faster on the planet.
I broke a strong bird while I like the cakes, I break the strong current. Love my *** I strongly flow. It has been Pecan pie is to say...*
My understanding of romance is minimal
But to have leaves seems morbid
Even more so than the breaking of
the bird...
Why should a bird get hurt in this
gross courtship?
and a strong one too,
what act of love can break
anything but a heart?
I like the cakes, I break the strong currents
Perhaps the words of someone rushing
Across oceans in the name of love
Slicing through the chunky waves
But the cake is a bit out of place
Surely no one would rush across oceans
Wide and rough and restless
For a cake that was simply ‘liked’
This must all be a prank...
This one then—
*Love my *** off I strongly flow…*
Now, I hope the flowing is another
Nautical reference, it would tie in nicely
With the breaking of currents-
I cannot comment on what precedes it
There is much I cannot discuss
In this disgusting letter, I wish
I had not been given it.
****
—If I were a seahorse, I know that just being a seahorse would be enough...
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
A choking and desperate voice reached my ear this morning. It was a friend. One of my best friends who lives in Michigan.
What she said was barely intelligible...
"Cath... Cathy... I'M D...YING!
C..C..CAN'T B... (cough) B...BR... BREATHE!
(cough. .. cough. .. cough. ..)"
Immediately I knew I had to be calm. I had to get her anxiety level down. In a very soothing voice I stated...
"Baby, you have to calm down. Sit down in front of a fan... slow your breathing. THEN I WANT YOU TO JUST LISTEN & AGREE...
I said a five-minute prayer with her. I first praised God for the miracle that He was going to bring about. For His miraculous nature. For his Power and Glory! I said I wanted to glorify Him with the miraculous healing that was about to take place!
Within 2 minutes she was breathing easier. She was not coughing as badly. And she could talk. Then I instructed her to go lie down with the fan on her and her back propped with pillows...
I called two friends to pray with me on a conference call. We all prayed together. We prayed like our own lives were depending on it! We prayed the Word of God...
"Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man (woman) availeth much."
James 5:16 KJB
I called my friend 30 minutes later. She had been healed! She still had the congestion, but was calmly coughing that up too! She was beginning to blow the congestion from her infected sinuses!
So don't tell me God is no longer in the healing business. He most definitely is...!!!
♡ Catherine
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC