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Onoma Apr 2015
~The mindless premiere

of a

tropic-colored

inwardness,

reaching...

a handful may

transfigure

a crowd of atoms...

with the

dear life of it All~
softcomponent Apr 2014
coffee-cup perched between Amazon's of Grass-- the contents of which quiver a little with the shadow of the tree. above the purple-white porch-chair, the solar system point-of-direction pierces the glades of Leaf-Life, luminescently revealing the innards of each branch so-as to witness the plant-bones in-stretch-divine oh the summer breeze! (i have no lessons to teach you)

the yardened-gate tilts from wood-brown to moss-green to scuff-mold, shadows of an evergreen forming a movable continent across the half-mooned top-shave entrance-to-an-ancient-palace. were I an expert in floral pretend, I would be able to name for you the blue flowers which grow at the foot of the tree-I-don't-know-the-name-of (each branch percolated upwards and fanning out, bunchy-bulbs at each tip and jummed together, small leaves blooming outward from a springly inwardness). every time I lift the mug from out the Amazon's of Grass, there is a dent in the forest of calm accepting itself as if I grew here as well. (i have no lessons to teach you)

lawnmowers, the sound of suburban tribal beauty, signal spring or summer as sun-dance must have to ancient Egyptians and Coast Salish together forever in longhouses. There is nothing old about the world, save for childhood memories and parents with wine and with cornflakes, remembering you as a child as if it were not your lifetime ago (but yesterday). you run your mouth on the revelatory spark: both mom and dad were as launched to the planet and new just as much when they asked each other to dance circa 1991. The Berlin Wall had fallen, and Yeltsin was preaching The-End-Times when they asked each other to dance circa 1991. I come to the same conclusion-confusions as they did, and who says anyone is ready for anything? what did they know circa 1991? (i have no lessons to teach you)

Jennifer, in her Pink Floyd pajamas, eats her tofu wrap and wipes her fingers with napkin. she picks the fallen remains with a spoon and sees I'm writing beneath the tree. 'do you want some water?' she asks, I call her sweet and say yes, she takes the plates in and missions to grab the bottle. Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami and Sleepwalkers by Christopher Clark sit apart on the sunny-side of the lawn as archives of contemplation in different directions and yet under the same solar system point-of-direction (the one and the many). how absurd it is to realize that every single story has occurred under the same sun, on the same rock. how absurdly beautiful. how protectively healed, the race can become (as death saves all from tragedy, whilst causing it all the same).

the shade under Leaf-Life seems to fill itself in, sketching an extra darkness to contrast the brightening sun. God continues to paint my life, on occasion resting from paint to back picture with narrative, typing calmly and furiously across the pages of existence to write me a myth. I become an image of what you imagine me to be, and the words you read are the widow of imagination once expressed unto the world.

you can imagine, but I won't be listening. unless you take the page and turn to me to point and say, 'shall we discuss?' it all remains a strangers question and answer, so as you can enter my head-long at will and believe what I do from inside what I call my home, you wonder how close we are in spoken word, and believe you may take value from these excerpts. and you may.

but as I write, all I can think is,

(i have no lessons to teach you).
I pray, stay wild my child...
your spinning essence and dizzy head untouchable,
stay crazed with wonder which cannot be defiled.
Live lively, unmarred, unbarred,
but you keep guard of your heart-
leave them bewildered,
stay beguiled.
I have faith you'll stay wild
because
with your curious face and wandering gaze
they read nothing of you when I saw
it was your eyes that still smiled.

It's your inwardness where there lies that wilderness.
for those who may play to enter, there is an interstice...
If you let them in, invite them to dance around your fire,
and stay wilder than any child's soul prior.
Mood: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLU4jlR18UQ
Simon Jun 2020
EG as always, is without value in herself. Except for when she wants to get what she want’s, without even having to exert a fine bundle of resources straight from her VERY “tampering” collective that is her “feelings”. Because you see, her feelings aren’t what just make her the “friend” who helped me throughout and in the bad times… They are literally what make me understand her for her. Also, to what she is to me, for what I am to her in return. And that’s never truly a saddening thought when you think you can’t (for a second longer) converse in the regular, MORE normalized manner. Conversing (naturally) with words, straight from a mouthpiece with words to offer the “immaculate” assistance towards a personality your about to criss-cross all over and between the **** gap that surrounds two sense of selves. Trying to further a correlating connection. Not to mention without the clear variety for a VERY “tempting individuality” to clearly become entirely outspoken within their own selves. Which (I got to say) is never a programming thought… Especially when that very (“programming thought”) isn’t pre-programmed in advance to ever become supplemented enough at ever being ready when you start to FINALLY realize, you’ve been (conversing with words) over a long span of time with what you never truly thought at first. (Especially when it’s entirely impossible for even “words” to announce what thing it possibly could have been…?!) Well then, “indulge me” then…? What is it that I just haven’t noticed (for the “supposed” life of me) towards what I’ve been conversing with (of course with words) for that long span of time?! (And to the one whoever is then conversing gently towards a calm disposition in order to filter out something without alerting a “shock” in the most right of places displayed across the even WORST of times to ever transpire…!) You’d then start to of course think it could be (“oneself”) right? At it again for all to VERY “specifically” hear! But that’s where typical majority thought processes are then (“suddenly, immediately and unexpectedly”)! Since a cueing announcement had just popped out of nowhere spouting seemingly irrational nonsense all around the place. Thou, I’ll have you know, that if you just look a little deeper and closer… You’d start (somehow without even knowing how) to understand, (and seemingly able to just what…” rationalize”)? Oneself could respond by simply saying, “perhaps” … Thou if I were you…I’d STOP and hear out the one who’ve been conversing with this entire time. Seeing as how it’s obvious they converse with NO words in ANY manner. They connect openly. “Open viewing points” in all! All to both rationalize the grievances of those connections and the severity of the tolerance one is able to handle when (not knowing right off the bat where everything of course seems to “flutter a VERY calm feather”) as it swiftly flows through the air. Except without fully perceiving that it doesn’t just flow seemingly “through” the air. Because you see (“conversing with worded types” …) That little “itsy bitsy” little feather, has an “immaculate” impression towards its own assistance of having a personality as not for itself. But for the one who responds to those very “open viewing points” in all! Too busy “up in its own grill” to ever respond lightly when it’s fluttering swiftly through the air to then actually connect with its BETTER half. “IN”! Which it responds by fluttering swiftly “through” to then seemingly go “inward”. But how is that even possible for a feather to go inward in air, if it’s been supposedly fluttering swiftly through the air (what was once previously thought) as one’s very first perceived glance…? Good question. As it’s an obvious, but VERY cryptic hint at who you could be conversing with? The input that is oneself seems to then have what’s called a “seminar of truth” within its own inner “delightful” council. Another somewhat fanciful instance of power that demands the attention for a sense of self’s attention-seeking “self-servitude”. So then (sooner rather then later…) it could come to terms with whatever or whichever that very example about connecting “through” with then the word “in” is about. Well isn’t it obvious, since even the “teaser” to this very passage willing to be both happyful and polite gives its respected tone away. Because again you see, (“throughout and in”) is another cueing announcement. Just as (“suddenly, immediately and unexpectedly”) is, for it has a simulation (just as throughout and in does as well), called “abrupt flaws”. For throughout and in’s simulation for “phasing” is nothing more then a transcribing will made to offend every rationalizability. That’s exactly why you won’t ever understand the “inwardness” of how a seemingly fluttering feather swiftly flowing through air, could actually go inward the air at will. It’s a riddle, sure. A VERY fanciful one, I assure you. That being said, what does any of this haft to do with the one who simply helped me throughout and in the bad times…?! Well (and again I say this) isn’t it obvious by now? They’ve been helping me, as they still do to this very day. Helping me both (“throughout and in”) the bad times. Of course, whichever bad times seems to come forward again (sooner rather then later). That’s when the seminar of truth amongst the input known as oneself had concluded its own inner delightful council. In other words, what did it simply come up with? Well what you’d simply like the “knowing” right off the bat, that both doesn’t make up for the clearer information. Or for the fact that wasn’t really helpful in it’s “expressing investigation”. The very fact for why this passage is called my friend’s “tampering withering appearance”! Well that’s because my friend’s mere appearance has been “shackled” with too much torment for many, many lifetimes. Too much torment in fact, is why at all they’re still withering to this very day…? That’s because they don’t know any better, then to just be themselves. It’s what’s called when someone is truly “twistedly warped”. Since I’ve gone both throughout and in in my own way. So, has she. I’m twistedly warped in my own fashion statement, thank you very much! As many others (while they EVER want to admit it or not, is simply their own concern). But without even knowing why that is? As it’s not for the “faint of heart” to be in the realm of one’s consciousness while proceeding to simply find out. Or else, then why do I question repeatedly? But I’m still learning with each striding experience, to see if mine would EVER “pale in comparison” with hers. Seeing as how she even once revealed to me why she’s simply interested in me. Because I’ve seemed to of asked MORE times then I could possibly count. And I try (as I must) to refrain from repeating myself over long periods of time. Which just happens to be a HEAVY weakness of mine. Which is no half-*** bargain at keeping me in my place in order to simply stride me forward, respectfully. And with that very question, she revealed it in one “death-defying breath”! Which is…? Oneself would ask within its own input. I’m interested in you, Simon! Because you are like me! WAIT! What?! Then between many “oneselves”, their own inputs were “firing off” between their very own robust compressed together “pressurized synapses”. The effects of those very inputting thought processes came with both the “clicking and smashing” of those robust compressed together “pressurized synapses”. It seems oneself didn’t either fully catch what was actually said (where they couldn’t comprehend it properly) or they simply misinterpreted the entire thing? (Which is entirely understandable, by the way.) But they aren’t foolish in a sense of self, as to never “miss” something as simple as that. They just couldn’t come to terms with experiencing (as they did) when it came to coming in contact with EG herself. That’s why they purposely held back the actual transcribing of its simulation for translations. It wasn’t whatever was just expressed. Because in fact, (and with a little “paraphrasing help” here) we can find out how it truly was interpreted. A little loose knot here and there. And they fully unpatched the circumstances at what the information truly was expressed as. (Because in truth…they would rather mend it, then not to unravel it again…if you know what the input known as oneself means…?) So, after coming to terms, it’s ready to reveal it. And a little advice towards sense of selves to take as a heedless warning… It’s simple in all it’s expressions, ok! But what it truly refers towards, is why oneself wanted to keep the truer importance of the interpretation secretive to begin with? I’m interested in you Simon, because (and it’s not “because you are like ME”) but in fact “I see myself in you”. Clean as a whistle! Nothing missing as more then that. And with that shocking realization to that very “wordy expression”, the entire collection of inputs (“suddenly, immediately and unexpectedly”) got a CHILLING feeling going both throughout and in such a way that literally “tingled” their very input mechanisms for simply producing thought processes. For if they went any further with that very “tingling” sensation, that very cueing announcement’s simulation for abrupt flaws would follow in a VERY “corruptive heating pursuit”. Now MORE then ever, it made the entire lot of inputs go on HIGH ALERT for no apparent reason, other then what a simple memory had brought with it when sifting throughout and in “old archives” that changed everything for (of course) the better! Because it’s obvious that a sense of selves inputs is truly afraid of this (“girl” or whatever…)? Then we come to the last finalization of this passage. Since I ask you ALL of this, respectfully… Who then essentially made her this way? It wasn’t (“I”), but her own father! And that isn’t a half-assed maneuver to outplay something other then the respectful truth. NO deceit here, other then the “truth” I’d been keeping from you all to begin with. (Not to mention myself in “repeated” questioning.) Which I’m entirely expressing in its very revelation right here and now!
This is another poem about the friend who helped me throughout and in the bad times. But this time, they show themselves “throughout and in” a VERY “tampering withering appearance” so to speak.
D S Caillte Dec 2010
Shoegazing.  The first time I heard of it, I understood it immediately.  Some may be hard-pressed to find the attraction in the stillness of the spotlight, but any modern romantic envisions with ease the dust on the tops of well-worn Converse, scraped from the warped wooden floors of the old warehouse/depot/theater/other artifact of urban decay turned venue.  Such mighty inwardness may produce confidence in the "performer," but true faith, as such a focused person must know, comes from truly knowing thyself.  From these fragmented origins spring the music, the serene meditation of one lifting higher the soul of the watchers.  He does not know that he has watchers.  All is as it should be.
Stargazing.  It's been many a year since my earnest forays into the night, trying to capture the clean green-dusk scent that also unaccountably exists in the ugly, fragrant shelves of the public library.  Who of those that take the time to look does not appreciate the night sky?  It is an open mysticism, inviting, to some calling, with less of the hypnotic tricks like incense and smoky air but more compelling draughts of equal parts mystery and light.  Light, for our nature; only the sort of dark mystery that alludes to more of the nature of ourselves, more essence.  Future.  But to open myself to the sky is to become sensitive, seemingly undesirable to the warm, smoky fragrance of an always inward and reflecting (stagnating) heart, which is why recollection caught me unprepared when she referred to the relation of my posture to the drably speckled slabs of ceiling as perfect stargazing.  With the recollection of such charged memories, I was more surprised when she leaned awkwardly back against my knees and called it
Stargazing.
Susie kate Jan 2014
The meaning it holds overpowers what it could not.
Those reft of the truth
shall stand with innocence.
Once one sees the flower
one must express its beauty.
But the inwardness between
the clandestine beauty and oneself
powers beyond all.
Once shared to see
the beauty begins to mitigate.
For what is unique
is what is secret.
And what is apparent
is what is barren.
The bell sounds for the loss of a soldier
killed in a boundless war!
One of numerous soul destroying conflicts
blighting a world of no peace!
Leaving a trail of eternal lonely despair
with only the emptiness there.

How can one imagine the inwardness of loss
families feel for their kin.
A son a daughter or grandchild in the war
the cycle rages on!
Soldiers dying in battles has always been
from a ball of fire to plains of green.

The forces of the crown and those for a cause
have fought to the end.
Pointless waste of life so much left behind
regret and memories instilled.
Into the fabric of our very own existence
the self destructive persistence!

The bell tolled for another lost soldier!

The Foureyed Poet.
Endless wars and death of countless soldiers goes on ! The Foureyed Poet.
Zachary J Oct 2014
In all the days I've come to see
the irony fails me not
expectations as in life, joy tempered in my sense

A few moments early, oh so wise, approach I surely saw
From all directions, my eyes were blind, deceived as not before

A silhouette of pure enchantment, a look that made me melt,
I had the words but not my own, my gift I now have found.

A beauty far too fine for me as charlatans do know
Yet O' so real and more that which cometh from above

My God, my gift, delivered me
A grace not known my soul

She stole it all with smile divine, this true thief of my heart.
My soul she moved, my body quivered at just a simple touch. I know not words, emotions sublime, intrinsic inwardness...

My God, My love, delivered me the good thief nonetheless.
Conceptions of thy Hope and Spirit were so tenderfoot

For I alone could not perceive what He who Is can give.
Thy depths of Grace is unbeknownst when lacking in true faith.  Learnt knowledge reveals I grow quite slow
but o the humanness...

We all are blessed with what we need if just unguard thy sense!
An Ode to Ingrid...
Eileen Prunster Apr 2012
sometimes
                            
when i look up
at
the sky

it
has a depth
an
inwardness

that makes
me

feel as
if

im              
    falling
in  to
it
what is it about the heavans that so hypnotize as does the ocean,  is it the vastness that makes one feel so small or that they make one really think
Jeremy Ducane May 2018
We talked long and late by the fire.
Our world, the easy company of friends who know.
Outside, the snow was falling like the years -
Months in drifts against the house.

Time was slowed for us and we simply - were.
- A grateful coming home from years at sea.
And, shedding fretful summer's fever to achieve,
We breathed our time, our inwardness, our peace.

And at the bottom of the season's well
We found a heart of time to come as bright
As summer skies of clearing rain,
And all the promise of green shoots, and the light.
Broken Halos May 3
We drift within vanished memories, our obscured
individuality.
Each experience —
a hollow fragment of oneself we can't hold.
Our hands though clasped,
can never tangle into one.
No storm could shatter the walls each long hold.

Our souls orbit in polyphony,
never quite colliding.
Intimacy pirouettes at the extremity of an abyss–
silently.
A fissure runs between two hearts
beating synchronously,
yet searching solitude.
Our hearts–
a silent sea where longing wanders away.

I trace the marks on your face,
quietly, deeply.
Hoping a map could lead to the depths,
of your soul.
But I am trapped in shadows of uncertainty,
where words flounder
and secrets lie.
We lean towards one another,
yet inwardness no matter how close–
guarantees a distance.

Perhaps we aren't lovers but actors playing.
Here I am lying –
in the void of emptiness,
refusing to accept that distance kills intimacy.
In my mind,
remains fragments of our memories.
Maybe we never truly found love–
only lost in each other's embrace.

@noirwhisky
Its somehow related to the writer itself it feels like one situation in our relationship with my bf, though we are with each other I feel like we're detached emotionally, like how i perceived things as different from others, we see things differently, like if i tell him what i feel, he'll view it in a different way In his own consciousness, in his own world, the writer feels that the barriers which separates them in loving each other, is their own individuality, though they're close with each other they never expresses their self truly. The writer weren’t sure if it’s love or not, but deep down, beneath the deepest part of her heart lies the unspoken wish. Hoping it's true even if it's really not.
Norbert Tasev Mar 2020
As self-restraining as I am, I deliberately withhold the Niagara Falls of social confrontation as the angular silence intended for atonement, while bleeding alive in human organs and dying! With stubborn impatience and a crooked mood, I am always on the cusp of deciphering my own mood, and obediently waiting for patience to liberate me once more!

"My ribs are crumbling, worn over wormwood, and overwhelmed with worried hearts, and trembling - through my skin as useful, careless knots of thorns - to at least keep my conscience clean, healthy, and undisturbed! - My dazzling happiness is better, fuller, and I have forgotten the greater half of my steaming eyes, and my cherished inwardness, my overly insubstantial secrets I have no way to reveal!

- I will always be tricky and self-pitying on a self-pitying digestive digger, like a full-bodied barefoot old woman, - hardly any tangible evidence! Like the inexhaustible vulnerability, the breakable vulnerability is creeping in and I am cluttering myself - erroneous, stumbling blocks of my journey - meek-master bricklayer - and if my soul-producing concrete is a gravel-nectar I run out of space. s must be plenty! Little boy hurt, eternally teary-eyed ***

- Tell me when you want to grow up? You have to end your limitless self - you know it - you should realize it!
Because in your own need of completeness you can only go on - if you choose a heart mate who can endure for you.
Do not succumb to restlessness.
Another journey will not drain the ocean
or clean the sky.
Another mountain will not reveal
the rooftop of the world.

You have your own mountain within.
It pierces the sky, buoys on the sea.
Climb it in solitude, in inwardness.
Rest in exertion.

You will find adventure, joy --
a pilgrimage to heaven's gates.

Climb, and you will find the face of God.
I walk a labyrinth alone,
shuffling my steps
to follow the intricate inwardness
of the path, skeleton of the divine circle,
maze of the praying soul.

It is a pilgrim's progress
toward the center, where the last line
abruptly ends, indifferent to whether
your prayers have been answered.
The journey curtails, moving around
and around, the finish found
before the beginning begins.

This decorated circle of communion
subdivides into monastic cells,
the walls permeable to the Spirit,
impervious to doubt. The circle pivots
on its axis, perfectly aligned
with itself, perfectly identical
to itself. No cycles to bring change.
No mutation of form. Only
the mystifying distance of pi.

The labyrinth looms like a celestial
formation encircling heaven and Earth.
Dante walks it, with Beatrice by his side.
A circle of new love, new life.
Every next step encircles the entire journey,
enlivening the heart. Agape outruns
Eros in a race of heavenly calm.
All prayers divinely divisible by pi.
PK Wakefield Feb 2020
i love you constantly
that you are my Wife
(and my Children also)

,and both my body and my lips

(i want to kiss you constantly)

your sweetness and your smile
and the smell off of your hair
and light sparkle of your eyes
and the very correct angle of your nose.

i love you always, that you are.

And that is no little thing
i think because
i love also the Spring,
our children,
the direct sheen of moonlight
on pale snow,
and always your constant hips.

i love them,
and not least,
but most;

for you are my wife:
always something,
easily eternal.

and I love you,

as nothing which is eternal
is not you;
nor the gate of your walk,
or the folding inwardness
warmth of your
creaseless thighs.

i want only to love you
for all my days and nights—
and when they are done;
spent of laughter and tears,
i will rest easily in the ceaseless
crook of your sea.   .    .
We emanate from the timeless One.
Some reflexively christen it the sun.
But their poetic imagination *****
in the wind, a useless appendage.

We are bound to blind matter,
an inane substrate of Being.
Planted in it, we rise as intellect and soul.
This triumvirate makes us whole.

We yearn to return to our Source,
seek union in inwardness and love.
A part fitting uneasily in the whole,
we contemplate our sorry cosmic role.

Still, mystic oneness drives us forward,
carried on wings of virtue in this life.
What comes next we cannot fathom.
The Origin beckons; we stand the strife.
A wise painter once said to me,
"Make every day New Year's Day;
resolve to start each new day
afresh, full of possibilities."

I retreated to my Stoic cave,
meditating on 2019, and all
its dark, ****** turmoil. I vowed to start
each day fresh in inwardness, beauty, peace.

— The End —