"intersections" poems
Slowly unfold,
as you fold into me.
Two explosions that explode
imploding our senses with sensory overload
too intersections that intersect invisible
connected through connectivity
magnetized magnetically
galvanized genetically
when energized
this pleasure is derived
riveting her visibly
I convulse as you implode
Extinguishing our misery
With pleasure beyond measure
Thirst quenched physically
satisfied, apparently.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
The nature around us
Provokes to think!
The geometry of nature
Creates coincidences and intersections!
Coincidences of creation- destruction and re-construction!
Intersection reveals the connectivity,
Connectivity between deconstruction and reconstruction!
Geometry portray the commonness and uniqueness,
Commonness and uniqueness between
‘image and number’ and ‘shape and number’!
It leads all relation to number relation!
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
From brown eyes to green, the date began
I extend my hand to invite a handshake
We both exchange an “It’s nice to meet you”
We are escorted to our table
Chosen at random by our server, but perfectly selected
For the spot offers a phenomenal view of the coniferous trees below
And the majestic mountains of the North Shore
Our eyes meet again
From brown eyes to green
We sit and start conversing
You are stunningly dressed and I cannot take my eyes off you
Your eyes are locked into mine
You must be really into me just as I am into you
Our server interrupts, we place our orders
Your every move makes my heart flutter,
From how you flip the pages of the menu
To how you rest your elbow on the table with your hand on your chin,
Smiling sweetly at me
I’m having an amazing time
You tell me you are too
Dinner goes by in a flash, the sun has fully set
We drive off through the winding road and into the city traffic
I haven’t kissed you yet
But I want to
After umpteen intersections and two cities
We arrive at your apartment
I walk you to your door
I turn to face you
From brown eyes to green
I lean in for the kiss
A quick gentle one
I wish you a good night
But you want more...
From brown eyes to green
You lean in and kiss me with fervor and passion
You ask me if I want to come in, but I’m hesitant to answer
From green eyes to brown
Your intense, desire-filled gaze pushes me to say yes
Another episode to the evening begins..
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
*She was costly Bordeaux
he was recycled biker leather,
her classic affluent beauty
yearned for motorcycle thrills,
she lifted him up a grade
he brought her down to street level,
they fused at steamy rush hours
under trafficked high ways,
pursuant to reckless merging
reality's intersections accelerated
crashing expedited speed limits,
would never again drive
mid smoothly paved junctures
at the standard rate of normal*
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
Sometimes you are caught
Between the intersections
Of you and your reflection
Wondering, about the reality
So much happens between
Exchanges with your reflection
Mirroring what you want to see
And what reality actually is
Try to touch the portrayed image
Segregate the inner reality
And the outer façade for the world
Mirror what you really are
And your reflection will embrace you
Given the clarity, that shatters
The reflection of a reflection
Thus blossoms the image from the heart
Mirror will be glistening with pride
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
my polygamous relationship with you distances me from the monotony of monogamy and makes me feel lonelier than the loneliest mundane monogamist. my mere apologies for my misendeavors, the malnutritious morals of my miseducation propose metal mirrors and castaways controlled by cutting carvers, craving crazy letters and loyalty from lengthy lies and lonely lives. lethargy overtakes and vowels reign, raining drops like rainbows and rocks in rivers, rusting relationships, rusty railroads at intense intersections entwined in everything inside and nothing on the outside anymore except these
muscles. we are back at the beginning.
my mind marvels in the magic of the memories, the madness of the morbidity and the hesitations of your reaction. his, I take, is misunderstood as my misfortune, but it is not a miss, my fortune: it is a fox in feathers colorful like friendships 'fore their forfeited and feigned approval, forced for fear of polygamy tho' it promises the purest pleasure, the most personal independence and precious pearls of princes, princesses, powerful, plight-less
poetry. peace surrenders,
souls surprise themselves, surprise their cells, call for curious catastrophes to take place. colorful and calm they coincide with cooperation that can not contain the context of truth, of teases, of teasers and targets and tonal dualities and we endeavor, we endear you, we dare destroy the darkness of the devil in its disguised diamonds.
words lie at my feet like pebbles of poetry and I promise personal demise, deterioration and ridiculous obsessions- there's madness to be had and fragments to be written and I play with silly alliteration instead!
serious and serene you stare as if my sanity has slowly faded and I sternly helplessly smile shyly. I suppose you are sincerely offering me your blessing before parting, so stumbling slightly I surrender…
if this is the prevailing promise of mere mortality, I'm graciously aware I was worthy of words.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—
Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation
Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons
Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate
No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing
A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation
Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The Geometry of Intersectionality
1. Crossroads
Intersections aren’t crossroads, you know
Where you can choose to stop a while and talk
With a man walking some other way in life
And learn something over a borrowed cigarette
2. Intersections
At intersections you never meet anyone
It’s all about obedience to lights and signs
And painted arrows in the road that seem
To point everywhere except where you want to go
3. Stop-for-awhile signs
There are stop signs in life. You have to stop
But then you go – a stop sign isn’t forever
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 8:50 AM UTC
There will always be a great division
In this life full of intersections
The separation of the rich from the poor
The distinction from shoes to coiffure
The discrimination of races
The characteristics of faces
The gender inequalities
The life one lives spiritually
One's position in society
One's awards, medals or trophies
But what truly separates us all?
The crucial thing that determines one's fall?
The cause of life's great division
Is having sight but no vision
The ability to see real beauty
Makes men truly wealthy
Using time to make great memories
Learning from all the tragedies
Choosing to be happy at all moments
And to live a life full of contentment
There are the ones who have eyes but cannot see
The ones who can visualize the unseen
The ones who look beyond the horizon
The ones who appreciate all four seasons
The ability to see the same color in different hues
Is something that can never be sufficed
There are the ones who know the value
And there are the ones who know the price
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
i always seem to be sitting
in the middle of intersections
like a traffic light that hasn't
hung itself yet, always
seem to be waiting in the
middle of the ghost town
of where our love was first
built. there's a hospital
down the road where the
waiting room chairs are
much more morbid than
the hospital beds and
every electric heart rate
line sitting on the screen
of the heart monitors flatten,
make long beeping sounds
like an alarm clock, like a
wake up call; they make
long beeps like the ringing
i hear inside of the phone
when i call the owner of
the voice mail i've seem to
have made a home out of.
they took every place
we kissed and turned it into
a church that closes on
Sundays and holds a choir
full of people that lost their
voice in their own war. i've
been in the line for the
confessional for about two
years now because every
time i go up to say how
badly i want you to feel it
back, i let the girl wearing
your t-shirt cut in front of
me. the sidewalks only
seem to crack when they
remember how it felt
when you walked on them,
when you gave the ground
its purpose. one of these
nights the traffic lights will
come to their senses,
drop into the intersection
and crumble right next to me
because it's not like they have
anything to stop or at least
slow down because this is
a ghost town, & nothing is coming back.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
This town is famous
for pretty faces,
broken legs,
and misplaced names--
A sentence penned,
An Oxford comma
dangling off the edge of pages,
setting off appositive phrases,
lighting fuses--accidental--
phasing out of view and staging
tactical retreats
The winds of February mark off
intersections
Dow & Broadway
Midnight laughs echo off stratos
then fall back--
snowstorms at midday.
Caught in the rain on Sunday evening
this place don't stay awake so late.
Except, perhaps, for pretty faces,
misplaced names, or broken legs--
But forget the Oxford comma
retreating, drenched, off of the page.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
The Prism Through Which We See Clearly
~
light saws our untrue selves with acute angles,
piercing our holistic pretenses, daily disambiguation features,
our sheltering disguises into our essence refractive elements
this is not a cute rainbow poem - run from here
it is a dissection of our true nature
why belabor, why elaborate?
through the prism
you color-coded self, tracted,
a mapping of your intersections,
what each color speaks, needs not an explication,
your hidden humanity comes to my eyes, in full revelation
at last I see you clearly
the lost and black withered limbs,
the stirring, leaping, enflamed flaring, never ceasing, breathing elements that mark your singularity
did you know your eyes are constant singers?
through prism, each note heard distinctly, as it rises uplifted,
your song, mine for observation and weeping exhalations,
your song, the production number of thy own composition,
through prism, our interior visual disinterred and released,
here I must cease, for what seen, grievous weeping deepens,
from the glory and the pain my blurred wetness overwhelms
the clarifying crystal useless when tear coated
through the prism,
before the full length mirror,
my own, unowned, never could be owned,
'mirror mirror on the wall,'
warped weave of tissues, mine,
the song sounds, mine,
from lungs disgorged
myself, diagnosed and displayed
of what I see, spitting speech
ceases and desists,
the only thought permitted, repeated,
where is my shelter now?
5/13/17 6:49am
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:02 AM UTC
She's in parties
& knees-up
She's half-seas over
& in the king's cup
She's in missionary
She's in backwards
She's on backseats
& dashboards
She's in fast lanes
& intersections
She's in full throttle
& Hail Marys
She's in obituaries
& cemeteries
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 8:38 AM UTC
We used to sit in your parent's basement
with your two dogs on their little beds
in the corner by the old desktop computer,
wooden hand-me-down grandmother cabinetry,
lace doilies underneath all the candles
on the coffee table. I made you turn out the lights.
We would sit there and pretend
that we could find something better to do
than kiss between commercials
or talk about all the things we used
to dream about in high school, how I
got mine and how yours were like
the back bumper of a car that got left
out in the rain too long-- a little rusty.
Your kissing was a little rusty,
but I let it go because you didn't make fun
of me ordering a double grilled cheese
on our first date. You also didn't judge
when I got drips on my dress
from my ice cream cone. I can still
remember the way you'd yell at me
for stopping too far out at intersections,
laughing how I was gonna get us killed
one day, but I think
you just really loved to hear me sing
over you. I think you really loved
me, and here I was playing teeter
totter on curbs in little jean shorts
with a guy who gave me a slice
of leftover pizza. Here I was, burning
down your own ambitions because
they didn't seem as glittery as my own,
because you didn't quite match all the sketches,
all the plans I had on my map. Because
if we were to draw straws I always thought
you would come up a little short.
I think you really loved me and I left you
like a penny in between that couch
we used to sit on.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
Hot boys express emotion
in the resonance and width of their exhausts
in pipe dreams of measurement
in the rev and roar of super heated motors
mixing spark and sensibility
in the sudden screech and stretch of rubber
marking asphalt and bitch-u-men
out there in the middle ground
where the road humps.
Hot boys light up the night with high beams
cruise the darkest alleyways of masculinity
challenging old men at intersections -
in their soft leather seats and euro-neat boxes
of air-conditioned luxury and debt -
to pole position and the chequered flag of fortune.
Hot boys in cars that throb with bass notes
and bootilicious chick lyrics -
sung by black boys wicked in the zone
always bragging ’bout their bone
and how they make the ***** moan -
snarl abuse at walking women
fragile objects on the pavement shelves
shaped colour lost in time
that pass beyond their touch and reach.
Hot boys are tiny traces of an oil rich mixture
trailing blue smoke in their wake
foot to the floor high stakes, top geared no brakes
as they snake round the hills and the hairpin bends
as they wrap tight trees at the crash, crush end
and the hot boys cool in the night.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Granite Dominoes
The soft earth yields, I watched from above
Little by little it opens, inviting
Rectangular spaces of mudded thoughts,
sifted by ***** piled of fear
Granite dominoes stand in lined support,
dates moistened by dew…counting
Carved in regrets once felt,
loves never shared
Voices from the trees cackle,
laughter it seems brings the sun
Good riddance on fawning meadows breathes
and the sky turns to red
Applause echoes valley’d intersections
where traffic lights sing as
cars stop for a quick breather, waiting on the green
and I see it all
Life goes on even if in minus,
faux tears fill tissues, a scented kind
all the while checking their watches
hoping for a quick release
Oak and imitation gold are lowered, polished indignity
Carnations are tossed, dying as they fly
No one remains…remains
except the quickly forgotten…
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC
before we make
love i will take a magic
marker to your skin and
draw the streets
(intersections of veins on the insides
of your wrists) I will
connect the freckle constellations
read your
mountainsvalleys with my fingers like braille I will
drink from the freshwater streams of
your cinema paradiso tears
bathe
in the salt sea of your skin—
a baptism.
before you break me
like bread.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 4:21 PM UTC
*Sacramental Elixir & Illuminated Blues,
Experimental Flauntings Of Her Midsummer Hues,
Radioactive Eyes & Her Fairytale Lies,
Seductive Abuses Across The New Divide,
Vivid Intersections In Her Phenomenal Rage,
Shatterproof Reflections Splattered Upstage,
Midnight Passions Of Her Perplexed Lust,
Starlight Rains Glittering Hybrid Dusts,
Transitional Paradigms & Engineered Moans,
Theatrical Concoctions In Her Symphonic Tones,
Flirtatious Illuminations Under The Darkest Light,
Stained Animations Igniting Kryptonite,
Palisades Of Her Collated Reflections,
Cascades Emitting Her Sedated Projections,
Contraband Infatuation Resonating Magnetic Love,
Raving Constellations Provocating Atomic Dove,
Divine Catharsis Of Her Cupid Amour Eternity,
Valentine Bliss Mystifying Her Restrained Insanity,
Charismatic Futility & ****** Binge,
Cinematic Tranquility Emanating From Her Bulletproof Sins,
Neon Subways & Fragile Foreplays,
Sensual Arrays Of Her Red-Light Decays.
- 03:53AM -*
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
Patterns of neglect
reside at intersections
with doubts
and the relics of disrespect.
Wounded victims
hide
behind barricades
of anxiety and mistrust.
Gaps for sorrows
coincide with thoughts
trembling
like piano notes.
The ugly side of paradise
immortal, immoral
eluded the glimmer
of an impassive sun.
Oases defined
by the purity of light
shimmer
somewhere outside the mind.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
A bad, worming feeling in your belly
because
you've had nothing to eat today,
and
you hopped in your car,
giddy as a bird,
and rolled over there.
There being the magic store;
the store with it's keychains of glory,
bottles of distilled religion,
and a whole lot of prayer
that your debit card sings.
Tomorrow means work
and the evil dollar that drags Jamaican children across
intersections
as they scream at the Americans in taxis.
It seems we all need a break.
We all need a chance to forget
and say we're not culpable
for anything.
This is the magic that'll save you from your whiny conscience.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 11:55 PM UTC
The subtle cross between intersections, a life of blurriness, through crossed t’s and neatly dotted i’s I removed from the phrase Poetic Form, (trying to spell it without crossing myself back into it).
From lesbianism to manhood,
to cross what being a man means,
I wonder if my own identity is written in pen and everyone wants it typed and edited,
Yet I’ve taken the plastic keys off my computer board and made them into magnets last week,
Setting myself up with stolen magnets stolen blocks,
Putting them in order on my own fridge,
Scrambling them back because there is no order,
They only told you there was so that way you’d sing a song,
But I know now that I can write words, there’s no need for a pre-prescribed song when I’ve written my own,
In my own words.
When I look back and have pages of songs nobody else asked for or decided to write,
When I’m in class and I pocket my songs into stories and my stories under my low grades,
Under my teachers’ requests for MLA format,
I think of that caterpillar I played with in my room when I was six,
And how i thought about how people only wrote about butterflies
And how the caterpillars felt about that,
So when I asked my mother to ask her friend, an author,
If she’d write me into a novel,
Would she ignore me because I was a caterpillar,
Only choosing to open her mouth and write when my story became beautiful and socially acceptable,
When it grew out from the pubescent disliking of itself and stained the sinks of society,
Out of a hot *** of queer and quarantine,
Till the broth of the fluidity of my own being was was down the rabbit hole
Till all that was left was whitewashed spaghetti?
If these songs were anything I could write down again and again,
In pen, ignoring the requests to write neater,
To type faster,
If I put all my work into an envelope I already broke,
Shove it into a mailbox decorated with things people disagree with,
My pages bleeding ink few people can touch without being soaked,
When they ask me what to file me under
I don’t say “minority fiction” anymore
I say file me under “road signs”
At the intersections.
File me under that caterpillar,
In the wheat field,
Next to hydrangeas on the dinner table
A Sunflower in the spring
The harvested Brown Rice,
So when you make me into a meal I didn’t ask for,
I can be at least eaten by the vegans.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:44 AM UTC
I once knew a girl,
back when my posture was good,
we wore matching shirts,
jeans and shoes.
She kept her hair long,
to hide jealous shoulders.
All the loud voices
didn't have a thing to say.
They didn't resonate,
hammering on doors,
denting ear drums,
enunciating mispronunciations.
I played football in times square,
passing glances and stairs,
had rock climbing races
to higher elevations.
My badly tuned feet couldn't run,
ankle bones off key.
There's a saltwater film
frosting my eyelashes,
clinging to my tongue,
holding down my yells
to the quiet machines
that toss boiled eggs in the air.
Up to their knees
in the dark left behind by streetlights,
they rolled up their pants for wading.
They lingered in docking terminals,
standing still,
becoming dust collectors.
Somehow we're all just wanderers,
citing passages we herd
in front of us like mountain goats.
Ambling across empty intersections,
walking in handstand through cul de sacs,
picking up litter from busy streets.
Books for readers wear little letters,
use big words with four syllables.
They showed me how to fence with trains,
ride red wagons down hills,
win marmalade coated cricket matches.
I never judged the typos to be out of place
(I accepted the bits they forgot to erase)
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
In her previous life, my mother
must have been an architect.
She brought to each family occasion
her vision, her love of precision, her stability
- ensuring the family structure
was sustainable and capable
of longer-term development
- and we still bear her signature style.
In her previous life, I’m sure
my mother was a portrait painter
- able to take a fresh canvas,
such as mine and my sisters’,
and add layer upon layer
of colour, of texture, to portray
what she saw we would become
– each proudly bearing her inscription.
In her previous life, I expect
my mother was a pioneer
– not of paths yet travelled,
but of more frequented avenues,
boldly exploring the details and intersections
between friends and neighbours
helping us rediscover what we had in common
- each fresh bond bearing her seal.
In this life, my mother
was an endurance athlete, a gifted healer, a 5-star chef,
a respected teacher, a talented mediator, a wise counsellor,
an innovative financier, a diligent archivist, and our chief story-teller.
In this life, she was my mother.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:02 PM UTC