"kinesis" poems
The belated summer sky is alive
with a D r a g o n f l y ballet
Beneath,.. the rain parched sod
lay sullied, cracked open
by an unsated thirstiness
awaiting the painted autumn days
and the cleansing rain's renewal
A lace-winged hatch rises skyward
— meandering airborne —
drifting upwards like a burst of dust
dissipating in an invisible cloud
of eventide's silent breath
Darting shadows hover
above a seeker's curiosity
just this side the
softening sunset backdrop
A synthesis of fluid motion
– darting kinesis –
swift agile fliers
steal away over the thirsty pond;
their mesmerizing beauty enchants
as the dimming dusk falls silent —-
embellishing the unrelenting ending
another summer's
imminent curtain call;
reminding how inexorable-time
is only a contrived human notion,
a recurring extrapolation
of passing seasons
Heightening awareness:
how we too are only
passing through these
unholdable moments
coming to know
we cannot stop
how life unfolds
The raindrops will quench
the pond's aching thirst
again one fall someday...
— hereafter —
there will be another
beauty of dragonflies
some other eyes will see
preying on another burgeoning
gossamer-winged hatch
and
another beckoning autumn
when the dragonflies hover
below the gazing totems
in the treetops
Jesse Stillwater ... September 2018 .
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
There's an anomaly
in my body.
I move so softly in the face of things,
but I'd like to move in nature;
it makes me a wild bird lost in the cryptic love for
thought,
kinesis,
and flight of the universe.
It makes me as fragile as the tides,
similar to an ****** prose - moving in its poetic ways.
There's an anomaly
in my body.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 9:59 PM UTC
Forcibly removing wisps from fruit soaked heads.
Curling into melted breakfast.
Willing to line the lateral.
Cracked soup pouring, selfish.
Grinding halt in whole old text.
Pre-youth in use lost in chronos.
Trigger a lament looped put new, lude.
Masses of self-titled separation.
Entangled in sandstone, origin archaic.
Natural disaster of a birth-right in shards.
Trees growing limbs in lungs producing rust.
Forever dystopian dust in rungs of a ladder.
First hurt by ascending sequential first love.
Content with enough abrupt living daylights.
Apex green latex sunrise painting me from inside my blood.
Obtuse.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
Who is I?
In the Now. I am of true boi essence.
A writer, a recluse, abandoned only of fate: Destiny ever alluring in the palm of my hand.
Limited only by my own inabilty to be present in only one consciousness.
I am split between reality strings.
A permeant spectre, caught betwixt parallel dimensions.
At times incoherrant, lost in esoteric translation.
I am physic(al) - I of breath + flesh, perception being my holster, corruption my armoury.
Intuitively, i am harmonious, sanctonious, welcoming of illuminations and the darker side of each unfettered moon.
Awareness sleeps by my side. Each waking minute guarded. of commonality.
I am enlightened.
I am bouyant.
mobile, fluid-like in kinesis.
Conventional existense being the foundation over which i fly.
Arms outstretched, willing risk to be my pull.
Enticing Love to be my drag.
balance, mediums, equilibrium.
Lifted high amidst winds roaring with possibility.
I am stark in naked complication, although often prone to cover up in cynical, self critical analysis.
I am given of self; being the taker a refreshing discourse to which i stray accordingly.
Of culture i am a liar.
By nature i tend towards honesty only straying when survivalistic path need tread.
I am of blood,
private yet optimistically open to scarring.
By custom i am trained, civil, content.
Of instinct; native raw tongue, i am rampant, rapid in force, compelled to grow then emerge.
Only.
To submerge
is to take full scope.
i am telescopic
in view of A/all else to which i drown my vision.
I am unsure if i am young,
Although certain that my passage is still being lit by the glow of its entrance, dark passageways luring with their shadows and cavernous corners.
I am liberal, random in speculatory silence. I am idle, often motivated by industrial desire.
Mechanical in process, structured of cerebreal architecture, yet somewhat discombobulated in particularity.
Sporadic be my strain, its think tank choking always on the weeds of sorrow.
Essentially i am nothing: yet overwhelmingly everything.
I was
I am
I will
therefore i
Exist
to i as
A/all and nothing.
As yesterday is to tommorrow, and visa versa, i am a window, a door, a channel:
as closed as i am open.
Dependant only on my own deliverence of influence and potential.
Driven by the promise of future and the demands of my past.
I am a vehicle in time, my presence, my motion, my journey
is I.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 2:13 AM UTC
Is it insomnia
when I don't care for sleep?
The sort of sleep that is belligerent
interruptions at each half past
in the middle of every hour,
intervals of interlopers
awoken by invisible passersby
floating enemies striking me
with the hatred of their kinesis
cerebral lightning at my heart
or attempts at my suffocation
as I wake to a coughing start,
intruders invading my dream mind
as well as its peace
anything that would hurt me
they revel in my breaking,
I can hear the clicking of laughter
of teeth...
Deserts and all our cities
should have crickets,
yet Vegas feels like its been dying
the quiet now replete
no chirp of the lucky bugs
nor busying of bees with their buzz
rather its the fizzle of neon panic
the beatitude of cheats
the machinations of gamblers' defeat
or sometimes mostly
this deep in the twilight
a swarm of Ninjas, Suzuki, Kawasaki roars
toward their kabuki foot rubs
a twenty gets you a dub
rub you long time
for an hour behind red doors
Try to spank myself to sleep
if not to exhaustion,
but I can still hear the distant piercing
screaming
of latter days & soilent green
the secret war as alien is to any sound
sleep.
They look like people
we look like meat,
the living dead
their sake's flesh
all torn away and beat
up like faithful lovers that creep
seduced by the sluice
of the street / symphonies,
of rocket ship Discovery
Can't turn the volume down
in the black of night
when my mind's eye
is behind a veil
in the dark of 2:22
(in recovery)
and still the aliens
wretchedly wail...
whilst i'm
slumming in attempts at slumbering,
the greys are watching
humans lumbering
and *******
two twenty two
in the dim
twilight
morning...
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 6:31 AM UTC
Our ideas are bullet proof
they can't be shot nor destroyed
our ideas eject upwards like fireworks from special volcanic places releasing pressure creating new places in nature and being magnetic with our treasures found we manifest
our true nature with lovers imaginations;
for in love and war all is valid,
if love is the means the beginning
and the end.
There's no room for shyness
maybe a bit self consciousness
and we never feel pressured..
Sometimes after the honey moon
the groom becomes shy
with the brides implossive ideas.
And who knows what the loss
if we can't decifer it nor read
its melancholic kinesis
radiance timely.
I surrender only to true love.
~~~~
By An- Karijinbba.
Sep 5, 2021
Sep 5, 2021 at 4:14 AM UTC
Falling as recalcitrance of movement – seeks completion – yet the ground
ballasts.
There is no path that leads forward as I live backwards.
There is poetry in the way
a woman carrying a bilao moves away from the vicinity.
Sound departs.
I took a deep drag and fell into a thick web
of smoke, recoiled to fetal nature, into the womb of my unbecoming.
What seems to contain endlessness: dark.
What punctuates this claim: moonlight.
In a house that continuously aches,
I am grateful for windows.
Night-erased repeatedly, the dance of blades of grass.
There is more stasis when words flay
themselves to pass as something more resolute than there is
the kinesis of life’s steady abbreviations. We shorten like this,
when we curse the destinations upon movement’s mindless
approval.
We collect ongoing afternoons
and cohere to trees. Say falling like you mean it,
the way we commit to breaking though unwanted, feared.
Feel the hands accumulate warmth when propped
into the sun’s permanent daze – face becomes glare,
a day becomes a scar.
This is where I do not know what moves to become fully stationary.
Days crumble like this.
In a poem that is not a poem.
In a sound that is only sound and not music.
In a dance that is not life, but stillbirth.
In notes that are purely rambling, not reportage.
A voice that champions a fiasco.
This is where the throbbing afternoon becomes a part
of me that falls into a chasm of a fateful night,
lassitude of debris in tow,
starting measures everywhere we left and returned –
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
how can I sleep in this house when my mind is running over the speed limit
lifes a game of chicken and my brakes have been cut, now im stuck in this vortex kinesis
the sight of you makes me dizzy,
the thought of you makes me anxious,
and the sound of your voice could very well **** me.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
I crave for you
When its one in the morning
All I hear is the kinesis of
My heart, thumping heavier
Than the screams of
Our Forbidden Love
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 2:54 AM UTC
Kratos the King, keenly kept the Kingdom of Kittens,
Katerina was his Kween, his Khaleesi,
Kindheartedly he kindled her,
Katerina was kind and knowledgeable,
Yet Katerina kindled no kittens for the King,
Kratos, who was keen for kids.
Knuckles was a knight, keen and klutzy,
Knuckles kept the killing knife,
He kept knaves from the King’s Kingdom.
Kiska kept the kitchen.
Kawaii and krasiva was Kiska.
Knuckles kindled her, kindheartedly, as she was his kin.
Karma kindled kindly in the Kingdom,
Kinetic kaleidoscopic karma,
Kindred karma of kindness,
Karma knotted in kinesis,
***** karma,
Kooky karma -
Knocked-out the karmic kismet:
Kratos kissed Kiska.
…
Katerina knew Kiska was knocked-up,
Kindlessly she kneaded killing karma, and,
Knowingly knocked Knuckles into knowing:
Kiska his kin, keyed kingly by Kratos!
“Knave! Klepto! Kin of the kennel!”
Knuckles kicked-off at Kratos.
“Katerina! Thou know-it-all Karen!”
“Kiska is no kink to me!”
“Knowst me kempt and kosher!”
Kratos knew he was kaput.
The Knight kicked the King, killingly,
Kicked and kept kicking.
Kratos kneeled, knackered,
Knocked down,
He knew, the killing knife was,
Kinda a kindness…
Knowing the knockout,
Knuckles killed the King!
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 7:43 AM UTC
Prithee darling - be my lover
We'll be in kindred philosophy - unite
For being enamoured - of passion
For all that tyrant interdict
You play - antihero
And I'll play - renegade
Wending to brighter day - we go
Eschewing shade
You play - Jacobean muse
And I'll play haughty heroine
Destinies - fuse
Intertwine
Two paths - never to be cleft
How ever can one light be bereft?
Loves light spread - by mimesis
My thesis
Of souls divine kinesis
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
I.
Magnificent Angel, wouldst thou ever tire,
From divine labour stoking heaven's fury fire,
Rest awhile thine mind with mortal, earthen kin,
Regale me with your godly revelries,
In which truth of Heart's magnanimity,
Where pure hearts 'twixt trials of time are twin.
II.
Then I shall fathom thy light, pure, good and true,
World more good for the guiding light of you,
-- Beacon's light spread by spirit's mimesis,
With those wings, doth dare and proud protect,
Love's plan, to which you genuflect,
The final purpose of your light's kinesis.
III.
I would not flinch from your sultry sight,
Adorned by sparks of brilliant light,
Raw cub of God with soul replete,
A door that's opened unto thee,
Not to be rescinded willingly,
Hurled to glory on divine feet.
IV.
If wishes ever granted, mine to dwell,
In aura of the Angel, splendid, swell,
As we, the cherubs, since long time ago,
Searching for rainbow, to and fro,
As our path takes us, high and low,
We, lived, felt love, but now we go.
V.
To truth, which rapture us in throe,
Sat brooding in desire and woe,
The flame of love be ours to stoke,
The right be ours to wield it high,
And swing it proud around the sky,
Its light resplendent and bespoke
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 3:58 AM UTC
If you start thinking
You can’t even step in
The same river once
Let alone twice
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 7:28 AM UTC