"intermittently" poems
You… you’ve got a lot going for you
You’re famous, you’re smart, and you’re powerful
but you are ugly.
You think we can’t see the evil under that gaudy, outdated sweater
but we can.
You think that fancy perfume you wear hides the scent of terror
but it doesn’t.
You think the makeup you put on daily covers the pure pain written on your face
but you are dead wrong
bipolar, you are hideous.
Sometimes, though, that’s easy to forget
when it feels like I can do anything
the world is my oyster. When I feel that ungodly fake happiness
that masquerades as wellness, when I’m with you
and I don’t want to leave.
That’s when you have me. Then you take the opportunity
to torment me.
The façade is gone, and it all comes rolling through the gates.
You scream a thousand voices into my head
you bind my body and I can feel your merciless crushing grasp
you convince me that everything is good, it’s not bad,
it’s bad, it’s not good,
this is good, that is bad, I need to say it over and over and over again
you take over, and I don’t stand a chance.
My peace of mind is gone, and my humanity is soon to follow
How did I let this happen to me? I’ll never know
but I’ve learned this:
You do take no for an answer
and I have a lot more control than I thought.
If I ask you to stay away, you’ll ask me why, and I’ll tell you
because I want to be better
and as long as I let you anywhere near me, I will always
be stuck here
on this nightmare of a rollercoaster.
So you accept that, thank God
thank you, bipolar, for setting me free,
at least once in a while.
I feel less alone without you because
I can love more fully, for longer, forever.
I can accept my imperfections rather
than suffer in the desire to be rid of them. to be rid of you.
I can be still and know
that it is ok.
I’m ok, you’re ok. and I intermittently have my **** together.
I’m sorry things are not working out between you and me,
bipolar disorder.
but I’m not sorry that without you,
my life is ******* beautiful.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
I am a ******* broken radio that my grandpa wouldn’t even bother fixing
I got a thousand channels, and all of them overlapped in every second
You came to me and said you wanted to enjoy the 90s
I knew what I had and believed this time I was gonna make it right
“Sir, this is location 328…”
“Love is wonderful…”
“Oh, Jonny! You can go **** your own ****
All the channels got mixed up. Like the cereal that I had this morning
Uhm, It was more like the **** cake you slapped in my face on my birthday last year
I wished you would stop tapping me with your beautiful finger
At the same time, I loved the new crystal nails you just did yesterday. Your soft skin against mine and nails stuck on my back, left me marks and joy
Stop leaving me
Don’t give up on one tap or two
My frustrations attacked the balance of the stupid sound system
I was either too loud or too quiet
You finally left the room
I was still on the table
intermittently playing the 90s
Trying to find the perfect volume
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 6:05 AM UTC
The crown of my unrighteousness pierced Thy skull,
And drops of blood flowed into the veins of Thy brain,
Quite often I please the ruler of the flesh,
But all my ways ripped the heart of the Redeemer.
Thou wert stripped when I am shrouded with iniquities,
Thou wert spit when I choose the fleshly acts,
Thou wert scorned for my fruitless words,
My sins of pleasure nailed Thy palms on the Cross.
Intermittently I let the spirit of evil into my soul,
And how often Thou wert lashed by filthy transactions,
Thou wert kicked with the filth of my boot,
With my heart of pride Thou wert slapped.
Thou hast created me and all within;
Yet Thy Love for Thine made the Way with Thy humility.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
I think about our memories intermittently.
They still haunt me.
Especially the bad ones.
Thought about writing you another letter,
but the chances of you not reading it are high.
I've needed to give myself closure.
I did love you but it was wrong and I could never love you in the ways you wanted.
In those moments,
you were my best friend,
someone I counted on.
Now you're a distant memory,
a counterfeit mirage.
I've written about you,
I've talked about you,
and now it's time to forgive you.
Forgive you for what, you might ask.
Forgive you for breaking me to pieces.
Discarding me like one of your toys,
and acting like I never existed.
I forgive you, Claire.
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 10:38 AM UTC
A frizzy blue black shadow, there you hold,
curtaining off the door to the pleasure garden,
in my frenzied day dreams, it seems like everglades
where your chiseled alabaster legs smugly join in.
It would take many shapes in my hazy dreams
when my ***** imagination, for you is in an overdrive,
at times it's a soft winged butterfly flitting around your *****
intermittently sitting on your thighs, inching slowly upwards,
how it takes my breath away! in each of it's tickling move.
Excited I ogle, and just then it assumes the look of a face,
with such inviting succulent lips, I fully lose my patience
at first the kiss is soft, a fervency takes over,then, I slip in to a trance
erotically charged and ecstatic, I hear you moan,when I explode!
കാമ നിഴല്നാടകം
------------------------------------
കുനുകുനെ കരിനീലയാമൊരു
നിഴല് അവിടെ നിനക്കുണ്ട്
സുഖകവാടത്തിനു മൂടുപടമൊന്നിട്ടപോലെ
എന് ഭ്രമ ഭരിതമാം പകല്സ്വപ്നങ്ങളി
ലതു നീര് നിലമായിമാറുന്നു.
നിന് വെണ്ണക്കല് കടഞ്ഞ
കാലുകള് ചേരുന്നൊരിടം.
എന് ഭാവന യുടെ കാമ സ്വപ്നങ്ങള്
നിന്നെത്തേടിപ്പായവേ
എന് അവ്യക്തസ്വപ്നങ്ങളില്
അതു, രൂപാന്തരങ്ങള്തേടുന്നു.
ചിലനേരംനിന്അരക്കെട്ട്ചുറ്റി
യൊരുചിത്രശലഭംപറക്കുന്നു
ഇടയിടയില് നിന് തുട പറ്റിയിരുന്നു
മേലോട്ട്മെല്ലെനീങ്ങുന്നു.
അത് മെല്ലെ ഇക്കിളിയിട്ട്മേല്പ്പോട്ടു
നീങ്ങാന് തുടങ്ങവേ
എന് ശ്വാസം നിന്നുപോവുന്നു!
ഉന്മാദിയായിഞാനവിടെ നോക്കുന്നു,
അവിടെയൊരുമുഖമല്ലേകാണ്മൂ
മദ ഭരിതമാ ചുണ്ടുകള് കാണുമ്പൊള്
ഞാന് എന്നെത്തന്നെ മറന്നു
മൃദു ചുംബനം, ലഹരി പകരുന്ന മുത്തം
പിന്നെ,എല്ലാം മറന്നമയക്കം!
രതിലഹരിയില് നിന് വിതുമ്പല് കേള്ക്കെ
ഞാനുമൊരുകാമ വിസ്ഫോടനമറിയുന്നു
(In Malayalam Translation)
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 6:20 AM UTC
**Baggage within
trappings of illusions,
love packed away
in neat little compartments
gathering cobwebs at
makeshift improvisations,
dusting intermittently
if by chance a light
should shine,
never wholly untangling
the snare
mid a labyrinth of
transparent entrapment,
as violin strings continue
to unlatch the same old key**
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
I am an umbrella, a rain jacket,
For the Cinderella, a stored away packet,
Till the day the skies sputter rain.
I am a tool box, a first aid kit lain
In a dark, webs-infested dusty corner,
Touching no light; seeing no cleaner.
The kitchen accident and toys’ breakdown
Are such welcome picnics to the town.
Could have been a willow, nor am I a pillow
To cry on in times of immense pains in kilo
And to hug out of a heart exploding joy.
But I am a bomb-shelter, a floating life buoy,
A tower of refuge in times of need;
A furrow-deserted land planted no seed,
Awaiting to be useful again in season,
Not Jesus, but bearing a crystal reason
To be also a rock in that weary land.
I am a handkerchief in a man’s hand;
Ironically stuffed useless in the back pocket,
To blow away flu mucus off the nosy socket,
Or wipe the intermittently rare solitary tears
That graces the dry eyes from heartbreak fears.
I am not a flowerbed; I am a mango tree;
Having no admirers save the monkeys, free
To shelter, mate, play and make all merry,
Spring has come with flowers and I draw very
Much attention; the promise of fruits abundance,
Needed, loved, and embraced in a scarce annual chance.
I am an audience for the sad breaking news;
The princess’s Eulogizer in dilemma to possible views,
I am a lawnmower in her abandoned backyard,
A joker of little importance in her game play card.
I am a muzzled ox treading the corn;
A mockery of treasure, glittering scorn,
In her darkest times, the cherished glow-worm;
An apologetic shelter in the times of storm.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 2:59 AM UTC
(G)
Life as a burden is decent
Treading in hatched up waterways
Swimming in the green brine ebbing tides
Drowned in emotive stances
A being intensified in rapid torrents
Ohh my…fickleness soaked in curiosity
(J)
Decent sounds pretty substantial
I lay acquainted to swampy lowlands
My footsteps have tasted salty waters
Stepped, wadding inside the muddy landscape
Inch by inch, halfway, fully submerged
Overloaded by the tide gasping for oxygen
(G)
Populaces catwalk with intellectual deficit
Footsteps bereft of creativity and eloquence
The grounds lay dry strangling the in-between
The desert begging to lose their sandy dry skin
The forest whispers with a revolt of transformation
The luscious green splash life sparking drones
(J)
Your analogy sways the natured array of trees
The inspiration stings the sun to radiate warmth
All patched in the blueness of bellowing skies
My lungs deflate even on intense inhalation
I tarmac on the passage of time, differently wired
Intermittently cyanosed in faded lived moments
(G)
For poetry and art scaffolds and shapes reality
It sparks life and eliminates the drone mentality
Artists arouse inspiration and boost human nature
It bridges the narrowing ledge of ( human diversity/ instead of/ diverse species)
It drives conversation and deepens basic pleasantries
Rotating notions, promoted to a present and active human
(J)
I object not, for human essence is essential
A foundation of humanity that inspires and frees
A deed that dips in the depth of a lush oasis
Most sunk and waving “a celebration of celebrities”
Falsified lionization, a control of master puppeteer
Amused by insight, the reciprocal contract of empathy
G= Graff1980
J=SassyJ
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 7:01 AM UTC
He had been living in a trance of indecision. All his adult life he had sought to be inventive, to imagine something made that could be sounded out, something that could be seen and touched as a score, heard and played as music. Composing was like map-making. It had boundaries. It was contained, always contained: in the bar, in the bars on a stave, in the staves on a page. It was always a joy to see the page covered. More black than white, although the white space was important, and he realised was becoming more and more necessary as he grew older and more sensitive to music’s often relentless clutter and noise. He wanted to observe the space and spaces between notes, phrases, between trajectories of musical action. That was a good and right term. Musical action: symbols and words that ignited the fire of a musician’s movement, gesture sounded out. He could do that. His scores were full of distinct musical actions, gestures, imagined or observed physical movement: a child’s smile, her graceful movement across a room, an inclination of a head, a gentle stroke of the hand on the arm. That’s how a score often seemed to him: a map of actions. Do this and this follows. Do this and at the same time do this, and when this finishes, pause, then do this again only in a different way, with a softer touch, a gentler mind, a fresh spirit, a brighter smile. You could build a piece of music on such descriptions – of actions. Such a piece made of musical actions could carry within it a rich poetry. Do this as you view the yellow vase on the window sill flickering with late afternoon shadows and when the distant laughter of children disturbs this scene this follows, whilst a door closes and a woman’s footsteps disappear slowly down a flight of stairs. Do this, as though remembering the reflections in the still water of a lake in early morning, and do this intermittently but simultaneously and with longing for a past memory, and when there is a right moment heralded by the sound of a single bird, pause. Recall your very last action before the bird heralded your pause and let it be repeated in a different way, a way which suggests, almost, indifference, something cast adrift from the flow of thought: to lighten, to unthicken, to reveal the hidden, open the closed, unmuted, towards a radiance.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
My suitcase is packed,
Memories within,
Won't fit any more,
As it's full to the brim,
Down at the bottom,
My memories from old,
Just beneath my jumpers,
That stop me being cold,
Just above them,
My adolescent years,
Leaving school and working,
Facing adult fears,
Marriage and family,
Lay on top of all that,
Five beautiful children,
Three dogs and one cat,
Then it's an empty layer,
But not to be treated less,
This is when the kids left home,
When they fled my loving nest,
In between are memories bad,
I tuck them to one side,
Or cover them up with happy times,
I still remember when I cried,
Then comes more difficult ones,
I struggle to remember them all,
But some I do intermittently,
I try so hard to recall,
So please forgive my memory,
It's not how it used to be,
But I'm still that same old person,
Who loves you for eternity,
I still have all the memories,
Packed tight inside my case,
Sometimes I just can't find them,
But you can find them on my face,
My wrinkles tell my story,
My eyes hold all my dreams,
My old and frail body now,
Is not all it was it seems,
But I'm here, I'm still here,
Just look at me, with my case,
You will see my life and memories,
In layer's etched on my face,
My suitcase is packed,
Memories within,
Won't fit any more,
As it's full to the brim.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 4:41 AM UTC
The wind blows in a restive frenzy,
But knows not which way to go.
Dead leaves caper ecstatically
In the hope of reanimation.
The lascivious earth wears petrichor;
Craving for his touch.
Her paramour with a tumultuous roar,
Seems invincible in his virility.
The grim atmosphere lights intermittently
As the sparks of their passionate paroxysm burst through.
The ******** tryst leaves him exhausted.
Satiating her voracity was an arduous feat.
What once seemed invincible now floats decrepit;
Oblivious to the agents of his decay.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
As I record my thoughts down, new memories resurface.
The dusty-green leaves of the lemon tree—
swayed gracefully beside the tranquil pond,
where the fish wandered in liberty.
Moss had begun to propagate around the curves of the pond. Intermittently, koi and guppies-
the size of a human pinkie—
would leap into the air briefly
before plunging back into the water,
disrupting its placid surface.
Jul 7, 2023
Jul 7, 2023 at 9:07 AM UTC
Drifting....
waning, wandering away from myself....
electric pine and turquoise eyes unfold,
greeting me,
a jade leopard winks with those eyes,
an inside joke
in the new moon darkness lighting the room.....
I watch myself levitate into conscious caverns
in my gray matter canyon
wind tinkles and chimes
( ( ( ( v i b r a t i n g ) ) ) )
the moist, fleshy rocks...
memories of sativa green Canada echo--
a family of strangers
humming, buzzzing & drumming rhythms
tattooing heartbeat sigils onto each other
amidst a sonic amethyst campfire
moonbeam embers glow
indigo guitar strings sing hymns
swaying and swimming in cuddle puddles--
a new age baptism.
My wings shimmer,
visions simmer and chill
the darkness returns
left with myself again
I flight right into another lightbub storm
as trebble trouble words rain bows of colors
atop white lilies reaching for stained-glass clouds.
Distantly, native flutes flourish
like rippling water rises slowly
into incandescent tides...
sweet, filagreed foam tickling-
washing
bubbles popping over pores.
and I rejoice!
a homecoming for an ocean's drop rejoined--
rejuvenated!
berserk bongos bump 'n thump
a raucous rumpus of blissful voices
vicariously lift my visage into everyone
at once!
astral silhouette forms cajole and conjoin and
we laugh ourselves into ******
And for a fleeting moment...
I reminded of the celestial infinity
that surrounds us,
where time isn't measured in promises
and trees aren't groomed to be currency.
Here, I remember the why of my existence,
only to momentarily forget,
upon opening my eyes,
until delicate deja vu echoes intermittently remind me
once in a while.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
Those words that were coined as a cliche mean more than we shall ever guess.
We need not understand them until the adrenaline wears off like the lipstick of a pale moon's night.
Change becomes so inert, it feels as though we are watching Neptune orbit the sun.
We tie a knot and leap.
Days and nights pass in a tangle
Such as a tumbleweed hitting our tire on a warm desert car ride.
The peaks and valleys we ride create a rhythm that plays to the metronome of the heart.
They can make us sick some times,
While other times we can't help but stare in amazement at such imperfectly beautiful things.
I wish I could take it all with me:
The land, the sky, the scent
I never want to face myself again because of where I ventured to before it all.
I find myself high up on a mountain, hearing the memories of the earth as well as the memories my own spherical entities have held and let go, all at the same time.
As I make my way down from the peak to another valley, I realise I do not have enough room to hold such masterpieces..within my frontal lobe or my backseat window.
For I am not alone. I began this journey as a we.
However what I took from it all was specifically mine.
We are united in our separateness.
With each scene passing us by, we notify ourselves change has set in. Maybe not all together outwardly but intermittently internally.
The first cut is the deepest and although we are attuned to what's going on in our outside world, our inner world has already began rebuilding itself without us even acknowledging it.
It may take reading a list of cliches on a mountain for us to the recognize the small change, but it is there, like an unforeseen star in the night
sky.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
Air murky with the stale smell
of **** we sit
on the couch, both mute.
I drape my arms across my belly,
pinching my Victorino jersey
nervously,
convincing myself
I'm having fun.
He lounges with the remote
in one hand,
our dying joint in the other.
There is something on TV.
I don't know what, I just
force myself to laugh intermittently,
while he sits back, looking
relaxed, even bored.
(I convince myself
I'm having fun.)
An abrupt commercial break, and suddenly,
an ad.
For what?
I squint. Flashes of
water, boats, and
what might be heroics,
but time has slowed, and I
can only focus
for a few seconds of lucidity,
the sheer volume of information
overwhelming.
(I convince myself
I'm having fun.)
A narrator's voice, and I understand
the ad is for the navy.
What I should have learned is that
it's a "bright career path"
for the "intelligent, determined, hard-working"
individual.
Cute.
He brings rolled paper to his lips
and pulls.
A sideways glance and
a restrained voice–
"I could have done that,"
the muffled words rush out,
as he waits to exhale.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 8:06 PM UTC
Until I lose my voice
and no one listens
the unsaid words of love
will accumulate
inside me,
and will appear on my face
like the flashes
from an electronic sign
whose bulbs have all blown
except for two or three
intermittently appearing
like a code
that no one but you
understands.
Until I lose my mind
with no one's help
the unthought thoughts
will accumulate
and be sacrificed
like my greatgrandfather,
an Isaac who wasn't spared.
And I, an Isaac who was,
was born under the sign of the ram,
to be sacrificed in other ways.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
witches adorn the front covers
of ecofeminist zines
in an anarchist bookstore
nestled on the Left Bank
of Seattle's waterfront
rare rays of sunlight
filter through sheer curtains
photons glimmering
through fading droplets
clinging to cracked panes
refracting multicolor
i sit in the window-seat
listening to a homeless
balladeer's somber renditions
of Jonny Cash and Woodie Guthrie
serenading the locals bustling
down Pike Street Market
while the Olympic Mountains
keep their vigil
across a lonely bay
Emma Goldman whispers
for Alexander Berkman
and i balance on mismatched cushions
considering Proudhon's insistent
inquiries while Bakunin smirks
nursing secret heresies of insurrection
colorful posters are paper-machéd
across the walls with slogans of struggle
scrawled in sisterhood and solidarity
stickers plaster the narrow halls
encouraging visitors to Smash Capitalism!
or *Read A ******* Book*
as jam-packed patrons chance
sly peaks at the black flag
suspended in the back room
a faint breeze flutters intermittently
drifting across the open threshold
lifting spirits as if sifting
through grains of sand
not unlike a child
digging for answers
armed with one
monosyllabic question
why?
the banner
cheerfully pirouettes
for a revolution
without dancing
is not one worth having
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 8:19 AM UTC
It was already awkward, taking you
up the dubious muddy mountain, with
thoughts, unbeknownst of their occurrences.
All the more cliffhanging at the edges,
of the next moment, like a word expected
or not but not spoken, left alone in the mind.
But the lake and the wind, provided the lure,
to stay calm and composed and intermittently,
shut up and stare at the nothingness that the wind,
the reflections and the darkness offered. In the gaps,
between those nothingnesses, words place-held
the thoughts and bouts of past, present and future.
When you slipped, I pulled you by your hand,
harder than the pain stilling threshold.
My other hand carefully place-holding,
in the shape of your lower back, so that
just in case my pull became insufficient,
I wouldn't hesitate to prevent you from dipping
your clothes and slippers in the little mountain mud.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 6:31 AM UTC
not a morning person
she’s content to hide in leafy shadows
wildly overgrown purple and green vines
surround and ensnare her
beneath a canopy of pink antique tea roses
she stands inside a maple platform
designed and handcrafted with care
three asymmetrically positioned 2 by 4 risers raise her
about a foot off the ground
two golden plaster cherubs hover above her on either side
fine grayish wood grain, like carpenter’s fingerprints
peek out through faded cerulean backboards
a painted backdrop made translucent by exposure
fresh cut miniature roses in miniature vases
brighten the stage like foot lights
behind the platform, at the back of the cave
clumps of ferns intermittently reveal
mud swirls splashed on a mint colored wall
up front, a row of marigolds and strawberry plants
embank a retaining wall border
of cabana-like sculpted brick
glistening white quartz stream before her
like a river of rocks at her feet
completing the grotto
she comes alive as the afternoon sun
brings out the color in her cheeks
she steps out from the shadows
and stretches her arms out close by her sides
palms facing outward
fingers pointing down
as if something were emanating from her hands
while she blesses us with peaceful contemplation
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
He occupied her mind
Like a sit in protest
His eyes flashed like torches
His smile like a banner
The memory of his touch
Like raucous shouts
Igniting her zeal
She tried to subdue it
With busyness
Hoping to police
Her thoughts with new
Self control
But thoughts of him
Overcame it
Even riot shields
Couldn't contain it
Eventually tear gas
Would ***** her eyes
All the while his thoughts of her
Visited his mind
Intermittently
Like a passing tourist
Enjoying the convenience
Of a hotel room
With a free minibar
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
In my mind I see beauty,
Priceless imaginations and fantasies,
Still so many pass by,
Never to have truly lived;
A Spalsh of water,
Dozens of droplets left
To hang in suspension,
Temporarily weightless;
A hillside ablaze, tragic
As it might be, as the tress
A hundred feet tall fall,
Yet life will renew one day;
Two bodies lie together,
One wrapped by the arms
Of another, in silence,
Motionless, in love;
Standing on the shore,
Waves thrashing about ankles,
The sunset so still,
Sleepy above the horizon;
Summer rains
Drench our clothes,
As thunder and lightning
Storm and rumble our hearts;
Laying in the grass,
Warm and dry and green,
Watching from above,
As clouds pass below;
Lengthy moments, with
Another, and you see
Behind those eyes,
The discorded truth;
The capricious life,
Led when one finds
Adventure - finally,
Air that gives breath;
Trees in a forest,
Shuddering in wind
Prepared to die,
To serve others always;
The dance of a flame,
Lit upon a candle,
As if it was such a stage,
Of respect and acclimation,
The embrace of friends,
Love, new and old,
Kinship undying,
Future unnerving;
An infant child,
Held in arms built of
Love and other fine things,
Spoken to in honest tongue;
An evening in the yard,
A ball tossed about,
Suns set each time,
Times long since past;
The will to live,
Truly a special gift,
That which not all ascertain,
Not granted to all alive;
The symphony made up,
From tiny noises does it emanate,
Strong, resolute, with finesse
Collectively, in cooperation;
From atop the highest peaks,
On mountain tops abroad,
The world sprawled out
In utterly perfect disarray;
Passion for Love and Living,
For oneself and for others,
For the tradition and routine,
For the surprise and serendipitous;
Crystal clear waters,
Amply temperate air,
Sunlight broken intermittently,
By green trees and foliage abound;
The propensity to change,
To mold, shape, to evolve,
In fear out of the light,
Found within everything.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 2:08 AM UTC
A song is a poem
With rhythms and rhymes
It would be a blasphemy
Not to say it and explain it.
A song is a prose
Put on pause
Intermittently
With various beats and tempos.
A song makes you dance
A poem makes you dream
And a prose helps us examine.
A poem is a classical prose
With harmonic words
And well-calculated rhymes and verses
A poem is really fantastic.
A song makes you live
A poem makes you revive
And a prose helps us survive.
Copyright © December 2016 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 11:24 PM UTC
he knew
this was the anniversary
of his mother's passing
yet, he would verify;
fully aware,
a clear mind, its crystal memory,
would mourn this frailty of his
not to mention, morning birds
and the tree blooming intermittently,
out the balcony door, each day--
these friendships now at risk,
if he looks up when
the most important lady
left him alone to lament and praise
her final acceptance--
there, where her raised arms
kept reaching for, towards the end
~~
..channeled; spirit Harmony; reaching
into the poet's mind..(C)2013 Spiros Zafiris
~~
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
I built a sand castle around myself
I spend hours on each intricate detail
I built the castle the way I dreamed as a child
I made sure it had all those hidden doors
The ones that weave intermittently from one wing to the next
In the tunnels are where I lose myself with my imagination
The castle keeps me safe from the bad guys
I always have a place to hide within these walls
As I lug myself about crawling on my knees
I drag a life time of sorrows worries and needs
They come in journals
Those hard backed limited editions
The beautiful ones you get scared to write in
Because you don't want to damage their perfection
You pick them up from the second hand book store
The Strand on the corner of East 12th Street
You, your journal and a months' worth of reading
You walk into Books of Wonder
From the days you were read to at night as a child
I always believed that stories last a life time
That even in those worn down books
Oh those beautiful ones where you find a love letter
From decades ago
And you carry that book and pass over
The $2 and the stories live on
And the stories of those who bought the book live on
My castle was built with my fair hands
It's weathered almost all storms
I let no one in and it wasn't until
The day that I did
That the ocean of emotion I carried within
Flooded out and drowned us all
Me, those innocent characters and the books
The precious precious books, soaked and blurred
Out to sea we went
Books floating
Hearts bleeding
Bodies freezing
© Sia Jane
---
“We read to know that we are not alone.”
William Nicholson
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
Rivers often mix; allowing their waters to meet and mingle and swirl and be one,
Often rivers split however, after years of a certain current on one odd angle could bore its way into a body of land and once again these rivers would separate, only to meet again in whatever reservoir they may drain into which is intermittently connected with every other natural water source, ultimately reuniting with other waters including their own;
Along the way though some take their time. they meander lazily flowing more directions than they could ever practically need to but I think they do it because those other rivers take the whole punctuality thing too seriously, and either way theyre already there.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC