"likened" poems
Not much inquiry
is necessary
delineating candlelight
Not much pondering,
only the flickering
whispers which permeate
time-space
And transfix time
temporarily
are the tools
for description...
...something about
the periphery
that lies beyond
its heated source
is the mystical shimmering glow
and its soothing embrace
that hugs
cradled-souls
And most matter about...
...energy not yet exhausted
heated translucent secretions
gush down
from the hot-tip likened phallus...
...the heated beads reflect the candlelight
Watching the warm trickles,
human feelings are warm
Lightly light
and light headiness
soon embrace...
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
Often people,
mesmerised by
the depth of others,
comment that they had
no idea they had so many layers,
that such profundity existed. I have myself
been likened to a coconut with a hard shell,
with undiscovered realms within. Hah.
I think perhaps though, that I
am more of an onion.
You can peel all
that you
want
but
-I'm just the same inside.
Maybe I could even
make you cry.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC
Upward I swirl
into the swirl of death shrills
Discontented about absolutism; the lies of war
Discontented about the perversions against nature; man's egomaniacal tendencies
Upward I spiral into the swirl of darkness
Gravity has no power to keep me bound
within myself
I let loose once again
I float towards another endless spiral of dark clouds,
these clouds spin expeditiously within its air-vortex
I see carnage,
I smell blood,
I witness the land of all misanthropes
Into the blackness as I spin,
my vision catches a chorale begging to be autonomous
in the state of sovereignty
The impetus in my desperate and saddened heart
I curse the gods
My tightened fist fails at at the darker darkness,
at this ominous swirling
I see no light ahead likened to the event horizon
on the outer rim of a black hole
My breath is being ****** out as the greed-succubus ***** out life
I see you in me, as we both are caught in this uninvited storm
Will we ever survive?
Will we ever survive?
So we must fight on!
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Promise me, my flesh you'll place
'neath a fledgling willow tree.
And as it grows toward blue sky,
It's in its grace you'll hear me cry.
Laden with the heaviest fears,
resembling, reflecting
my darkest years.
A fragile bone was once my arm,
so likened to the willows charm.
It's branches delicate,
could ne'er do harm.
It's soft and fluffy hand like bud,
encased in skin, the willow's wood.
Hold its hand at branches end.
My message, a vibration,
to you I'll send.
Until the death of said willow tree,
reminding you . . . . .
. . . . . . always of me.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
when we first met
i likened you to wine
intense, intoxicating
after years of marriage
you are now
like everyday rice
plain
simple
warm
comforting
nurturing
(i wanted to say caring, guiding, protective, devoted, kind, tender, gentle, affectionate, loving -- but they nowhere define rice)
sustaining
white ****
just some basic can't-live-without-you & never-gonna-leave-ya
irresistible (like rice) kind of love
slow cooked by fire
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
Right now, my mind...
Is the proverbial popcorn machine.
Every little thing that bothers me is
likened to a kernel.
And to make popcorn, you need lots...
Bucketloads of kernels.
Dump them all in the machine.
Let them whirl.
They sit layered on top of each other
undisturbed,
on the hot bed until...
The spindly metal arms begin to rotate...
Whose sole purpose is to agitate.
Buttered with debilitating insecurities.
Sprinkled with irrational fears.
Heated with erratic temperament.
And here come the arms again.
Rotating,
churning,
inciting.
No one knows when the kernels
are going to cave and rupture.
Then...
"Pop!" would go one.
Then another...
And another...
Soon they would all start to explode.
When that happens,
I do too.
••••••••••••••••••••••
Addendum
••••••••••••••••••••••
I love popcorn.
And I don't like to share.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
*i hate to break it to you kid,
i'm not mindful of narcissus'
economics that's all oh so very modern...*
but women are their own orbit,
more chance to find a single mother
than a single father...
it's against nature to make the man
without god,
as it's against nature to make the woman
with god...
thus we have the tectonic plates
making man with god, accepting
or doubting, church or laboratory...
and woman... an eroticism of jaw eaten
faces... but a kiss to be a fingerprint
likened to erasing the dangling of the bitten
jaw... erased only once by the aphrodisiac of sirens'
wail of aquatic opera so damnable that only
one man heard it, while others scolded
being in audience with beeswax...
and by second chance, erased, indeed,
but only by the suffragettes as the new nuns...
as the new nuns dare comply to change,
like every male become female and
vice versa,
and the popes disclose their continual
loss of matrimony in their misogynistic
involvement in ****** if i'm not the pope
and do no encounter such practices,
i'm not a pope at all!
*only a ninth spoke as the necromancer,
and of the nine spoke clearest,
as it spoke, it dawned on me
that sauron was invisible for the sword
to strike, a gravity enveloping,
a gravity envelope, rather than a skin
of infinite diadem sharpenings,
for nine rigs unto men,
seven unto dwarfs, three unto elves,
but none unto the orcs... strange....
ORC ARKHAN MORDOR ARRAC!*
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
Candleabra's flickering flames
cast a shimmering dancing
shadow of me,
upon my golden coffer overhead,
brought about by a sudden gust
of window-wind... God's finger-breeze...
Master airy-finger puppeteer
you are
dance the leaves
about my Autumn yard...
Push and stir
soft light newly blanketed wintry snow
on lifting eddies,
causing flying fancy, barnyard dancer's dos-a-dos
among infinitesimal,
and featherweight
delicately frozen
crystal-looking flakes...
Push tiny tango waves
upon reflected sparkling silvery lakes
that crest s l i d e then fall
And spectator trees
that enciricle about the watery ballroom-lake
surface-floor,
then with airy fingertips
clap, clap together
the loudly whispering and rustling leaves
that applaud
the watery dancing waves below...
And with windy fingertips
sail white billowing cotton like
vapor-sails
across an unplowable
oceanless
spatial blue...
Glad God
You mostly are
puppeteer of every star
Dance sundries of objects
on your play-ball planet
and puppet-likened stage
And let me laugh
in zestful rage
about danceable things
that can be danced,
that can be danced
on windy-finger days...
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
"...Motus autem veros ex eorum causis, effectibus & apparentibus differentijs colligere, & contra, ex motibus seu veris seu apparentibus, eorum causas & effectus, docebitur fusius in sequentibus..."
D. Isaaci Newtoni.
There will be a sequence of unexpected statements. We understood, that this was said which likened the beginning to the continuation. It was the orchard from which delicious fruits displayed their love for the taste of them, the meanings. Seeds were harvested through the dimly perceived writings of ancient scholars.
{ [ c exp tan r ( x ) d w d r ] / ( d x ) }
= { [ ( k , h ) tau int g ( r ) d w d t ] / ( d f d v ) } .
Visited in the course of evolution, all realized the implication, that seasons would arrive from which the meeting of machines would be complementary like the force of a sports team. The objects gathering into droplets included the growth of sunlight transforming ashes; yet the dictionary is not to change.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
******* of suckling cheeks
taste of wine gone vinegar
left out too long exposed
to sunlight
twice ways between nowhere
we drank a bottle or four
before resigning ourselves
to defeat
we woke so many mornings
in drawn shade sunlight
with our heads split twain
by buzzing
we'd never known what it
was to taste hurt or defeat
until we likened our arguments
to chemistry
Feb 16, 2023
Feb 16, 2023 at 10:52 PM UTC
it's an all too familiar, all too ironic situation —
knowing safety, softness —
lingering tastes off darkness' tongue,
now trailing down our skin.
the dark has taught us that
safezone is having the night skies
perched around us
and the moon rises from every touch, slipping,
from every kiss, ending;
and yet, how can something so dim, so obscure
remind me of the sun and its clarity?
darling, these rendezvous have taught me that
you are the lovechild of the night and the day
and i am likened to a vampire
whose fatal flaw is its
longing for the sun.
oh, to see you,
touch you,
kiss you
in the daylight
without burning.
without hiding.
without fears and pretenses.
and yet, we can only be in this all too familiar, all too ironic situation;
we can only be, in the safety of the nightfall —
we can only be, darling, in safety of the dark.
Jan 22, 2020
Jan 22, 2020 at 7:34 PM UTC
We are all apart of one system
yet there are many components to this system
innumerable actually
all following the same laws
as if contractually
bound by one set of rules
but
with infinite variation
like nations of expression separated by vibration
only contained by the systems within
that perceive and react
to the system
they sustain
one giant metaphor
a sufficient example
is the human body
a complex interaction
of
individual organisms
all communicating, interacting and participating
in sustaining the body
an organism
of organisms
Even our organs have organs,
working together to sustain
a system larger than itself
cells
communicating, producing
regulating, exchanging
are themselves composed of
organisms, performing
all these functions
we must not
forget
the system
which we sustain
the order
we provide
for the larger body and mind
together
we compose the cells of this planet
interacting and communicating
with each other and all other life
a subtle dance
that carries impressive consequences
except
the way in which we act
as organisms
is likened to cancer
in which
a once productive cell
behaves individually
not in accordance with the system it sustains
replicating uncontrollably
wasting unnecessarily
not taking the whole into consideration
although
if the planetary cancer of humanity
replicates
itself to extinction
all will still be well
as it always has been
and
always will be
yet
the system
in which we exist
would lose
the chance to witness and experience
the transformation from cancer
to great negative immunity
through the powers
of the newly recognized
human organism
a system sustained
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 12:42 AM UTC
what had happened
what we made
may be compared to a fishtail braid
the situation
the mess we made
may be likened to a fishtail braid
just as it takes the braid a few minutes
this "love" we had took a few years
woven slowly, outcome dainty
despite the flinches and the fears
just as beautiful the braid is
our "love" was magnificent
oh! the beauty! with sorrow i'll miss
never desired for it to end
and then it happened; then you stopped
the fragile masterpiece, the work of art
slowly, the plait became undone;
messy. ugly was the result
i, the fog that fades
you, last farewell bade
us, the ruined fishtail braid
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
The city tosses, turns, and finally rises,
Surrendering to daylight and giving itself over
to the bustling movements of its citizens.
At the crosswalk, an old codger in rags holds a panhandling sign,
And nearby a bearded hippy plays guitar.
The sound of beggars, musicians, bored businessmen,
And all the teaming masses drift through back alleys,
And float through the air like the heady perfume of car exhaust.
Each street, each block, each break in the never-ending flow of man’s own personal jungle.
Brings to mind stepping into a whole other world.
Here, in one such strange nexus, a building likened to a castle,
Stares across a narrow stretch of road at an abandoned building,
Cracked broken and peeling, tattooed with graffiti from a hundred vagabond artists.
It conjoins directly to a new building,
the fresh, well maintained walls of which offer striking contrast.
The confused, confounding nature of the true jungle is in this manmade facsimile
More well reflected than anywhere else in the world.
The muggy air rings with life, the heat is stifling,
And for all that it has a strong allure.
This city, and all cities.
For in every corner, at every street, life bleeds from a city.
It grows from the crack like a flowering ****
And in truth,
Is a flower born in the streets of a city, atop the stem of a dandelion
Any less a flower than a rose from the heart in the woodland?
To me, that a flower could be so brazen, so proudly out of place,
Makes it all the more a thing of beauty.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
"You were born to do this."
I reminded myself as I sat there feeling encaged in a flurry of endless thought and emotion.
"Why do I have to feel every aspect of every event of life, so deep?"
I thought as I fought myself once again to simply pick up the pen and drain the overflow of despondency onto paper.
"Breathe."
The words, letters, verbs and thoughts continued to swirl in my ever rampantly unsettled abyss of ideation.
Once I surrendered to the raging of the erupting of the soul..there was calm.
It's likened to the deaf..taken away their ability to sign..The dancer with both feet removed.
Had I no other pleasure but to expel grief, fervor and elation and form them into words to heal the shattering so entrenched..they appear unreachable..I'd beg to be buried with just a writing utensil and endless reams of freshly pressed paper.
"Theres Light."
I mouth that..as I continue to jot as if I were stitching my heart back together with this pen.
Even though I'm within this seemingly grave like cave of aching..I can write.
The beauty is in the creation..The ability to construct, like a carpenter..all that your heart desires with your own two hands..to simply Heal the paragraphs of life that were written badly, write over them or erase and rewrite..if only it were that easy.
I don't aim to undo..I cannot.
Just to poetically fabricate from this point on..allow the stumbles to happen and Love greater than thought fathomable.
Surrender. To the page.
Scribble it out, empty it onto line after line..and crawl atop..until the words fill the fragments and the ink stains your fingertips..Keep climbing upon the proverbial stacks of paper until the towers reach the aperture of the pit.
Creating the mending of affliction, soothing the misery of the choking of words you cannot utter, but you can scratch them onto tablets to deplete the churning of the mind.
Write. Write badly.
Write as if in a mad race to the finish line, then start over again..Until the trails of Letters stretch so long..you could dance upon them for days.
Then Breathe.
Soak every word into your skin as if attempting to heal the afflictions..
then Become it.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
it almost feels like the literary critique
establishment never heard
of the digitalised version of literary
print... a bit like the dynamic
of ***********
they read **** on toilet paper
and never the small print.. no metaphor,
no pun, poet is dead with god,
you remember, let's keep it like it's 1977
with punk angst, o.k.?
well 1 1 1 of the fingers on toilet paper...
**** smear....
eager music critics, but hardly any
pornographic critics, make a living they say...
cheap pop! ah, cheap pop! chop chop!
butchers' eyes first, priests' last -
liver bitter a minded care for it
as if minding a child! curse the minding!
curse the liver! a swarm of egos,
selfish likened to a marketplace
selfless likened to a monastery -
there the likening to clarify staring into a mirror;
there where we ate everything, including thought,
the materialisation of its immaterial twin: soul;
we too ate with the lineage concerned
via the Eucharist.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
A confinement to the street,
I likened it to a bliss of pain.
Not extended like an overrun episode,
But the anxiety is sleepless,
When yesterday approaches,
I wrap myself in the ignorance,
Homeless, timeless,
It grows and defines,
Coarses through my fundamental
Lapses,
A boy becomes an atitude,
I wish i had these experiences in youthful insurgencies.
Its someday in the week,
I lose the raptured schedules,
To hunger is life.
To thirst is life.
The misled winter wraps itself
On my frozen life.
A faint emergence of time
Resumes,
There in the shadows
I once knew a man,
The visions of him asking to feed
My souless self.
Stretched by insistent graces,
In a road of certain contrasts,
Gentle into the street,
I laugh; the revolving doors,
I cry; what or who i never was,
A certain kind of grace to be
Within the containment,
the poor, the restless,
bleeding my facades,
Shredding the faces I once knew
Destroying my world.
Once I sat upon a throne
Lost in the decimations,
I dont know who I am.
Keep walking.
Telling myself as the night freezes
I will be just fine.
Keep walking
Telling myself in minced
Thoughts as hope flutters against
Nowhere to go.
Keep walking,
The sun rises
And blisters on my feet
Calm the night as the safety
Of day lets me rest.
I will bounce back tomorrow,
And the streets become a ripened spring fruit,
Losing myself
And the art of loss
Is no disaster,
Not unlike losing my keys,
Not unlike losing places,
Not unlike losing names,
Until i reconciled myself
At the fork of the river,
Losing myself is not an art:
The beauty was in finding who I was meant to be.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC
Soft with a ravishing color
So attractive almost to be kept as treasure
Its dusty surface like dust on the earth.
Encourages one to smile
The pleasure in appreciating this beauty
Is likened to a beautiful woman
Whose faithful works hides behind her stride
Peaches
one bite and i long for more.
Your quality is underestimated at times
Until one looks into your eyes of peace.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 9:29 PM UTC
I am here
Yet most times I'm not
Likened to a fleeting zephyr
Perchance may be caught
Beyond the bend, it's hard to see
Uncertain, unpredictable, unsure
There are chances however unlikely
To chart life's trot and canter
Awaiting the moment I would voraciously savour
The fullness of my being that's rare and transitory
Because almost always,
I'm drowning in doubt and clamour
With fevered breaths drawn more quickly
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC
He hides his politics on the inside of his jacket,
wears two scarves and has a light British or Scandinavian accent.
I mean- he says poo-berty, for god's sake,
but the man is brilliant.
I never knew a person who can take
what an idiot exclaims in such fervor and falsity,
and let it become something of knowledge.
The concept of understanding
sits in the back of my tongue,
deep in my throat, and it rattles until he calls it out.
He knows what I'm saying when I don't.
And he knows I've got this solution
but I can't put it to words
that do it justice.
So he and that Greg kid- the philosophy major,
and the only other man I really know who speaks of feminism
more accurately than any woman I've ever come to listen to,
extrapolates my shaky speech
into substance.
And I've likened this learning into something like love
-a Platonic but true love,
of all those who know so much more than I,
and are willing to still take me seriously.
It's rare to see with these eyes,
true teachers, true seekers
truth-seekers
truth teachers
and they who learn infinitely,
inspiring me to be poo-pil.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
I used to compare you to a hurricane,
I used to describe what we had as something like a giant, destructive ring,
With a calm, seemingly odd centre,
I used to tell people, that when things were good, and going strong,
That we were in the centre, we were in the eye, and we had nothing to worry about because we had found the calm in the storm,
I was told to not compare us to something that is notorious for being destructive,
Because I was told that we were in fact, the opposite of that,
I was told that you were not a hurricane, and you were not the centre of the storm,
Instead, you were pure calm, and pure safety, likened to summer nights and sunsets,
As I grew wiser, I likened us to a hurricane more and more,
As the months passed, and we trickled through the cracks more and more,
It became more apparent to me that, we were not a summer sunset,
We were a hurricane,
When things were good, we lived in the centre of the storm,
We had calm, and peace and we did not have to worry about the mass destruction going on around us,
However, like a hurricane, storms move quickly and safe havens in the centre change,
The only mode of survival to keep your place in the eye of the storm is to adapt,
To move quickly with the change and the direction of the storm,
So we tethered ourselves to each other, so that even if we were on opposite sides of the calm,
Too far to touch,
Too far to see,
We were still connected so that if the storm moved, we could move with it together,
The funny thing about hurricanes though, is that they move quickly,
And sometimes you do not always see them changing course and direction,
So in the midst of our perfectly calm centre, we were thrown off course, and thrown in opposite directions, our tether which was keeping us together, tangled and weakening,
In the midst of the storm, and our calm being thrown off you got scared because this was the worst it had ever been,
And our tether was so damaged, and so strained that it felt like we would always be too far to touch, and too far to see,
You took, action, you cut me off, severing our tether and suddenly, we were not in the safe place in the centre of the storm,
We were thrown in opposite directions, into the destructive, black swirling rings that we had avoided with such courage,
And so here I am, beat up, black and blue, trying to find my way back into the centre of the storm,
Silently praying that maybe you are too.
EMW.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
Do you ever realize that
This universe
Can be likened to blood?
Do you ever just sit down and realize,
That the stars in the skies
Are platelets rushing to form a clot
Around an ever expanding cut
Constantly pouring out blood?
The composition of the blood
Diffuses
And becomes that rich oxygenated red
That becomes dilutes with the air
Of our atmosphere
And the ruby red sunlight becomes
Lovely, lovely orange and yellow,
The kind that get you all mellow.
It also splits into the
Cold color of deoxygenated blood
Yes blue.
We watch it ooze
Slowly
Putting the vast expanse of the heavens
On display
After the day
Is done.
Then there is the plasma
Which scientists say is the
Fourth state of matter
But what does that even matter?
Do you ever realize that
This universe
Can be likened to blood?
Produced from an
Ever expanding wound
Like that of Christ whom
Was bruised for our sins.
Do you ever realize that
The universe that surrounds us
Could be
The blood of Christ
There to erase our sins?
That the more we do wrong,
The more blood he bleeds
Thus the more we see
The universe increase?
Do you ever realize that
The universe is constantly expanding
And will never stop?
I mean doesn’t that thought
Ever pop
Into your mind?
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
We are all dealing with it together
sitting on these chairs side by side.
Therapeutic Counselling; it's that general motion
that lonesome melancholy
Grieving people flocking together
likened to the Vietnamese phrase
'Same same, but different'
And every now and then,
Someone, quiet and
unassuming will
whisper words
That strikes
a chord
In your
heart
We're no longer playing those
single notes on repeat
Blame, pain, hurt and defeat
It resonates so deeply
A whole symphony erupts
In your lost thoughts
Dvořák final moments,
Notes cascading down your face.
Eyes wild, eager and hungry for more
tears, mingled with a melody of vulnerability of the human race
Beethoven Fidelio- an operatic shuddering possession. Body breaking, mind
astrewn. Rhythm of rapidly
crushing sanity
Tchaikovsky's Sixth
white keys masquerading as happiness overlaying the sound of
sombre black keys striking suffering
and grief and everything else in-between in the greying colours of your mind.
Music of your
stricken heart lost in
the underground,
In these chairs next to you
Woman who also grieves
With a warm embrace around your body
Our wet shoulders
Absorbing the sounds of your dying souls
Until we're playing a single courageous lullaby once more
Heal heal heal
And heal we shall
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
Abbreviations are obscure.
Aren't they?
But I bow my head in certain familiarity with the letters: A.S.A.P.
We have been here before, in yesteryear, today, and eternity.
It is plumbed in the unfathomable depths of what we call "space".
The diversity of experience is tangibly present.
I don't know about you - but I can just about cut a slice of it and eat it, right where I stand.
Talk about having your cake and eating it!
That is likened to the freedom of a bird of prey, as she surfs the thermals of the Great Expanse.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC