"interminable" poems
Paint the night sky with twinkling stars, distant from one another but collectively emitting a spectacular glow;
Paint the spun ivory clouds across the interminable blue, watching the softness suffocate sunlight streaming below;
Paint your frayed chocolate braids beside curved, smiling full lips in the middle of a vivid, adorned cottage;
Paint the passionate red of blood that stains our hands as they clasp together like imperfect puzzle pieces, and the jagged breathing that fogs the dusk;
Paint yourself where you are loved--
Paint yourself with me.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 3:46 AM UTC
He is a beacon of light amidst the darkness,
Whose brightness scatters the night,
Whose rays carry light to every corner of the earth.
He is the hopeful joy among the sorrow,
Whose smile lifts any face,
Whose spirit gives hope for a new day.
He is the music echoing through the silence,
Whose sound clings to every ear,
Whose rhythm will never be forgotten.
He is the simple inspiration whispered into ears,
Whose glad tidings create a picture for a brighter day,
Whose hope brings perseverance.
How could he, filled with inspiration, emanating kindness, fail to notice his worth?
Then all at once, he looks up, surveying the sparkling sky,
hearing the robin's tune,
admiring the smiles on faces passing by,
and knows that his impact on the world is interminable.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
The Queen of Darken Dreams
Poetic Judy Emery
The dark unfathomed tide
That has fathomed my life;
Of an interminable pried
That blacken up my heart
That turned it into ice,
My life is only a mystery
Of many darken dreams;
I can still hear the ravens cry
Day and night
Always by my side
deep into the night where life
is full of fright;
it is a part of my early journey
where lies are always being told
while the creepy stories are
on the making of true hearts breaking,
where old dreams never made
a home of darkness;
where poets written down
what they loved;
where plays are making drama
that made visions come alive;
with wild crazy thoughts
moved the mind and hearts
to a place of the unknown,
where words are written
to a place of forbidden,
Where a place my own mind
made a written scene;
for others to play out in their own minds,
places in the mind is a journey of some kind,
where true imaginations are made,
where the spirit of me
hasn’t seen yet;
but I hold no regrets;
but at times I hold worthiness of my heart,
on dreamy eyes;
I do write what comes to my mind,
What my heart bleeds
For a world of mystery
To open their minds and read all about me
In darken dreams;
Poetic Judy Emery
The Queen of all darken dreams,
I let my inter visions of my spirit
Write out my misty scenes
for all to capture what it is I see or bleed,
My thought come with many plots;
to control the unknown;
where sleeping spell and rose dust
are being cast into a darken past;
yet; hunting down the brighter hopes in life
to come alive in my life;
There will always be the two dodo brides
In my stories;
You will hear many kinds of things
That will come into darken dreams;
Words of a thief to make the heart weep,
Where witches casting spell
Where only true love could take the spell off,
Where knights ride along the lines
Where queens are made in dreams,
In the sight of ancient time;
I care not about the evil enemies
Because they are a part of the story;
But my work of darken dreams
I do cherish because they are about me.
Poetic Judy Emery © 2017
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC
Somewhere in the South Pacific
a human-shaped speck casts a bottle
from the shore of a tiny island
into the interminable sea.
The bottle contains a note
which bears:
a name
an approximate location
and a desperate plea.
The bottle drifts slowly away
flashing in and out of view
on the crests of passing swells.
It glides on mysterious currents
and a quiet modicum of hope.
Simultaneously,
Above a particular point in the Northern Hemisphere,
a ball of tin foil
labeled Voyager I
is crossing the threshold
into the world outside
the solar system.
On board are a pair of golden discs
engraved with:
images and voices of human beings
the relative location of the Sun to fourteen nearby pulsars
and a plea,
naively disguised to look like a proud declaration of identity
but what proud and accomplished
race of beings
would need to search for
companionship
among the stars?
The little metal ball floats away
blinking bits of data back to Earth
each grainier than
the last
tugged by the gravity of distant bodies
and a quiet modicum of
hope.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
I've always pondered
the emotions behind delivering
a confession of love.
A friendship ruined;
interminable pain
rejection suffered
Somehow, my heart is lighter
Rays of sunshine linger
instead of fading
into the night.
I don't regret it.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
Brazen rusted iron-scent of blood–
there, before him, a river of crimson and failed dreams.
No boat, no oars.
Just plain chivalry and bravery and yesteryears’ scars
that manifest all throughout and within him.
He dips his feet.
There were scattered skeletons
and crunched broken bones
basking under the dunes of the night.
There were ghosts clinging
unto his own ghosts;
creatures against creatures.
The tip of their swords
sinking down to his own tired flesh
in attempt to find refuge
in the treacherous wings of the forests.
He swims along.
And his shoulders were battered
and his mare was tainted–
with dirt and dust and ashes of the enemies;
with memories and silhouettes buried
sent flying along the caresses
of the north winds.
He gasps for air, and stills himself under the ebbs.
Under many moons and scarcity of life–
Scarcity of Life–
the recurring sight of the gaseous light
and the inconsistency of the breath-intervals,
he remains still and proud.
His soles burnt with pain and interminable suffering
as it crossed the stretches of the savanna.
This is his life,
dwelling on the dawn borealis
and stained with apparitions of the past
and demons and absurdity.
He has crossed the river.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
Space and dread and the dark--
Over a livid stretch of sky
Cloud-monsters crawling, like a funeral train
Of huge, primeval presences
Stooping beneath the weight
Of some enormous, rudimentary grief;
While in the haunting loneliness
The far sea waits and wanders with a sound
As of the trailing skirts of Destiny,
Passing unseen
To some immitigable end
With her grey henchman, Death.
What larve, what spectre is this
Thrilling the wilderness to life
As with the ****** shape of Fear?
What but a desperate sense,
A strong foreboding of those dim
Interminable continents, forlorn
And many-silenced, in a dusk
Inviolable utterly, and dead
As the poor dead it huddles and swarms and styes
In hugger-mugger through eternity?
Life--life--let there be life!
Better a thousand times the roaring hours
When wave and wind,
Like the Arch-Murderer in flight
From the Avenger at his heel,
Storm through the desolate fastnesses
And wild waste places of the world!
Life--give me life until the end,
That at the very top of being,
The battle-spirit shouting in my blood,
Out of the reddest hell of the fight
I may be snatched and flung
Into the everlasting lull,
The immortal, incommunicable dream.
4.7k
Through the rejections and all the hate,
Just before your faith crosses the Pearly Gates,
Though allegedly claimed impossible by the Fates^,
taps you on your weary shoulder - "Hi,
could you help me, no one else is ...” -
the lonely voice of your soul-mate^^.
^Rumour has it those Greek hags have stock options
in the military-industrial complex, the cosmetics industry,
and favour Eris's 21st century avatar called Consumerism.
^^Your soul is not a super-market produce,
For feckless mass appreciation or consumption.
Your soul is a dauntless beautiful sapling, that
'the one' will rescue from its interminable fire,
and nurture it, till it blossoms and glows.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
Hace falta papel,
hace falta tinta,
las letras brotan solas,
hacen falta horas.
Alma salvaje y nocturna,
merodeadora impaciente,
que niega entregarse
a un Morfeo ausente.
Tristeza que evoca al dolor,
que evoca al sufrimiento,
donde el osado se regodea
al leer las palabras impresas,
no con tinta negra,
sino con lágrimas
de un simple ser.
No será la primera vez
que el osado se desvela,
un dolor igual
al pago de su sacrificio,
por entrever los sentimientos
del que también fue osado.
La noche nuestra musa,
misteriosa y atractiva,
como canto de sirena,
belleza de los mares.
Por siempre devota
mi alma a tu luna,
antaña luz
a tu filosofía oscura.
Profeta milenaria
de adorno espectral,
poema interminable
con descanso finito.
Canción y plegaria,
llanto escrito,
llévate mi corazón
y deja mi alma
triste hasta el alba.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
You hide in plain sight as does day when engulfed by night
For darkness is simply…. The absence of light
You claim to have special enlightenment
And that your knowledge is for the better good of the people
Pledge your allegiance and your success will be imminent
Break your pledge and your death will be discrete
So why would you become part of something so “elite”?
With only one thing in mind; to see the human race in defeat.
An interminable amount of subliminal messages
Hinting at events that are destructive, demoralizing, and deceptive.
9/11… was it really an act of terrorism?
Or was it just an evil plot… something you guys expected?
Al-quaeda and the Taliban… roaming around in the lands of Iran
But on the land I walk some say it’s a misperception
Just a façade in our brain so the government secrets are protected.
Michael Jackson… and the Kennedy assassination
Were they both untimely events in American history?
Ghandi, The King, Malcolm X, Princess Diana, Shakur,
Paul, Marley, the Kennedys’, Lennon, Fredinand, Lincoln!!
All of whom were either at your feet or tried to make your secret secrete
These deaths… from assassination to suicide… were all… “unfortunate” to the human eye?
Or were they “fortunate” for the Eye of the Beholder?
But why go to such great extent to have these powerful and influential people wiped from the human race?
To keep a secret that has been soooo well kept for hundreds of years?
A secret society that is not so discrete… anymore
Hidden in plain sight and away from the human eye…..
Trying to keep a disguise that will lead to our eventual demise
You aren’t doing the world any favors
By keeping an explicitly intricate order in store
You’re favoring your own world under one order
By intricately deceiving the minds of innocent citizens
So, you hide in plain sight, the light of the earth
A light you hope one day becomes permanently dark
Cause once again, darkness is only the absence of light.
With no light, we will be forced at the feet of your might
Despite a fight, with no light and your might, we’re all just mites stuck on your flight of new world order.
Well let me just end on this… **** THE ILLUMINATI!
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 12:52 PM UTC
Nació
la palabra en la sangre,
creció en el cuerpo oscuro, palpitando,
y voló con los labios y la boca.
Más lejos y más cerca
aún, aún venía
de padres muertos y de errantes razas,
de territorios que se hicieron piedra,
que se cansaron de sus pobres tribus,
porque cuando el dolor salió al camino
los pueblos anduvieron y llegaron
y nueva tierra y agua reunieron
para sembrar de nuevo su palabra.
Y así la herencia es ésta:
éste es el aire que nos comunica
con el hombre enterrado y con la aurora
de nuevos seres que aún no amanecieron.
Aún la atmósfera tiembla
con la primera palabra
elaborada
con pánico y gemido.
Salió
de las tinieblas
y hasta ahora no hay trueno
que truene aún con su ferretería
como aquella palabra,
la primera
palabra pronunciada:
tal vez sólo un susurro fue, una gota,
y cae y cae aún su catarata.
Luego el sentido llena la palabra.
Quedó preñada y se llenó de vidas.
Todo fue nacimientos y sonidos:
la afirmación, la claridad, la fueza,
la nagación, la destrucción, la muerte:
el verbo asumió todos los poderes
y se fundió existencia con esencia
en la electricidad de su hermosura.
Palabra humana, sílaba, cadera
de larga luz y dura platería,
hereditaria copa que recibe
las comunicaciones de la sangre:
he aquí que el silencio fue integrado
por el total de la palabra humana
y no hablar es morir entre los seres:
se hace lenguaje hasta la cabellera,
habla la boca sin mover los labios:
los ojos de repente son palabras.
Yo tomo la palabra y la recorro
como si fuera sólo forma humana,
me embelesan sus líneas y navego
en cada resonancia del idioma:
pronuncio y soy y sin hablar me acerca
el fin de las palabras al silencio.
Bebo por la palabra levantando
una palabra o copa cristalina,
en ella bebo
el vino del idioma
o el agua interminable,
manantial maternal de las palabras,
y copa y agua y vino
originan mi canto
porque el verbo es origen
y vierte vida: es sangre,
es la sangre que expresa su substancia
y está dispuesto así su desarrollo:
dan cristal al cristal, sangre a la sangre,
y dan vida a la vida las palabras.
3.4k
Drop a stone in a well
And wait for it to
Splash into the water depths
You feel
Exist
Interminable seconds pass
And the echo of contact
Does not bounce up the stony sides
A white pebble
Gleamless as it falls through dark darker
Than pitch at midnight
Falls
And nothing more
The consummation of sound
Is never made
It won't be
And yet
You wait
With an ear to the yawning mouth
You wait
Perhaps forever
For the satisfaction
The confirmation
Of a plink at the bottom of a well.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 11:54 AM UTC
On the heap,
Thou dangle and screech
And bedeck, for I seemingly espouse.
The anecdotes and myths:
Engaged in a mutual pose.
There comes the hymn,
And the sway and the hum;
The abnormality and the deform
Halted on a single stance.
To dozen of the tokens
Whom I prejudged;
The prevalence of the chaos
That sleeps merely on my tongue.
To all the estrangements
From which I refrain,
Within the bawl of the tantrum, upon the hook of the day.
Farewell to all, farewell the haze
Farewell the cluster,
To the resolution found within a fane;
Where rituals confuse,
Where the practice becomes a fame.
There thou taketh solely,
A hymn and an interminable haze.
Whats the sense of the ovation
When no screen displays
A mourning motion
For which no motion craves?
I sigh, and mumble
To which mere consciences giveth
To me only, mine solely.
His to hear and his, keenly.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 8:50 AM UTC
death is laced with colours no eye can see
i saw it yesterday
resting on a twig
on a cold manhole cover
against which it looked so alive
-- it seemed to be comforted
brown wings pulled close, tips almost touching,
against the tiny white shell of its chest,
speckled with black
a tiny beak welcoming the chance to grab
at an interminable silence
--neither ugly nor morbid
but gently pretty,
the presence of death
affirming life.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
06.07.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
I really wish this wasn't my most read poem, it was a ****** experiment of mine that doesn't have much behind it. Oh, well...
I,
Not
Too
Pleasant
Every
Sky
Feels
Joyous
In the
Near future, watching
Them
Play
Everyone
See, it's time to
Feel happy and
Just right.
Inside where I stay
Neither happy nor
Thwarted by their accusations of
Perdition.
Everyone else
Smiles but him.
Forget it,
Just forget him.
Interminable are the
Nights
That
Pain brings.
Eternal are the
Scowls
For dark ones like you.
Just forget it, let's play.
Et Cetera.
Interminable.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 7:52 AM UTC
A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride—
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision on my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my wordly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.
2.6k
*sailing on the blue-sea
sailing unknown-beauty*..
1.
the seas laugh in raucous-hacks
as the waves cough up the corpses of my dreams
at my feet, they come in from the swell of tides
seeming no more than
spongy sea-weed with sun-skin points
bloated fish who didn't make it
swollen seals with child
and the blue-boy on the whale's back
confident-smiles draped upon his demeanour
like a well-worn cloak of old-comfort
soft and velvety secrets hide inside the folds
of his true-age and pure-soul
nobody would believe
how many trips he had to make
to get to this shore
how many deaths he had to live through
to understand the purpose
how many tears he saw shedding
of nature's total-patience
how many of so much..
2.
on the back of a whale
he traverses the width of seas
the span of lands
the points of stars
the truth of man
and he grieves the piteous-souls whose backs break
so hard
on the interminable-wheel of penitence
turning and grinding
grinding
grinding..
always bent upon that gauntlet-grind
if they but knew how futile the turn..
carrying loads of mercy and goodness
only to see it seep out wounds ere journey's end
3.
cruel deified-laughter exists not
at man's readiness to crucify hope
with such four-square certainty
that redemption lies in suffering..
oh no..
4.
faint sounds of laughter on a broad-coast
whose sands give way to shy-dossiers
of nature's confidence
in the evening sun
secrets that I neglected to see.. first time round
have I failed myself.. ?
(but not again)
when awareness taps one on the shoulder,
is it not utter-folly to turn one's back on resplendence
that all the leaves and seas are willing to share?
*true-beauty lies in covert-blossoms
and opened-eyes
and saying.. yes
when the sun-breeze
dawns*
S T - sunnyday, 24 Nov 2013
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Hoy me siento triste y despojado
me siento tan infeliz, tan desolado
no puedo creer que el destino me prohíba tenerte a mi lado.
Una tras otra, cada noche espero tu promesa
esperando a que me des una carta o un mensaje
pero en vano , por un momento contigo, mi alma reza
sin saber si en realidad tu piensas en mi,
sin saber si tu das el mas mínimo suspiro por mi ser o mi existencia.
Estoy solo, de nuevo, en esta noche de impotencia
preguntándole a mi corazón la razón de esta locura
que no me deja ni pensar ni vivir sin tu presencia.
Cada vez que me niegas tus amistosas palabras
siento como una daga mi pecho atraviesa
tan profundo y tan doloroso como unas tijeras
que cortan los lazos de mi amor hacia tu gentileza.
Las noche sin ti es un interminable tormento
sangra mi corazón herido y abierto
me siento tan solo sin ti, tan frió, tan muerto,
sin ti me quedo sin aliento
y con ganas de que este sea mi ultimo momento.
No puedo sacarte de mi pensamiento,
tan fuerte siento sobre ti que mi cuerpo sufre en silencio
por esa jugarreta del destino y mi intenso remordimiento
de no haber actuado antes y de haber perdido la oportunidad de ganar tu corazón y tu aprecio.
No sabes las ganas que tengo de oír tus palabras susurrarme en el oído,
aunque me llenes el alma con falsa esperanza
para que después esos sueños mueran en el olvido.
Tus recuerdos y tus fotos me lastiman el alma
al pensar que tus sonrisas yo no puedo experimentarlas
el dolor estará dentro de mi hasta el día en que tu te intereses en mi
o hasta el momento en que yo me olvide de ti..
En la ventana miro la cuidad muerta,
tan solitaria como mi alma que grita por tu cariño
pero tu solo le cierras la puerta
sin saber que lo único que quiero es cumplir mi destino.
He llevado mi sufrimiento a las calles de mi pensamiento
se ven como un paisaje desolado, tan frías y tan turbulentas,
al final de un callejón en mi mente veo como tu me huyes
y sufro al sentir como mis ojos se llenan de lagrimas sangrientas.
Tu silencio ha esculpido mi llanto
el viento frío que ha dejado mí aliento,
esta noche he querido llorarte,
pero solo he conseguido esperarte.
Tengo tantas ganas y deseos de llamarte
pero tengo tanto miedo de molestarte
y decirte que te quiero.
Si pudiera hacer que me entendieras
o que por un momento esta desesperación sintieras,
el sufrimiento que mi corazón experimenta
al sentir como el amor aumenta
pero la persona que se quiere ni siquiera lo enfrenta..
Tonto es el corazón,
que al saber que aunque no hay razón
sigue queriendo con tanta pasión
sin importar el dolor causado por el desamor.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC
En 1987
J’ai joué à touche-pipi dans la caravane de mes parents
Il s’appelait Nicolas et sentait bon la fleur d’oranger
C’était assez agréable
Nous passions des vacances dans le Cantal
Il n’a cessé de pleuvoir
Le camping était en pente avec en diagonale un interminable vide
Mes parents jouaient aux cartes avec les parents de Nicolas
Je ne sais pas qui ce jour-là a baisé qui
Ceci étant
Nicolas m’avait demandé si je pouvais manger un bout de sa viande avariée
Je devais avoir huit ans et des poussières d’étoiles dans les yeux
Le soir à l’apéritif mon père a vomi dans la bouche de la mère de Nicolas
La soirée se termina ainsi
Et tout le monde à bout de ses envies alla se coucher dans sa caravane respective
Pause
Ce furent de belles vacances
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
I met the devil many times
didn't drink his beer for free (like Kris Kristofferson#)
or beat him in a fiddling duel (like Charlie Daniels##)
but he wasn't trying too hard to hide
or convince me he didn't reside
in all our hearts at one time or another
Instead, he allowed me to see his (and my) wicked ways
and make me afraid that at the end of my days
if I failed to follow a prescribed and sacred tradition
I would land in the ****** world of perdition
this loathsome chap serves a purpose indeed
and those who have the interminable need
pray fervently each and every day
hoping to keep this imp at bay
but without him and his miscreant acts
we would be stuck with unimaginable facts
like bad things happen without a reason
and nobody is guaranteed a winning season
So if you meet him on some dark and lonely path
(as I have many a time)
fear not you will incur his wrath
for without him there would be none to blame
and we alone would have to feel the shame
for all the woe that is the world
(#Kris Kristofferson wrote a song in which he states he didn't beat the devil, but he drank his beer for free--##Charlie Daniels had a tune where he has a fiddle duel with the devil--I believe Charlie wins in the song)
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
They wrap their arms
tightly around the other's
veined neck
clawing maniacally with
exposed teeth
and wild eyes.
a certificate;
their names as one,
ripped to shreds
but apparently
still valid.
and somehow,
when it's my turn,
I fantasise my arms
would lay limp
and his will, too.
But maybe
it's a glimmer of hope
of a candle in
interminable night--
wishful thinking.
Silly girl--
there is no romance
without menace.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
Our Father
Woe! to these demonic determined downtrodden deceivers,
Woe! Oh Thine merciless mendicants of misery and maleficent mendacity
Woe! Oh common corrupt conniving cunning calumnious crusaders of crucifixion...
scurrilous screeds scribbling sorrows
The Lord will sharpen thou pencils...
Thou pocket protectors whilst melt into thine *******
Thou spectacles opaque and permanently smudged...with other assorted
myriad miseries
Thou mittens will be smitten with interminable degeneracy...
Oh languid leaders of licentious lubricious larceny..
Oh craving calculating copious concupiscent calumnious falsifiers...
Oh maudlin mocking manipulators, multitudinous marauding machinations
**Thy God is an angry God
a vengeful God
a jealous God**
Oh **** pots and gall! Oh sordid ****** insalubrious denizens of depraved degeneracy
Take heed thou names mightn't appear in the almighty book of life when judgement deigns an
opprobrious order of objurgation
terrible tragic tempestous tribulations of treachery
Oh Woe! Alas!
They are fallacious febrile fabricators, fallen , fragmented flawed fugacious furtive falsifiers!!
scalawags and rapscallions..rascals of ribaldry..forlorn fallen away backslidden recalcitrants…
Oh misguided miserable miscreants, maladies and agitation be thy lot!
This rant has been brought to you by:
The Most High and Holy Priest of the Ignoble Church of Alliteration & Utter Skepticisim
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
El sol dentro del día
El frío dentro del sol.
Calles sin nadie
autos parados
Todavía no hay nieve
hay viento viento
Arde todavía
en el aire helado
un arbolito rojo
Hablo con él al hablar contigo
Estoy en un cuarto abandonado del lenguaje
Tú estás en otro cuarto idéntico
O los dos estamos
en una calle que tu mirada ha despoblado
El mundo
imperceptiblemente se deshace
Memoria
desmoronada bajo nuestros pasos
Estoy parado a la mitad de esta línea
no escrita
Las puertas se abren y cierran solas
El aire
entra y sale por nuestra casa
El aire
habla a solas al hablar contigo
El aire
sin nombre por el pasillo interminable
No se sabe quién está del otro lado
El aire
vuelve aire todo lo que toca
El aire
con dedos de aire disipa lo que digo
Soy aire que no miras
No puedo abrir tus ojos
No puedo cerrar la puerta
El aire se ha vuelto sólido
Esta hora tiene la forma de una pausa
La pausa tiene tu forma
Tú tienes la forma de una fuente
no de agua sino de tiempo
En lo alto del chorro de la fuente
saltan mis pedazos
el fui el soy el no soy todavía
Mi vida no pesa
El pasado se adelgaza
El futuro es un poco de agua en tus ojos
Ahora tienes la forma de un puente
Bajo tus arcos navega nuestro cuarto
Desde tu pretil nos vemos pasar
Ondeas en el viento más luz que cuerpo
En la otra orilla el sol crece
al revés
Sus raíces se entierran en el cielo
Podríamos ocultarnos en su follaje
Con sus ramas prendemos una hoguera
El día es habitable
El frío ha inmovilizado al mundo
El espacio es de vidrio
El vidrio es de aire
Los ruidos más leves erigen
súbitas esculturas
el eco las multiplica y las dispersa
Tal vez va a nevar
Tiembla el árbol encendido
Ya está rodeado de noche
Al hablar con él hablo contigo
2.3k
Sensual Spaces
the slightly parted lips,
beseech your entrance,
plead for a soft gracing,
a closing grazing,
a memory of
{entice consummate consume},
complete, fulfill,
long remembered far long, far more,
than the interminable sea voyage of the ordinary,
pressing drowning locking,
rinse repeat...
half an inch, less even,
much less,
separates two dancers,
a gulf, so much more arousing than
a can't-breathe grasping embrace,
an exercise to wondering
where the real pleasure kept...
be in no hurry
tarry, slowly,
seek out the
spaces between each finger,
all an invitation, all a question mark,
awaiting filling, answering...
yours in mine, mine in yours,
lock down this connection,
valley spaces tween peaks
needy for
the rain of touch,
the sun-skin heated insertions,
does not the curvatures of her
neckline,
cry out for
hands and lips attentiveness,
a space continuum
{~}
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t'is the almost,
the last step,
to the first kiss,
the closing connection,
of that first hand-holding,
crossing over the last span of the bridge,
the lowering of the final descent
to the shock of
first insertion,
the wooing nearness of a n'ere forgot scent,
the last step
to the first step,
that first closure,
that is the
final entrance to
sensual spaces,
hallmark passage
gateway found and instantaneous
lost,
that is ever-treasured as that
door just opening
and as fast
closing
to
love ever after...
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC