"landscapes" poems
it was a dark dance
of an immovable body
as she was taken by the throat,
death, causing stupendous distortions
and entrancements of lunar landscapes
she reeled pirouettes between smothering
and seeing through a miraculous inner eye
deepening her sense of nothingness
as if pickled in a jar, suspended in
formaldehyde
held buoyant
where there is no reason for anything
moveless in a veiled corridor
inhabiting innerness, a raven fog
her ******* wet with the scent of fear and ***
she fell through the earth
into the infernal arms of
Hades
his tremulous kisses
a thousand glittering eyes
she could see through
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC
How neatly a cat sleeps,
Sleeps with its paws and its posture,
Sleeps with its wicked claws,
And with its unfeeling blood,
Sleeps with ALL the rings a series
Of burnt circles which have formed
The odd geology of its sand-colored tail.
I should like to sleep like a cat,
With all the fur of time,
With a tongue rough as flint,
With the dry *** of fire and
After speaking to no one,
Stretch myself over the world,
Over roofs and landscapes,
With a passionate desire
To hunt the rats in my dreams.
I have seen how the cat asleep
Would undulate, how the night flowed
Through it like dark water and at times,
It was going to fall or possibly
Plunge into the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
Like a tiger's great-grandfather,
And would leap in the darkness over
Rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.
Sleep, sleep cat of the night with
Episcopal ceremony and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams
Control the obscurity
Of our slumbering prowess
With your relentless HEART
And the great ruff of your tail.
22.6k
You hid pieces of yourself,
In places you would never look.
Hidden within those inner landscapes;
Unable to remember their names.
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 8:05 PM UTC
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
the three of them frozen:
Enrique by the world of beds;
Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands;
Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them burned:
Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard *****
Emilio by the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them buried:
Lorenzo in one of Flora's *******
Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass;
Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of a horse,
three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies
by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster.
One
and one
and one,
the three of them mummified,
with the flies of winter,
with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises,
with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers,
by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death.
Three
and two
and one,
I saw them disappear, crying and singing
into a hen's egg,
into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon,
into my happiness of whips and notched wheels,
into my breast troubled by pigeons,
into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer.
I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains.
Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls,
shook the roses with a long white sorrow.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
Diana is hard,
but somtimes she has ******* of clouds.
The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer
and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse.
When the pure forms sank
under the cri cri of daisies
I understood they had murdered me.
They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches,
they opened the wine casks and wardrobes,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
Still they couldn't fine me.
They couldn't?
No. They couldn't.
But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent,
and the sea remembered, suddenly,
the names of all her drowned.
20.5k
627
The Tint I cannot take—is best—
The Color too remote
That I could show it in Bazaar—
A Guinea at a sight—
The fine—impalpable Array—
That swaggers on the eye
Like Cleopatra’s Company—
Repeated—in the sky—
The Moments of Dominion
That happen on the Soul
And leave it with a Discontent
Too exquisite—to tell—
The eager look—on Landscapes—
As if they just repressed
Some Secret—that was pushing
Like Chariots—in the Vest—
The Pleading of the Summer—
That other Prank—of Snow—
That Cushions Mystery with Tulle,
For fear the Squirrels—know.
Their Graspless manners—mock us—
Until the Cheated Eye
Shuts arrogantly—in the Grave—
Another way—to see—
18.5k
The desert,
A sea of sand, drought and dry air under a scorching, blazing Sun,
The wind may feel alike a cut, which burns through your senses,
Relentless, the heat takes over by day, yet by night it is cold enough to freeze you if you come unprepared. Such would be a foolish idea,
A dessert of thoughts, driving into my brain, leaving ideas uncovered
Leaving productivity hidden, under the sand of hatred and self doubt
Such places, landscapes, covered by firy silicate or ice are truly lethal,
Such state of mind, covered by uncertainty is truly lethal, for ones wonderful creativity, for art of all kind, conveyed or material, if you might wander through such a land without any guide to help out,
Worry not, for after every drought comes rain, blissful rain to fertilise the soil of thoughts which will blossom in wonderous ways, to shine,
After all, motion without movement cannot be possible so try to move
A wise friend once tought me, that if you give it enough time, even a nigh impossibility becomes a certainty, even a desert could be a forest
But until then, be patient my dear, even the most deserted place, carries some beauty in it, no ?
~ Umi
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
Only you can translate
where you are
on your voyage through
this varied farce
called “life”.
No one else can dictate
to you…
or should even dare…
how to phrase
your feelings,
your thoughts,
your personal moments.
Who is anyone to
cause another to feel
inept or inferior
for wording their
experiences as they will?
We are all both
audience and poet,
consumed by the
powerful spell of words
and meaning
we are bonded
in ink.
It takes gumption
and courage
to give voice to
your vision of
the world.
It often requires
resilience and nerve
to open your heart
and peel back the
layers of skin,
and let others take
a long look at the
inner workings of YOU.
Be brave,
take courage,
let your soul speak
in its very own
language.
People will read
your words and
listen to the sweet
whispers
and thunderous shouts
that flow from pens
and keys
to release the
inner demons and angels
and the lyrical
vines that bloom and live
in our individual
landscapes,
fluidly coursing from
our own rabbit holes
with fortitude and grace
and our neverlands,
where we need never
grow up,
to share with those
that need to see
and hear and feel
and wonder.
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
Touch as the fervent feeling seek to know the ambiguity of it,
Feel as the ****** of a sparrow wing crept upon my dreams,
Fathom as the grief of rocks shrieked on deserted mountains,
And the Sky was blue
Touched by a Crescent Moon
Unraveling the hidden truth
How life was promised to me and you
Awe as landscapes vanished from distant perplexing shores,
Sigh as Long ships sailed on white ashes coasting inherently,
Fright as the voluptuous sights, faking wonders in my night,
And the Sky was blue
mellifluously My Heart as to see
a magnificent feeling to be free
the beauty relentless, endlessly weave
Pray as the growing wind whisper, a phrase to forever keep,
Kneel as crowds offered Him, a gratitude of rejoicing praise,
Trust as dandelions glides, the strength of His binding faith,
And the Sky was blue
for God is forever faithful & true
to broken lives, he one's renew
Keeping his promise to come again soon
Awake as the daybreak reveal, memories of our love revisit,
Sing as angels on white veil’s, bring you to heaven's place,
Gone is the world I once knew, eyes closing as my soul flew,
Amen...
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 8:07 PM UTC
I want to board the train to nowhere
Two parallel track never to meet
Through verdant landscapes
And long dark tunnels through mountains
Through the morning dew
And torrential rains
Between deep woods and loneliness
Let the train travel till eternity
Filled with passengers who does not know time
Winding through the trails of nowhere
This train journey will be on tracks for eternity
Crossing breathtaking bridges
Looking at the dangerous abyss makes us dizzy
Train continues with the journey
Sitting by the window, landscapes scrape by
This train to nowhere, is the ultimate journey
We are all passengers traversing various lands
Two parallel track never to meet
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
Graffiti, Graffiti, Graffiti
Being bled onto
The landscapes between thighs
Incarcerating women's wombs
Justifying men's genes
Foreigners appropriating
Women's and men's sexualities
Losing the power to be
When changing our roles' long overdue
Gendering our words and attitudes
Man, who taught you to be a chauvinist!
Woman, who taught you to be a *********
Don't put your god in gendered bigotry
Do man's emotions feminize him?
When will women freely carry torches!
What gender do you assign this voice?
What gender do you assign this words?
Will the masses even understand these choices?
Don't worry, my sexuality won't infect you
Criminalizing sexuality
Placing it front and center, implying that's all I am
Graffiti, Graffiti, Graffiti
Being bled onto
The landscapes between thighs
Graffiti, defiling the masses not high classes
Because men and women of society
Full of stride, take pride, in their gendered hyde
Graffiti, defiling the masses not high classes
Ignored hoods, barrios, countrysides, ghettos, projects
Devouring women's and men's bodies
Younger and younger people falling to HIV/AIDS and STDS
Vaginas receiving the violence, wombs bringing misery
LGBT youth ****** into fire
Lost males (in mental chains) ****** to assert their manhoods
Graffiti, Graffiti, Graffiti
Full of dangerous chemicals, being sprayed onto
The landscapes between thighs
Attempting to legislate our stories, without warrant
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
There is an ecosystem of conflict thriving in my brain.
A world with questions for residents and doubts for landscapes.
I’m not sure if I’m actually reaching for answers right now,
although something in my soul aches.
Those landscapes are parched
and turning to deserts under the sun the residents have named:
Uncertainty.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
A life in poetry, A love in art
Set forth on a path that extends forever.
Though the closest reaches climb high
Over mountain and dale, through ravine and shadow,
The path goes on and as it does, descends into light:
So much light, more light than one can resolve.
It blurs the boundaries of the great valley
Splashes of green, the wonderful glare of richness
A river runs through the valley and nourishes the fruit
The sweetest fruit. It nourishes the body,
Nourishes the soul: renews, enriches, grows, sustains.
The path extends to the horizon. And beyond.
As it grows from the foothills it branches
Forming a fractal road of possibility.
Like roots growing from the mountain,
There appears nothing more natural in the world.
As the paths go on, they passes through diverse landscapes
Some places they make sharp changes in direction,
Some places they pass through further patches of shadow,
Some places they grow wider, Some places they get rocky,
But nowhere does the path narrow, beyond the first stretch,
Where the paths split, and over the mountains rejoin.
Beyond that there is always enough room for two
To walk astride.
Side by Side in Sunlight.
Hand in Hand.
For Maya.
Donald Guy
July 5, 2010.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:37 AM UTC
sitting here but not
my insides
in a twist
my organs blooming,
their flower landscapes
rising in my solar plexus
like poetry expanding
its cellular shapes
into
light frequencies
I need way more.
I need the pulling off
and stripping down
of souls
I need to meet in
a depth of falling
I need to be pushed off
the silent gates of madness
into endless sea
no looking back
senses piqued
from slightest brush
of oral butter pouring
on hot cream
my mouth, a searing
crimson wound
oscillates in
contraction radar pulses
ripe for intense
tongue exploration
aching to be filled up with
your distinct flavor
My essence molecular is
overflowing with fluid
giving me life
in throbbing, raw
electric vibes
whipped organic, in
rolling tides
Somewhere, out there
our volcanic impulses
meet in steamy ebbs
and send energyflow
to a new and ancient universe,
magnetic
and I am
a raging heaven's child
wrapped in
a tight little
tourniquet
blood pumping
through these veins
my longing for
dark stretches
of intimate caresses
to soothe
the spikes
of snaking pain
Give me
those airwaves that
let me breathe freedom
into the fields of our skin
Let me run like wild herds
of the animal within
and as I find myself
hanging off
my
own
edges
my many-braided loops
in zigzag split,
a-fray
my skin rips open,
parting fibers
that expose my
very
DNA
helix swivel
undulation
hips grinding into
soul
reaching in to
pull out
fresh rebirth
from between my folds
O help me to allay
this tender affliction
undo me, already
so I lose control
one little shove
and I am over the cliff
deep into ocean
**** over spliff
I am beyond ready
so grind it to the hilt
Give me your
tender-ripped heart,
spill your honeycomb milk
I am here, ravenous
in the pan
uncooked yet ripe
saliva and breath
steaming my own innards
flushing out strife
I am piquant hot pepper
ready to be broiled
my blood is already
boiling
my tender meat oiled
mull me over
in your oral cavity
like sacred wine
until I drip
through your bones
and down your spine
Just meld with me
and flow
into that light tunnel
of dark time and space
so I can stake out
my rhythms
and claim
my
new
sacred
place
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 12:20 AM UTC
Life and its shade
canvased by god
God made it beautiful
But we are
adding shades of greys and black
enveloping the sky
turning fog into smog
Putting solute
in water bodies
that are not dispersible
making it turbid
mislaying its transparency
water is not pure anymore
Deforestation
converting the forest
into the barren land
beautiful landscapes are mechanized
by man
buildings and more building
watching stars sounds bookish
nature is losing its charm
Emotions are blowing over
relationships changing
accepting changes
changing our own self
mirrors are showing
someone else image
and asking you
who you are?
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 12:50 AM UTC
*** me up on fire
Trigger my desire
Softly stroke me with caress
and lips
Lovely tongue this of mine
For it’s an explorer
Ready to deflower
Passages into your forest
*** me up into frenzy
Let me be a slave to your seduction
Torture me before eruption
Cunning
Lovely fingers these of mine
For they cannot see but feel
Soft skin below them
Slipping from dry to wet
Landscapes
*** me up until madness
Shivering Trembling Shaking
Bodies of ours, bursting in heat
And Love
Lovely body this of mine
For it is yours for pleasure
Yours to objectify
Yours to seek
Meek
*** me up
*** me
***
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
No option, but to be perceived
Violent, Aggressive, Irrational
Identity becoming an other
Words of malice, they mystify
Words of ignorance, they vilify
Subverting consciousness and articulation
Our identities, fighting to be
Autonomous landscapes
Hoping in anticipation for liberation
No real notion of we or me
Implicating it's inhuman to be foreign
When they represent as much of we and me
Scandalizing alternative identities as subversive
Advancing erasures in favor of hegemony
Propaganda favoring what is most white
Amelioration for the obliteration of cunning identity?
No more cooperation, ****** the euphemisms
That cover up, and help justify marginalization
Our identities, fighting to be
Autonomous landscapes
Hoping in anticipation for liberation
Time to **** ****** massacre eurocentric ideology
We preach no violence, being not them, just we
But cannot request to be free, must tear it out by force
Eurocentric ideological pandemic inhabiting, inhibiting the soul of mankind
Unthinkable abomination concealed in the veil of appropriated minds
Necessitating exorcism for the incarcerated conscious mind
When we completely violate mandates of eurocentric ideology
When only we appropriate our own identity
When we all nullify the color of our skin
As profanity or inadequacy
Our identities, fighting to be
Autonomous landscapes
Hoping in anticipation for liberation
Will be awaiting purgation from alienation
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
When the arc of his watch hands
reached the top of the hour
Sam pushed the throttle forward.
Engine 138 thundered
out of Blossburg station
like an iron dragon
breathing smoke and steam -
whistle shrilling over the Tioga valley.
Powered by coal
the train carried coal
to the waiting city of Elmira
where Sam would press his mother's hand -
perhaps for the final time.
The wheels churning iron on iron
across Pennsylvania farmlands,
turned like other wheels before
moving settlers west
to break its ready earth -
wheels beneath his grandfather's oxcart
turning toward Lycoming's verdant hills.
New wheels now carried America
to urban landscapes
drawing us like electro-magnets
to streetlamps - factories - dry good stores -
new crops for a modern age.
Elmira’s silhouette expanded on the horizon.
and Sam pulled the train in on time -
brakes screeching through billowing steam.
His wife, Jenny and his sister's Sam
came in a horseless carriage
with Zoe, Marie and Edward,
children now grown at their sides.
They all gathered by Hannah's bed
now approaching her final hours
soft voices and fragile smiles
cradled the truth beyond all telling:
Time, ever advancing
like the hands of a fine old watch,
holds us all in its circling sway
© 2006 by Robert Charles Howard
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
Vivid cultures dancing
like jellybeans in a frying pan.
Pop like a violin
flow with the rhythm of the sandstorm.
Spinach leaves sway in the depths of the ocean
like worms
hooked through one of its many stomachs
filled with plastic bottles.
****** honey bombs flavour
the ink that spills across
the landscapes.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
I think perhaps as a writer, we seek the adventure, the unknown, the destructive, not only to know we are alive but to know what it is to live. We live fast, we love without restraint, with impulsive desire. Are we the tortured, the wounded, the broken, abused. We have lived a thousand lives, loved a million times. We dream, we idealise, we fall in love unintentionally, we make mistakes, we endure deep suffering and we fall to the hands of lust within a heartbeat. We choose to show our ******* our ***** our hearts or our souls. We refuse to sell our mind, to which we must always remain held to. Our body is a vessel, one of productivity made victim to abuse. It's such neglect, despair, that leaves us enveloped in patterns of trauma and deeply embedded psyache. Once touched, our bodies remember as an elephants mind always will. We are tainted, scarred, stained by another's love, lust, cheating, lying, crying, kissing, losing, dreaming. We are the risk takers, the ones who dare step into the unknown and often don't adhere to rules and regulations of societal ideals. We crave love. We crave endless excitement. We crave the adrenalin rush of a new lover. We don't settle. Wanderlust writes us. Each journey shapes us, choosing a new direction, experimenting with style, fiction, autobiographical tones. Landscapes colour our pages, pollute the rooms with a myriad of paints, smoking out those who don't endure, slaves to the written word, a pledge to keep reading pages of paper, dusty from step ladder high book shelves. Finding joy in limited first editions, autographed and locked behind glass doors. Fairy tales whispered by Hans Christian Andersen - The Snow Queen in a pop up book laced with glitter and scintillation. Falling into stories, Alice's rabbit hole, lost to liquor saying drink me. The young ingénue, naïve and shy, her first role acting, embodying the spoken word through the masters written script.
© Sia Jane
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
Raw landscapes shape the far distance
Brutal terrain tests our endurance
A greeting with coldness
A sheet of fog invites us
Raw landscapes welcome us with silence.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 12:46 PM UTC
We live on the ripples of a beating heart
Sailing wide across a great black sea
Each pulses like falling raindrops
As we drift on the surface of destiny
We know the struggles and the storms to come
Foundations the turmoils of passing winds
Are scattering on our way towards the sun
Were raised by none but the breathe of our will
We become landscapes the further we are drawn
Cold mountains, dense forests, oceans and such,
On our carved existence all promise to be found
As we roam from mood to mood and thought to thought
We understand at last what the touch reconciles
When we start to realize what we had always known
That the world was always ours, and it dawns on our mind
That the rainfall had stopped while we’d landed home
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 11:54 AM UTC
East...and west, are we?
north, and south?.....maybe...
we were nurtured with love,
our eyes and our minds opened
to different isms that helped shape our
values...we were brought up, bearing our
folks' customs, traditions and principles...
we have different faiths...some practice...some
don't...some, don't even subscribe, yet, survive.
we have dry and monsoon season...in
other parts, pleasant weather, cold winds,
and in some parts, snow.....turning to ice
we are a mix of white skin, seeking for a tan,
and brown-skin, hiding from the sun;
one's night, is the other's day,
there are surfers among us, playing with the waves,
there at the cusp...gambling...daring fate...
there are those who hide from silent freezing winters,
finding warmth and comfort in long hot summers...
countless points of comparison,
yet, we've something beautiful in common,
a connection of feelings, of words...our poetry,
flowing like blood, through our veins...endlessly
feeding, fueling our hearts and minds, with classy,
themes....sometimes bold, mushy, or....sassy...
no set skeds...we do it even through adversity...
we write......
we tell about our escape from life's banalities,
mindscapes, landscapes immersed in frivolities
yet, we await the marvels of each morning we wake,
remembering gratitude, in every breath we take...
years have passed us by,
still, plays this soft music that mollifies
and inspires......heard only by you and i
prodding us, through hours, of day or night
while you exist in your own part of the world,
as i, in my hot, humid cosmos, long for cold.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May, 19, 2019
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 8:54 AM UTC