"interim" poems
Come on my Love! Let us move to the East
Where the sun resurrects after his interim death
Where darkness first gives way to light
And life renews itself every morn
Look to the East beyond those crooked hills
Where poplars grow tall in line
And wild weeds hem the edges of pathways
Where bunnies and squirrels hop and jump
And merrily run round the trees
Where the wind moves whistling through bamboo reeds
Where the laughing cataract leaps down from the rocks
And flow along in silvery rills
Where the languorous breeze plays upon the leaves
Away from the tumult, far from the crazy crowd
With the pandemonium of the world
Hushed to serene silence
Let us move to that sequestered glade
Of perennial greenery,
through the sunlit grove
Where we shall walk hands locked
Till the bright day gives way to dusky night
Inhaling night air in scented perfume
Under the stillness of a star lit sky
Through moon blanched woods, mysterious
Listening to the sweet whispering of our soul
And ‘drinking life to the lees’ from the chalice of love
Oh! Come on,
Let us not tarry…. Let’s go!
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
Rolling with the hunches
Safety in a tiger's eye
Has become a lucid scent, a possible unction
To the staring hour, we remember for denial...?
Saviors to break for it...
Sated pleas of untoward necessity...
Themselves, in the grasp of order and wit...
Speed of patience, to a wealth we knew should, politely...
The thunder we dote, was a marvel...?
Sent to merit for the ultimatum baring
Brief as loves boredom can be, the smile is actual
Where sincerity is from ear to ear, the want of caring
Do you remember me?
Like calling a kiss a sweet lightning
Come from the cloud, we devote to ourselves, see
The question of unity become our only hope, realizing...
A real tooth of repose and hindrance, that knows, you
Ready to chew nothing but the thought, of callous interim
Where we are, the tone of a silent voice to see the rue
Of compliment, are we that we are, a solution to anarchy's whim?
Sweet deliverance
Set to wishes only a courage's mind could blow
Forces and prowess to assure an imagination with seemly chance
Timid as we are, is a truth the only, when in the house to know?
Jan 6, 2024
Jan 6, 2024 at 4:36 PM UTC
She has a way of tormenting you
In every direction you try take
She gives you a curfew
Hoping, probing, that you, too, slip through the cracks.
I wanted to be a astronaut
To explore the universe
To find my destiny
Through the black hole
And out
Spaghettified or not
When my now cuffed-mind
Soared the air
With wings dispersed in the wind
Still when she didn't care
And thought I was harmless
She tried shooting me down
And got one through a wing
Now I think I want to be an accountant
Mediocre and sane
But who wants to have sanity
When you can be in it?
So I crashed into Hyperion
And as high as I am
She still sends her vicious winds
To try and cut me down
But her torment crafts precious stones
So in the interim
I'll hold on
Hoping that I can un-cuff my mind
Keeping a birds-eye view
Like a leopard waiting for its ****
So that one day
I can glide the universe
Wings distributed out wide
Skillful and experienced
So she can never shoot me down
Now
Perched on Hyperion
Patient and vigilant
I wait
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
We would listen to In the Garden
Sitting on a picnic blanket
In a park where it would all end
A year away
Between then and the final kiss
A thousand beautiful memories were made
Never should I disregard them
For they made me who I am
Who I will be
Such love changed me
And though I feel and have felt great pain
I still embrace those times
Looking to a future where, maybe
I can make more
In the interim, I'll keep working
My heart still belongs to someone
It's stubborn like that
'Cause she never left it
So I see that beauty still
In each dream and memory that greets me
I find this love impossible to hide
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
On a bleak and frosty night
Vexed and weary two travelers rode
Along the pathways-craggy and ragged
From Nazareth, trudging miles on end
Full pregnant, was she with child
Mary -the ****** suffused with Spirit Holy
Divinely ordained to bear the Godly Prince
Conceived before, she had known her spouse.
Abiding in Heaven’s Providence n’ care
They had rode past miles behind
Far too fatigued by the trip
Mary, now badly needed a place to rest.
Heading towards the blinking lights
Not far from the city’s guarded gate
Joseph sighted a tavern-small
Perched high on a tiny hill
A sense of relief beamed past
They have come at last to the journey’s end
Finally found a place to rest!
An interim home away from home
Tethering the donkey outside the gate
Joseph helped Mary alight the brute
In eager search, he hurried inside
With Mary, following with faltering steps.
But the couple, to their dismay found
Within the tavern, room, there was none
For many a man had gathered round
To halt there on that freezing night
Sundry folk from surrounding lands
Had reached Bethlehem for the yearly census
Tradesmen selling clothes and cheese
Nomads of varying clans and clime
Petulant camels, braying donkeys
The place was littered with man and beast.
The tavern small, so packed to full
Had no more space to harbor the crowd
Mary and Joseph, though dejected,
Were encamped within a manger- warm
With tender concern, Joseph joked,
To ease the strain on Mary’s face
“Gaze upon this palace of gold
Where a son shall soon be born to us”!
Mary smiled a gentle smile,
Humored by her husband’s jest
Under the gaze of tethered hosts
In veiled privacy of the midnight gloom
She gave birth to a radiant child,
The great Redeemer to all Mankind
The star studded sky suddenly glowed
With a rare brilliance never beheld
And a celestial voice trailed along
Delivering ‘tidings of joy’ to the globe around
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:11 AM UTC
they were undeveloped.
fetal figurines in preservation
still and detached from
the placenta of a better time
tiny knucklebones
grew miniature orchards
half in bloom
out of season, tracing palm lines.
(deciduous wrists)
forever in the interim,
encapsulated
while clock-hands
melted through ceramic face
and dripped over cream lids
sealing their last breath
like hurricanes in a time capsule
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
I'm sitting the passenger's seat
of a bright blood orange 1973 Ford Pinto.
Adam Levine is driving.
We talk about the weather,
and sing along to some Hall and Oates on the radio.
(By the way, he nails those high notes—
just like Adam Levine should.)
In the interim, we share a pint of
Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte ice cream—
a flavor which we both agree
is subpar and a total disappointment.
As he passes the pint back to me,
he admits that his abs in half the photos
you see in People magazine are Photoshopped,
and pats his little round belly in jest.
I confess that I can always identify
even the most flawless Photoshop jobs—
and honestly, I don't think
he is the sexiest man alive anyway.
We have a laugh after that one, Adam and me,
and devour the silence for a bit before
I lean in and ask him if he even knows
where he's taking us.
He leans in too and makes some brief,
but serious eye contact,
(his eyes are hazel, by the way),
and he says something to me
that I really need to hear.
“It doesn't matter
if I know where we're going, Bitsy.
You can always get there from here.”
I lean back in my seat
and smile as I watch the world streak by.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
*Like a pin on a spike
the dim light creaks dull bright
and fungus glums in the 'tween
as it might... and a yearling takes a day
to bring about the long, wrong night
as amber drools
from the lungs
of a stunted
kite,
the
wind is an idiot
pruning the sun
from a
suspect
sky.
how we talk in the interim
is nuts, but the lust
excels.
it grooms the pollution, and yes
it threatens the fresh blood
of our last regrets.
but... yes
fathom the windmills
of our mangoes
as a fruit -
Less.
some other joy that -
has a boy gone
more less
than
kept.
and
crease the wrinkle
in your starlight
to moon
if not to
breath*
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC
It was social experimentation
To be locked away, windowless
Four walls, perpetually fixed
- as his figure in a lightless room
Ears removed, mouth sewn closed
Eyes blinded, no light, no sound
Muted humanity, no dignity
He happened upon a laughing child
before the procedure
and that sound echoed inside
Deep within his bowels it reverberated
Through his blood
Distorted in his stomach
Youthful innocent laugh,
it grew monstrous
It began to talk
and the beast within was personified
Day one he lost his mind
Day two was still day one
(how irresponsive time becomes)
Day three the laugh became a growl
Day four the voices started
Day five in absentia
Day six he was done
Day seven, bizarre interim
- that between life and death
Profoundly lost in swingin' psychosis
Met by the devil in detailed cerebellum
Watched memories deteriorate
like some reel-to-reel burning, spluttering
His wife now only a hydrogen hallucination
Do you, the reader, know true loneliness?
The observation deck was packed on day eight
Muted, yet guttural screams of anguish
from deep within his throat
Were haunting reminders of the damaging effect
of psychological studies and the fragility of humanity
The cataract voids in his stoic face
they betrayed fear, and begged captors
for some respite from this hellish dream
Until in a tormented blinded haze, the voice was clear
His ears still dead, though this voice was true
Spoke but three subtle words
The subject experienced simultaneous neurological
Joy and fear
He had heard the de facto vocalisation of some supreme
he spoke them aloud
his only utterance
and the teary eyed scientists gathered
sterile needle
no words
dead.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
the wind is drunk on its liquor
a subtle slurring
lilies stir on the lilt of its voice
as harsh a requitement
again, I find no respite
as lithe as the life
in those ever-rearing gold rows of wheat
mistral born, on the rise
like prying eyes
I am thrown
into some tumult,
where some enemy rages on
shakes his staff against the cold
where the lighter chaff is tossed
toward the salt that laps the sand
on the sweet breath of its benthos
I am withering
but the wind blows on
whiles along –
drones its tepid mourning song
springs the dew
from its calloused palms
I am thrown
as sure of war
as trees will shed and flourish
and shed and flourish
in seasons to and fro'
freshly disowned
by the earth and its shoulder
a carapace of autumn's
exhumed again
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
It's astonishing how difficult I find it to transform my thoughts into ink these days
I don't know how to say it
I guess I never have
Maybe my emotions were conceived this way
To be introverts
To hide in the cave
Where it's nice and warm
I do think about you often
morning midday midnight
Almost as much is the fine grains of sea sand at the shore
Often as my heart softens
I sometimes wonder whether this tortoise computer is a blessing in disguise
Because in the interim as I wait for her while she toils to open a file
I get pirated somewhere in the horizon of your aquarium horizon eyes
Hark, for in that interim
I'm lost in your sweet alloy love
Here in your Turquoise Horizon eyes.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
Soon the Dogwoods will bloom, and
bring one last gasp;
A eulogy for winter-
a final little bit of cold remembrance
for our unwashed faces.
Summer is for a different song. Brand new wrongs,
slick fingers and
a sunnier side of sin. The good kind.
Twixt those sweaty inner thighs
hides a secret worth savoring; a secret worth harboring.
Salvation is warm and...
I digress.
In the interim lies spring,
when we debate the merits of
crucifixion and/or fertility.
Around here, crucifixion wins since
we love a good ******
more than a good ****
Who am I to argue?
So we wait for
something different.
Breath bated -
anxiously anticipating change
with a hitch in our collective chest.
That change will come but
not before the blackberries have had their say.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
Sweet love, renew thy force! Be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but today by feeding is allayed,
Tomorrow sharpened in his former might.
So, love, be thou, although today thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
Tomorrow see again, and do not ****
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
As call it winter, which being full of care
Makes summer’s welcome thrice more wished, more rare.
1.5k
let silence settle by my side today
else i'd again be driven
into the echo of her thoughts
into the unfinished talks
into the incomplete memories
into her interim proximity
i summoned her as she left
but it went unheard
renegades often turn deaf
let silence settle by my side today
else i'd again be driven
into the echo of her thoughts
i'd claim it elusive mischance
i'd profess on empty hope
i'd even bridle my despair
'one can ail to no avail,
nor tears'll bring respite!'
these were her last words FOR me
let silence settle by my side today
else i'd again be driven
into the echo of her thoughts
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC
She sat and watched the translucent orange leaf fall
and with it every aspiration of her ego
She noted the way the dull morning sun shone through it
Ego and leaf alike
Her house is a happy one
Sisters smile
baking cakes when autumn appears
Brothers smile
when furtive grass rises in the spring
Her life is a happy one
She sat and watched the fire burn
cutting her own hair
and whistling
Her song was happy too, as the dwindling dream faded and the afternoon moon shied away
fears once ever present now vapour on crisp dewy winter evening breezes
He sat and watched her trace faces in the air
with a delicate finger
And he drew her face in his mind with ease
His self collapsing
His house is a happy one
Father smile
playing raucous games in the summer epoch
Mother smile
huddled with baby on winter snapshot days
His life is a happy one
His words were happy too, as he scribbled on ragged notepads whilst the wind blew
and so many newspapers broke free from the vendor by the statue
(Though they can't shake that one impression
of the world dematerialising before them
and the prolonging of time
in the interim ghost world
of lost memories
and sadness
on DMT)
I saw them rise on a January morning, lights cascading over treetops
Flittering life and love combined in sun-drenched washed out skies
watching them floating so high
and their smiles were new stars
a transcendent tenderness
that I was in awe of
and still am
Repressed sadness manipulated into shapes
when they made love in the sky
Every bleak memory of their time dissipated
and the cityscape below began to bloom
All industry halted, a million stood and watched
as new life radiated around them
Convoluted linear time was now disrupted
All events in history, happened simultaneously
The birth and death of a cosmos
Captured in a kiss
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
every night I try to imagine how the moon dances.
I wonder,
does she know that the sky needs the dusk's embrace for her to appear?
I want to ask her,
“Does it get lonely up there?”
because sometimes the sand-like stars aren't enough
just like how certain things in this world could not keep the sadness at bay
where these things, like the tide,
change
and you don't know if you should get used to smiling everyday.
you want to.
you do.
but you're fearful of the waves suddenly stopping,
when peace becomes an equinox until the day disappears in full
and you can't tell your eyes anymore to stop screaming.
See, this is how the moon sometimes amazes me;
the way she can disappear ad interim
and come back when she's whole again.
I wish I could be like that.
disappear.
be whole again.
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
This wasn't what he'd expected, since a wee little one,
contorting the edges of fallen wood made thin.
What was rectangle became a triangle,
what was just plain became more.
No fingers were used, a mind is a wonderous thing,
Never wasted on this little one.
Creation, Imagination, as parchment clean crisp,
contorted to conception. But when it went wrong
it rained snow flakes of ruptured imaginings,
Jagged and torn, papercutting those close.
Tears fell from his eyes as sorrow for skin bleed
not deep, but any more would have been a torment.
A thousand papercuts from a moment of
frustration could turn paper crimson.
From that interim, knowing the power paper
had, be it words shapes, meaning.
Learning that contours have potential and
wording on it was a powerful influence on others.
So began his journey as origami butterflies
fluttering around him, calmness followed.
Here child, as he handed a swan, and it swam
upon the innocence of there hand, and he walked onward.
May 20, 2020
May 20, 2020 at 4:47 PM UTC
This is a new page.
Empty;Deep Love and woes fill;
The former is me?
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 2:06 PM UTC
Through peach coloured faded blinds, you watch him type on ashen keyboards
Low music playing, he used to cut her hair, she was breathing
Words from a soul, or words from dictionaries faded as the blinds and walls and clothes on his back
A team of typists, all in a line (factory work and the repetitiveness of city living)
You notice the desk, cheap and flat-pack, worn markings exposition of veneer and wood
Did you spot the reference, or did it pass your eyes,
- are you a fan?
His derivative verse of Bukowski and the like is painful to eyes and corroding of the soul
Have you seen the bees flee?
Watch as the lights turn dead, and the oven burns red
I'm not sure if one could call it homely; his home
The way darkness arrives early each night above that house alone
and the way rabid foxes walk in large circles to avoid the shadow cast
You hear him cry at night
(and I feel ashamed at noticing you)
He sets himself alight, to feel something new
You watch from your couch and flip the channel
Are the old haunts getting older still,
by the night's final adieu, a wild dog scampers home
To lay beneath the old car with grass in the engine
and we both know the house is burning
The flashing lights in the street and the coked up vagrants dance rhythmically
Smoke contortions over the grassy morning dew
A girl with a vacant stare, from a bench afar, watches and flicks broken nails
Everything you are is nothing you want, still watching from the window
Pacing. Pacing.
(I am on the rooftop, and I saw it all.)
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
This lonely container; used to interact and circumnavigate
the complexities of this earth, of this land, and of this temporary place.
To meet, mesh, mold, and communicate mentally and physically with other
fleshly canisters on this ride, this trip, this journey.
Then emotion is what our essence does, the spirit of us that resides within,
Yearning to unite with the ethereality of another, to bind with their intangible magnitude.
Loneliness connotes desolation, void, and emptiness; the heart weeps longing to fuse,
There is unconscionable comfort in reaching an island in twain, not in singularity.
Though these receptacles oft give us fleeting tastes of satisfaction,
It is yet impermanent and fulfills the hasty need of our lust in the interim.
Yet when we make exquisite LOVE to one another,
Our vessels dance whilst our souls provide the music, the dance floor, and the ambience.
We were made to be together,
And I love our fit.
ChawzzyScript
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
Urges, we never said...
Were the time, the thoughts of open bother
Of a sleeping prophet, with silence to lead:
A care into the limelight, with heaven to hover
A brassier share, in the need of promises
Sent from guarded selves, a world which delves
Integrity is mine for a shall and a swallow of vices
That remembers you, when patience looked for life's health
Speaking of hell...
Strange invaders, strangers in the mystery of this yarn
Weal no more, than a crash of existence, we know so well
Letting mercy see my upset, a habit has me by the toe I shall learn...
Is it me, or did I just wake up?
City's of strength, and the embarrassment of delicate poise
Have opened their doors, to a solitude that has become a covenant
With the voice we add, is silent warnings of another's choice?
Tell me the story, comes my conscience
A hap of retribution in the same, the shadows of a scream
I have made, a promising God, a sign of the times to presence
That has looked, and seen our terror, the bitterness of a demon...
Save me from a stone of kinship, with a kiss...?
Proper shape to a wish alive, in sordid chance, a wind
Of guidance and justifying malevolence, that has stolen my wish
From the heart of me, a stare of pining finish to a lie to mind...
Pillows make fast friends, if shade is forever cool, intrepid...
Interest in a careful window, is many to fathom a liberty in shyness
Acts and paces of facts, run faster than all of the powers that are, hid
When children dance, the seed of specialness is a call to wisdom's bless...?
Care for another, victim of insincerity?
Long truth's and the tomorrow of interim
Has a rather chosen, possession of sardonic not, the charity
Of privilege run so far, for a wicked dream to lend...
Cough, cough; palpable
Anecdote to share a legend, no man has let live
Longer than a kiss in the heat of a kindness to ****
Seeing is believing, even when our hope in a purpose above, a world in love with what we give...?
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 9:21 PM UTC
And the ships were fogbound for three days
Their hulls split smiling wide by the spray of the channel
We're hovering with them in the dimness of a drunk sun crawling under
A dusk devoid of color
Welcome rainclouds follow countless bouts of bleakness
Slate-gray miasma of refinery exhaust swirls
Mingling skyward with the overcast scene and all it's gulls and cranes
Cawing in the dampness toward their roosts under jetties
Those frayed hurricane tarps on dilapidated rooftops
Laid creased and faded by morose Texas suns
Epitaphs blotting dismal landscapes of copper and olive
And smashed concrete begging to be reclaimed by nature
As all of it is when the seasons heave
Our interim footnotes disguised by the power of purpose
The notion that one day our role will be to make life better for each other
(Oh, how we loathe being found out)
Instead of grimacing, sage-like, naked and angelic in our blindness by the mirror
While each shred of truth oscillates into blue ruin and we shake, shake, shake
Mesmerized by houses where we once lived and stories we must have led in them
In varied and skewed alternate realities, and in dreams we once had
Some of which paint homage to our own grim summers here
Some in which where my roads leading home were less obfuscated
Instead being laid out like the chemtrail creases drawn solemn on our brows
(We won't notice them until our thirties)
This far south, everything is the ageless vacuum we've known since conception
Thusly we're bound to the irony of it all by dull tradition and the will to break it
Among all other shams bred real by the ambitions of confused white men
Their warring remains reigning evident within my crooked heart
Under whichever corner of earthen floor it may be buried
Your guess is as good as anyone's
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
I have been the girl
who wanted love so badly,
she went out of her way to avoid it
I have been the girl
who thought she'd found it,
and ruined it somehow
I have been the girl
who was destroyed over empty promises
broken down by total ignorance
I have been the girl
with a cynics heart and
a crooked mind
I will be the girl
who goes through it all again
just to feel as good as I felt
in all the interim
I have never been the girl
to write on her happiness
to express delight
and so
I am the girl
unknown to herself.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
God can convert my valley of trouble
into an unstoppable gateway of Hope!
With gladness and joy, I still know
that He gives me strength to cope…
with the issues of the current day.
By the grace of God, I’ve been saved;
therefore, I’ve been set free from
the sin that draws me to the grave
and claims my interim, dust covering.
Quenching the dryness of my existence,
Christ’s grace allowed me to succumb
to the pressure of Faith’s insistence.
My heart was pierced with His Truth,
causing my spirit to gain its sight;
now I’m eternally grateful with joy,
having been brought His direct Light!
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Hos 2:15; John 3:16-17; Jer 29:11-13
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC