"junctions" poems
for Harlon Rivers
the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent
it is all of these and not one
he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river
transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully
as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly
his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,
searching revisionary pathways
directed,
but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves
thinking,
this life,
its unsteady gait,
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position
in him,
my own histories,
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
watermarked,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication
this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others
but we,
are the untitled,
we,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the
Rivers
<•>
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
Integration that we clamour for
Disintegration we design for
Unity in Diversity: India’s facet
Diversity , disunity are in closet.
No national spirit acts in rescue;
No co-ordination glares unique.
Vitiated Political Ambitions snarl
At the stranded panicky people.
The Himalayan chill frozen minds
Eat , drink in star bars and mines.
Father of the Nation Gandhiji weeps
At Highway junctions in Idol forms.
Harijans weep , Girijans weep, but
None to keep promises highly put.
In Legislature Canteen Primary needs
Pitiably play shadow-dance; no deeds.
Votes and Whiskey stirred black- horses
Rush to mikes in spikes ; roar for votes!.
Illiterate poor and injured minds again
Ink : first- finger for a five year tension !
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
This is Mrs Unknown.
She likes to roam
the rainbow
at night
or in her dreams
And fly with her razor fingers
splayed like the falling stars
whos dust cascades
from the Heavens
into her fried egg eyes.
She likes to ballet
dance across the unwinding
circled junctions, like the moon, and
Sing song while her trainers jog
in rhythm to the bells and belts of starlight.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
It's cold outside,
rain falling down the sky,
foggy view, blurry sight,
I tremble with every step taken.
Not dream nor reality,
my consciousness fades,
words dance around their letters,
my beliefs collapsed.
Shapeshifting,
a brighter world sprouts,
limitless possibilities,
junctions merging their paths.
Efforts rewarded
with the sand of time,
barricades undone
time rewinds.
Splashs of water running down my face,
worlds drifting apart,
existence reentered,
my walk proceeds.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 3:21 AM UTC
La vie en rose
Like the hard junctions cracked
La vie en rose
Like the lines drawn, exact
La vie en rose
A color not enough
La vie en rose
A touch is far from tough
La vie en rose
A uninterpretable sound
La vie en rose
Some words both not and very profound
La vie en rose
A slight of hand
La vie en rose
Is my demand
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
caveat! —bursting out as the fuse fetters away
wafting t'ward oil spills, tranquilized guns
with pace maker minds
and time to ****
sickle celled, graving shores
plead to crawl underground
through cascading bile and sedatives
that sift through these negatives
like bangled thieves
who crawl on broken knees
and lie idle under haunted bridges.
bouldered bones intertwine
or veins cut along a dotted line
caveat! cries the sayer's sooth,
for he says it scours and devours—
the slinking nightmare sleuth.
the tar is interrupted in carved equinoxes
soak in the crippled toxins
as the air becomes as thick as theophany
and tharm like grease in blood that take me in,
through ash and mud and
all the spider webs caving in
like delicate gorges forges beneath
nightmare sleuth reaching zenith
caveat, silhouettes
stretched out like oil in water
and this silicon tomb can hold me no longer
for i must break out before i am a goner
because it's a mistake that i'll never shake
your face turns opaque
and there was nothing in your eyes
but dripping flesh
wring out all your words for me
your jeers and your juries
but go cling to your crutch
your kings and your qualms
and the church that burns
in its hallow vacancy
for none can resist the urge
that thieves its delinquents from catatonic catacombs
and quagmire junctions
where the swamp will **** you in
and festering sweat sticks like guilt to your skin
and hell is a nightclub where every loss is a life
and heaven's a daydream with your neck to the knife
it needs no rhyme or reason
and every slip of your broken lip
just lose your grip and give in to the treason
would you rather burn at the stake
than suffer your cement heart break
with no reason or rhyme
it's just the weight of the season
backdrop collapse
railroads unfolding
and like a cell storm the train
is coming your way
and slinks away like a nightmare sleuth
it just takes one swipe of the claw
or one bite of the tooth
and it drags you in
feel the sidewalk sleeping
and the blinking lights creeping
above the overpass
and the cold wind reeling--
it'll be your last.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 6:36 PM UTC
In retrospect,
dredging up past events
that led to the here and now.
Pending course of actions in which to exact...
Reaching as far back as the mind would allow.
In retrospect,
studying the reflection
in the rear view mirror,
as the present freezes itself intact.
Sifting through past images...
Second by second,
frame by frame.
Identifying overlooked pitfalls
and margin of errors.
In retrospect,
straddling the realm...
Where my current state of mind
lapses into a minute-long sleep.
Sights on the future... Folded blind,
discerning the treachery
of impulsive thoughts and actions.
Diving up from oceans deep,
painting the backdrop beyond paths at
unmarked junctions.
In retrospect,
every detail deconstructed...
Deliberated against the yardstick
of what's done and the supposed.
Refracted memories snap back clean into place.
Over and over...
Layer upon layer...
Time and again forming
the looming weight
that pulls me to a stumble
into the stagnant puddle...
Of long gone days.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
The M6 is slow southbound north of Lymm.
Queuing likely Junctions 4 through to 3.
Accident on the slip-road at Strensham
South. Rubberneckers slowing just to see.
Busy clockwise on the M25.
Overturned tanker - now down to one lane.
Rush-hour traffic, best avoid the drive.
M62 heavy westbound again.
Ongoing road works on the A1 (M).
High sided vehicles avoid the Forth
Bridge. Reports of a breakdown just come in
For those leaving the M5 heading north.........
Felicity comes, I turn off the dial
The traffic has cleared - if just for a while.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
I'm a Pattern Breaker
Pass the soul shaker
Rather be a maker
Then meet the undertaker
Study if you want to
Patterns we all go through
Taught false is true
Truth is in what we do
We all have answers
Still we get cancers
Create ribbons and banners
Get upset lose our manners
Soldiers take tours die in religious wars
Truth main battle fought behind closed doors
Toxic hatred spreading mental spores
Pollution melting ice raising ocean shores
Continue the pattern to **** is to win
Method is this madness our greatest sin
Each loss there's a cost animosity begins
An explosion of souls losing their skin
Governments construction to help us function
Built in corruption seeds of self destruction
Laws punish choices creating junctions
Living Hells..Prison cells youth feel the suction
Hmm now what's a Pattern breaker?
Funky new thought creator
Already know the later
Break the pattern of the hater..♏
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
Urban lives, controlled by traffic lights
Queues form round corners
According to imaginary lines
There’ll be gridlock on the internet tonight
So avoid the information part of the highway
(Junctions nought to one)
If at all possible.
And now for the weather sponsored by
Hello Poetry.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 5:45 PM UTC
A thousand night trains rattling through a wrestling match of junctions and burnt out- razed to the ash and soil as a field of maize in the dry season. Chaos. The lipstick from corner to corner were meticulously painted, a new hardware store in town. She reminded me of an article I read in the Baltimore sun about a woman who kidnapped herself to steady her supply of whiskey and cigarettes because her husband caught on to her taking money from his cash register at Rich’s Shoe Horn, a leather boot specialist in town right on the corner of Second and Hickory. I couldn’t trust her. Her chaos. I ran into two guys not from around here, wherever that is, with some fine lookin’ pinstripe suits and I automatically new they weren’t looking for grub or a shot of ***** Sometimes a guy won’t put his fingers on a cold bottle of beer, and that’s when you know fingerprints could become an issue later. I’ve seen it. Chaos. I’ve two-stepped chaos across the planks with the chairs up many a time. Shut off the neon, it’s time to nibble on the muzzle of a 38 until these guys dry you out like a broke *** *** I just think of Bukowski every time they drain me for all my cash. I know it’s only going towards coke or some **** I’m not too fond of (due to past experiences). I’ve done it all. Chaos. Well, you don’t go into the pool hall business with dancing shoes and a three piece suit. Roll up them sleeves boy. It’s dirt. It’s grime. It’s…
Chaos.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
dreamt in strange shifting blocks, interwoven and with startled faces, sentencings spoken wordless. woke up to the blurry thought:
sometimes in talk, i am confronted with ideas that in no way reconcile with my own structures. in response, i often choose to not say anything, or let it uncomfortably sit in my gut. in cases where the opposing point won't be heard, i suppose this is alright. but, when my own rooted beliefs are challenged in a valid manner, it is more akin to the silence of shame than of dignification. is this symbolic of the internalisation of a more sound philosophy, or inability to process it against the grain of my own?
avoiding argumentation where it is of little purpose is one of my prime conversational aspects, and in an overarching paradigm avoiding unnecessary speech in general. but what internally portrays as tact can come off as indignant coolness, or bitter indifference. so, do i continue to speak in only the meaningful outer lashes, or let down the floodgates to some degree?
human interaction doesn't need necessitate grave importance at all junctions, and sometimes the most comforting talk can be of nothings (which i still find myself often party to, despite my self-portrait of filtered short-spokenness).
how do i open myself more to accepting or understanding when points are more sensible than my own, and integrating them into my consciousness? for, surely, if i disavow myself from giving up dated sentiments, i shall truly stagnate.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
for reasons unknown to me,
the urgent need to commence
this one with the words:
Oh man,
this is, this be, challenging,
but these words were found on the drying rack in my
abattoir, my nickname for my unending Draft Day
filings
and kept poking despite another overnight splash,
the product pool is full of creativity's synaptic junctions,
a wild night of up~writing, from god knows when,
and here it is 7:18, there are obligations, needs that
a demand a face to face meeting, tho the troops are
in their boarded beds, gently snoring…
so quick, to the sizable task at hand
the search is perpetual, not eternal,
for no one comes forward, willing
to admit, they have been around
since King David's time, practicing
this verbal chicanery game of using
words to guide the perplexed, unless,
of course, unless someone you might
know might be a big fat fibber
right about now, you're exasperatingly seething,
"where the heck is a poem gonna show its face?"
well, and now,
some struggle mightily, to ascertain
who and what is their uniqueness,
oft turned and twisted, caught between
competing entities, asking quests that
take lifetimes to resolute, and when
you look at the typewriter roll silently
choking the white cloud surrounding it,
you, you want to cry/pray out aloud, who, who
shall I be, to make a completion between
the person inside of me. the person I think
I want to be, dream of be-coming,
and yes it is too, eternal, for as long as humans
can think dream, create and anticipate, we all
will nonetheless perpetually search for the other
someone, sometwo
in us…
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 3:46 PM UTC
They were once meaningless
I write and in one, two and three
The transgression made its way to you
They became lyrics,
My hymn towards you.
Eradicating you made me at ease
Til lines intersect
There was no division
The strategy became a multiplication
Where the factors were lost as digits
There’re no emotions at all.
We were destined
To know the factors
To solve the x and y
Then, sections were subdivided.
I was in y, you were in x
As if we’re in supplementary angles
Why’re we apart?
Can two junctions be aligned?
The triangle was secluded
With the main angle,
The base, the height
The hypothenuse uploaded the main formula.
Never will I resolve this
For formula was never been taught
As if I’m doing such trials and errors
Til I get tired
And be drowned by head and heartaches.
The compass would never shape you
The ellipse would not offer you mass
There were no vectors at all,
Now, its just the dot
The single one which may point me
Towards the possible focus of such lines.
(2/23/14 @xirlleelang)
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
Splinters, blisters.
Losers, winners.
Saints and sinners.
"Come in for dinner" s
It's where we learned to socialise.
Our very own sovereign land
zero politics
and conflicts always solved
hand to hand.
Loud junctions juxtaposed
against our little corner of paradise
motorists peering in when they stop at that red light.
Ringing on doorbells, buzzing on intercoms
The anticipation
to hear whether your friend was home or not.
Colourblind kids with the most vivid sight.
Retrieving footballs under parked cars
was the extent of our plights.
I didn't know where the world would take us
or the type of people it would make us,
but something I learned from a young age
is that the rest of the world isn't like
Gooseacre.
Jul 29, 2023
Jul 29, 2023 at 12:24 PM UTC
I am not strong
as synaptic junctions
stutter and fail
and blood pulses hot
against thin arterial walls.
I cram sticky little secrets
into the space between
the mirror and the wall
and put on my best
**** eating grin-
hiding behind words
that slip and lukewarm
nihilism.
I am not strong
as outlines blur into
shimmering watercolor
and my hands grip the railing
for a fleeting sense of
functional equilibrium.
I give you only the things
that I deem worthy of letting go-
only the meek and sickening
remembrances of insanity,
the things that I can
romanticize aloud.
I am not strong
as my brain fills with
black thoughts and
death wishes like saccharine.
I am not strong
but you've never asked me to be.
You know that muscles pull
and that I only have the strength
to push.
You haven't tried to iron out
the lines of my smile yet
nor made demands
or promises that lie unkept.
I am not strong,
but perhaps
there is something
more.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
The road to hell is paved with good intentions, my acquaintance of sombre excellence.
So, please do not be deluded by expectations from particular designations and social strata.
As teardrops drip from ancient clouds above multigenerational transmissions, I can feel those Celtic waves of classical death which resound throughout our hollow shell of existence.
It is just like malignant optimism, don’t you think? Coitus is always permissible, but it is not always beneficial.
Therefore, board this aquatic bubble and follow the current downstream at your ludicrous peril, whilst intrapsychic processes drive the train off socio-cultural junctions.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
There are periods when my mind goes flying
Like a butterfly in a field of flowers
It settles briefly on one sweet happy thought
Then flies away to the next inviting one
In one of these moments I think of you
Shouting and yelling at the kids
"Keep quiet or I'll kick you!"
"Sit down and eat your food!"
In your quiet, gentle disposition though
You wouldn't, as they say, hurt a fly
I imagine you in your little room at night
Laying on the bed in your t-shirt and boxers
Thinking about your life on its journey
As it drives on through junctions and red lights
You think about the time we spent walking
Aimlessly in the mall, sharing jokes
How funny and interesting I am
Meanwhile, I think about calling you
To share in the seesaw stories of your day
But most often I would like to be sitting
Beside you, listening to your jokes
Running my hands through your dark hair
Down to your slender neck and waist
Until I pull you close enough
And our lips meet
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 7:46 AM UTC
*
The green is for pedestrians;
They cross the highways in this color !
The red is for road traffic stop and block;
Life ends up at Zebra lines; rail tracks;
Love intersects at junctions; narrow routes;
It climb-upwards towards the hills;
then down towards the valleys;
In between the green and red signals,
a yellow will hesitate to make a halt;
and sometimes hit and run at fault;
A precious life turns into a pool of
color of blood, shattered at the street !
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
stop the soft screen hypnosis
(fluidorganicpink), the
DIY segments on
refinishing a warm heart.
I write this from a satellite shaped like
the central nervous system,
from the cushion where
I will give anyone a blow job in exchange
for a summer tale about lost junctions
and pink buicks, clean rims;
tanned bodies with denim
shorts and amber glasses
stranded on dead interstates.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
They're playing for high stakes
the debonair with a new coiffure
has spread her moment thin.
The surpassable cat's eyes junctions
sped her dreams spiralling
But Heather's not for turning
Dappled with a moon lit high
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
I've done strange things for the sake of rings spun around solar systems
Myself I seek for a silent leap into a fantastic fracture
No world need convince me that these cracks completed spill serendipity
I separate them neatly when they start breathing scenes best left for a blind patronage
Perhaps your malfunction is a product of something more sinister
A human condition decides on renditions torn from a black white horror show
Freezer burn for our nutrition when the world insists on absurdists amplified
Our sincerity is matched only by electricity extinguished for better imagining
Ghosts consider our progression like hindsight heros
Decadent glee when a plastic choked sea swoons from hurricane hijinks
Paranoid pirates tuck treasure into garbage heap grottos the size of Texas
No map for a wealths navigation
Buried beneath distraction contraptions and know how hardware
No connection like the steadfast junctions that perpetuate envy
Skies cease their indifferent observation and decide on surrender
A wooden giant crumbles while the modern slowly assembles
The vanity runs like storm stained dancers
pooling politely for easy consumption
Scoop the slips and magnify some misconceptions
Sometimes normalcy negates these more formidable formalities
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC