"metamorphoses" poems
What did you say to me?
How did you say to be?
Scent of the flowers sweet,
I fell off the path; the beat.
Metamorphoses buzzing creep.
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
Nectar pollen and wiggle-dance,
Tear off the shirt and pants,
Without it I’m incomplete,
Rotting in self-defeat,
Awashed in a wild sea,
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
Buzzin’ so high and flyin’
Honeycomb drunken Mayan,
Falling west, rising east,
The party will not surcease,
While I am the Bumble-beast!
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee,
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee
The flight it takes off and from,
As flowers of life become,
Praying up to the Sun,
What am I imagining? (image-gen-nun)
August vino de lum
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee,
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC
As time passes, loneliness remains present
Suddenly, the breeze metamorphoses,
Myself roams aimlessly like the seeds of the dandelions,
Once again, the thought of you...
Never fails to efflorescence,
Stop asserting to me that, with the passage of time,
Complete healing of a given affliction will certainly occur...
Because I am still mourning..
Apr 22, 2023
Apr 22, 2023 at 5:44 PM UTC
A gift I need to profess my love.
Pop culture tells me
A diamond is a girl’s best friend!
A diamond is about commitment!
A diamond is A promise of STRONG love!
A diamond expresses EVERlasting love!
A diamond is forever!
No money in my pocket just lint and a seed.
Yes, a seed I will give to my true love!
In a small box I place my seed
A note I write to my love!
Do accept this seed. Let us plant it!
As it sprouts it will soon be a seedling.
The seedling will grow into a tree,
Our tree will protect us and warm us.
Our tree reminds us of our love.
As seedling fall and sprout more trees grow.
We can chop some to build our home.
We build a fireplace to burn dead wood.
In those long winter months we sit and carve.
Springtime comes we marvel at budding new growth.
A nest, we can see, birds sing a song of thanks.
In summer we sit in the shade, protected and safe.
In the fall a thunderstorm, lighting strikes our tree falls.
Our tree is not dead, do not mourn.
Our love is not dead, do not mourn.
Our love is transformed.
Like the seed it metamorphoses
To the earth the tree returns.
Our tree transforms into coal.
Under pressure it becomes a diamond.
Yes, my love, diamonds are forever.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
Waiting for the darkness
Just before the dawn
Faint light peeks through
The overnight curtain
Silhouette of the night
Takes form
At the touch of crimson rays
Magic unfolds on the canvas
Ether rejoices with a glow
As night metamorphoses
To a bright new dawn
Sun, a sparkling solitaire
On the most precious ring
Ready to slip onto the fingers
Of the blushing bride
The wait is over
For the day has come
To spread happiness galore
A crowning glory
With awe, the world watches
I applaud at the spectacle
Of the most gorgeous day
Brings new hope
Sprinkled with sweet dew
It’s a shimmering sight
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
I toss,
I turn,
Spirits lift,
only to crash and burn,
I would change
to de-spare
if I had any,
more than none.
Why are there people
who get angry and
foist a will,
an unkind will
on others till
they break and break
like fine china on a porcelain tile floor?
drama and conflict are enough and
of this world,
blood stained words
are hurled,
I hope they never make it to my place
of fantasy, where I write in peace holding still
like a manatee in the sea,
thank you, hello poetry.
If someone needs this time and space,
to unload the life that weighs them
down or drags them into the streets,
kicking and screaming as the part
that goes streaming by is the very
reason they hide their eyes in public
or slump into their seat as the verbal
or text abuse, puts nails in the hope
which waits in escape, just beyond
their fingertips and barbed wire voices...
but as for me, so isolated
I may not always rhyme
I may not have the right prose,
my surreal images might raise
an eyebrow, and my as
and like may need a metamorphoses,
to even be a metaphor,
but through all of you here
I get to visit a different shore
each time I open up a poem,
even if I don't know your name,
or maybe even who you really are.
I am glad you let me care.
©ClemC092013
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
Rarely Anything Is Louder Than The Highway In St. Cloud, Minnesota. Especially On A Sunday Evening Down On The Mississippi River, The Sun Barely Over The Trees. My Bare Feet Exposed To The Cold Of The Warm November Air (Warm For A Minnesota November Mind You). River Mud Squishing Between My Toes, Pink, Five Little Piggies Catching A Cold. Marble Orbs Staring At My Human Stature Through The Withering Underbrush, Waiting For My Metamorphoses. The Scent Of Blood Burns In My Nostrils, The Sad Thing Is, It IsMy Own Which Laces My Sleeves. The Red Moon Wanders The Sky.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
Carstairs had been waiting for the boat for three days and there it was, suddenly appeared. He had dozed and it had appeared. He trained his binoculars on it, but it was too far away to be clearly recognisable. It seemed motionless, becalmed in a sheet of unruffled water.
He had dug himself into a bank in the sandhills. He still had a little water, some raisins; there was a final cube of chocolate carefully wrapped in the whole of its paper. It was the thought of this hidden pleasure that had sustained him during the hours of darkness when the slight rain and the chill of inactivity had forced him to exercise, to move about, though always afraid he would lose his burrow.
From the earliest light of dawn the day had been clear and still. The sea birds had muted calls, the sea itself more a presence than a sound. The tide had steadily retreated beyond his expectations. He knew he had to wait for the arranged signal.
Turning on his back he looked at the sky. A few clouds floated hesitantly in the glazed blue. He remembered suddenly a moment from his childhood, above the beach at Red Point. He had escaped his parents, his adored sisters, and hidden himself in the marran grass. He had lain on his back and felt himself levitate into the clouds. He had looked down on the whole scene, a waking dream. Those moments floating above the long Highland beach had never left him. Sitting in the examination hall for his Tripos that memory had come upon him; he had been paralyzed by it, unable to write or think. He had closed his eyes and strange geometrical shapes had ensnared him. He had felt extremely sick . . .and then very calm. He had returned to the task in hand, a translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, that opening passage describing Eurus, Zephyr, Auster and Boreas: the four winds.
. . . he felt something wet nuzzle his hand. A dog, a black shape no more. As he struggled to move himself a larger shape obliterated the sun and shot him.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC
there is a sense of fluency
in his visual metamorphoses
framed in a diaphanous red
that isolates a consciousness
yet at the same time allows a journey
to ultimate extremes
of perfected enhancement
of the higher realization
of unfulfilling limitations
he knows that he can never be free
like a name in an address book
written in blue ceramics
that provides the impulse
to sensitizing thought
to the silence that walls him in
spiraling back in second hand decibels
overloaded with the complex distribution
of metabolic need
forms contradictory impulses
an index of vulnerable and invulnerability
like the familiar dissimilarity in his eyes
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
1.
My mother hates me!
My father hates me!
Oedipus screams to the
stealthily silent Sphinx.
He scatters riddles like laurel leaves
waiting to be braided into
a playwright's crown. It is too
grandiose to fit his cracked. cramped cranium.
His unconscious mind flies open
like the Sphinx rocketing to the sky.
Sacred haunches soar. Wings beat
steadily to reach titanic heights.
Blind to his murderous fate, Oedipus
cannot know himself. Before the
Delphic Oracle, his life shrivels,
unexamined by his bleeding eyes.
2.
Freud exults in triumph.
Maternal love births eternal love:
endless comfort and affection
for the newly bloomed beloved.
Soon, comfort metamorphoses
into feral eros, unspeakable, unthinkable,
beyond the bounds of catastrophic evil.
Submerged desire sullies the chastest kiss.
Jacosta embraces her son
as her new living king, her husband's
royal blood bubbling brazenly
on the bitter road to Thebes.
His hands stained, Oedipus strives
to transmute his trauma as our own.
We become him when Freud deigns
to interpret our darkest, direst dreams.
Blindly, we mimic him: carnal union
with the mother, lethal rage against
the father. Mourning Becomes Electra
beckons to the wary second ***
3.
The Sphinx belies its own riddle:
How can prophecy spring from
the sculpted, smooth stone
of these perfect *******
Only blind Teiresias plumbs the depths
of Oedipus' fate: Judgement lies blinded,
action lies blinded by the ventricles of
violence, the twisted telos of the mind.
Humans sin against the world, against
nature, siphoned of joy. They sin without
a sacred perch to rise from. Blood and *****
mud and blindness fashion their Oedipal souls.
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 3:21 PM UTC
she is his sun, brightening his days, giving him warmth. he doesn't remember a time when he was without her, and doubts he could make it anyway.
she is his world, his universe, he revolves around her. she's been there from the start and he's depended on her ever since.
they both have come a long way, each constantly going through their own changes and metamorphoses. soon they won't recognize each other at all.
his sun is losing her grip on him. all this time she has held him in place, she has kept him in orbit. but what about her? she is slowly but surely burning out and neither of them notice.
they are drifting and his sun is burning out. she is losing herself and he is losing her and they are losing a battle that no one could win. his sun is draining him and her and he can't help.
his sun is expanding, emotions are running rampant. she is not as she used to be, she has consumed him and left nothing but fragments of broken pieces in her wake. his sun has ruined him and is ruining her, too. she explodes. she is nothing more than a white dwarf of a girl, emitting what little light she has left before it disappears forever.
it is cold and dark. his sun is but a fragment of her former self and there is no way of getting her back.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
Although she was complete and whole
she longed for something to terrify her
exhilarate her
make her feel alive--
a kiss with the knife
slowly turned to a dangerous dance
deterioration
her skin unraveling from her form
but manifesting metamorphoses:
changed in a way she never could have alone.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
You win
When you win hearts
Appreciate the love
When souls open up
A reflection of beauty
Transforms the heart
You win
When you listen
And feel every word
Hold hands of fallen
Wipe away the pain
And bring hope
You win
With unconditional love
No expectations ever
Only the well-being
Love that metamorphoses
The gloomiest of hearts
You win
When you shower kindness
And hold gratitude in esteem
When silence speaks a lot
And actions take care
Forges bonds forever
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
BUTTERFLY
A dangerous thing.
Inspirations' fragile wings.
Metamorphoses.
BARRIER REEF
Great walls dividing.
Vast cold deeps from Summer seas.
"Hail Metropolis!"
LOTUS FLOWER
Morning--Star-burst--bloom.
Floral crown on tranquil lake.
She walks on water.
SEAHORSE
Pregnant father sways
Rocking chair to Oceans' gait.
Champions patience's race.
BOMBYX MORI
White Mulberry leaves,
Veins of Univoltine wine.
Silk, worm's waste of time.
ORCHID
Soft petals open.
Easy like wild poetry.
Medicinal muse.
LAVENDER
How like a feather
Dancing meadows' Royal hue.
Perfumes the twilight.
OWL (Query)
"Who?" Rather than tweet
In the dark keenly can see
All her nameless prey.
DEATH VALLEY
Akimbo cacti
Off the scenic highway road
Flail in Hell's hot suns.
TSUNAMI
Deaths' devastation.
Chaos drowns all the petty
Wars and last concerns.
COMMUNING
These very mornings
I awe as the blue ocean drinks
The sky bleeding gold.
DINOSAUR
All you have are bones.
Our flesh once Giants : lies, dust.
My feelings extinct.
SUNFLOWER
A golden pinwheel.
Tall and proud, the face of day,
Burns bright love's bounty.
POPPY
Her rouge a deep dark
pharmaceutical Red to
kiss your pain away.
THE SWALLOW
Rain's graceful feathers.
The Spring's swift wisps' arriving
Two Tailed Brothers' Breeze.
ROSE
No other fragrance
But from her kiss--sublime songs
True Love's red flower.
AGUA
Siempre Vivir
Go quench your thirst and your soul,
'Cuz Life drinks for free.
IN SPRING
Orange breasted plume.
A Robin bird trills and swirls.
Seasoning her nest.
ASPHODEL SNOW
Gossamer winter.
The fractal window panes sigh
white breath of flowers.
LIGHT-YEARS
Space is Time is Light
it's speed can measure eons'
infinite distance.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC
To fill the silences of the ambience,
To unravel the sounds of the existence,
To frolic with the air and fire,
To dance on water,
To breath in space,
To fuse with land,
To see who is me and who is not me,
And understand there is nothing that is un-me,
To understand the fusion of the creation and creator,
To swim in the clouds that metamorphoses the moisture,(of air)
To hover in the air without wings,
To evade the stop that hurts me id est to killing the time wherefore it holds the universe,
To understand the cause of the origin of the universe,
To understand and explore the time,
Which is darkness,
To understand the darkness,
To understand how from darkness somethingness emanate,
To **** the time as my life exists in time,,
To portray the creation,
To kiss the venomous cobra,
To create the uncreated,
To dissolve into creation,
To rendezvous with the one who is responsible for this oneness,
To staunch into the silence,
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
It’s been a more than a week now
I still welcome the feeling
Bleak, sad, melancholic
As the sun kisses the day goodbye
As the red petals fall to the coarse ground
No grace no energy, no charm.
I had a deep fall, painful and chronic
A fall without any precaution
To him deemed unworthy
As committing a sin so passionate
As not following orders so easy
Everything came smooth, yet mistaken and immediate.
At all times, my mind entraps the thoughts
Of his sweet words and warmth
So sudden, they had perished
So hasty he has changed
As the wind blows the leaves of a dying cypress tree
As the strong waves erode the coast
Puzzled now how to mend
The shattered dream he had left hanging
To move on as if he never existed
To comfort thyself, and live life anew
As the caterpillar metamorphoses to a butterfly
As the sun creeps in the mountains to give light for a new day.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
in a time of peace and love to float
scarred the baby embraces being shook
backward forwards into the coat
we flip through pages of the book
like a sigh we're fading away
to the stars and the moon we see
time allows us to embrace May
you have meant so much more to me
than people elision the star
we are crossin' everyon' over
(to smell the smell of your pretty car
that i've never been in all sober
always i'll be here sitting You
beauty change metamorphoses
your Love your Peace we are both two
all of these i'll take all of these
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 8:10 PM UTC
I swear I really want to write one.
I come up with a few great ideas,
formulate them into my creative mind,
then when I go to pen them
into an epic,
they end up much shorter.
Like, what would Virgil say?
Lord Byron would certainly cringe
at my bits and pieces of written word.
Alighieri & Milton would probably
laugh their arses off,
Ovid snicker & what about Homer?
I swear I really want to write one.
An epic like The Divine Comedy,
perhaps a slice of Don Juan,
a bit of Beowulf,
some Odyssey?
I wish I could find
some Paradise Lost,
a piece of the Illiad,
I pray for a Metamorphoses!
I swear I really want to write one!
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
On February 5th :
I am learning
how to drive
in between
metamorphoses
of snowy colors.
On February 5th :
If you look closely
you can see my
mother with her
legs firmly planted
onto the passenger
seat; she is silent
until we pass
a collection of deer.
We pass a collection
of deer and my mother’s
arms look the same
as mine do when I
am angry. Her face
is the Atlantic, full
of irritable little wrinkles.
(My mother’s face is always
the Atlantic, full of irritable
little wrinkles.)
When I was younger
her wrinkles screamed
at me with over-used lungs
until my body grew limp
like radish roots -- it’s just that
when I was younger
I had trouble seeing
the large gap between
snow and static no matter
how many times my mother
would try to emphasize
their differences.
But both dripped onto my
prickly face like newborn wine
onto sidewalks; both looked
just like my mother’s old wedding dress.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
didn't apollo just love daphne
or it was a ****** thing?
didn't zeus cheat on hera?
that's for sure, my deary.
but my love for you is real
like demeter loved her daughter
so the times she left her mother
autumn came along,
and then the winter,
all so cold.
in the deepest land
you'll ever see
where king of death
have lived for many years
where he keeps her as a prisoner
persephone's just,
for good,
his slave.
slaves of gods
that's what humans are
they've got no point
on their decisions
cause in olympus
they're not born.
the most beautiful
goddess couldn't archive
the goals she wanted
with hephaestus,
the ugly one
in the night her husband
saw her lying on a bed
with mars, god of war,
screamed both of their names.
if titans hadn't been so rough
their sons and daughters
wouldn't have done that
keeping them in jails
so they couldn't escape
from the tartarus,
under the hades,
now they are the slaves.
and now let's go back
to the beginning
when the nymphs heard
her screams
trying to escape
from the handsomest god
turning her into laurel,
not letting her live anymore.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
"There are two things scarce matched in the universe, the sun and the Thames on earth"
My metamorphoses is complete
and what that means, I can only dream
that in love I'll receive
and maybe this can be the final piece of me.
Generosities unaccustomed to,
I always hoped you were my muse.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
And like me,
he gets enlivened when nature metamorphoses.
He dances with the ocean waves and gapes at the splendid, scarlet sunset.
He enjoys the ripe air with the pleasant dewy petrichor,
and adores the bespangled night sky.
Would my ancient peculiar rhythm meet his empathetic heartbeat?
Maybe.
If he could immerse in my murky depths.
If he’d help me journey through
this twisted path,
from a thorny to a glorious trail,
from the grotesque to the sublime.
Sep 26, 2021
Sep 26, 2021 at 10:54 AM UTC
Mothlet-like owl midges fizzling in and out of the waves
that shuffle the moon's shed reflection,
hovering and imitating like a wettened rorschach--
with disembodied tiny teeth for feet
suckling from the scurvyed gums
where shadows are allowed to be kings.
Kings that observe a godess body that spans the whole sky with ******* made of crinkled ash dripping latex that falls
then cuts into the grass to
spread life--perfection spares no time for the impatient.
Glistening stream,mucky dewlap of the mountain carving a caricature of someone praying for rain and dreaming of a metamorphoses into ice.
With the night comes tide. Comes time. Comes death. Comes life.
If you were to sit down in one spot
anywhere in the world and not move
for another second of your life
from there on in--
you would see so much beauty and pain
You'd wonder what you ever did to be
as lucky as you had been.
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 2:17 PM UTC
Alchemy is the art of the far and near as is poetry.
Prima Materia. ****** alchemists groping, questing.
The Face of God. Omphalos. The Chapel Perilous.
Lost path through invisible forest. Hazard.
Base metal to gold. Ignorance to wisdom.
Crucible of transformation. The Rosy Cross.
Inner distillation. Metamorphoses. Essence.
To be bathed in the breath of infinity. Crystalline.
Quantum foam. Particles. Waves. Plenum of possibilities.
Moving through the world of illusion,
seeking the sacred glory of fusion.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
Ouroboros
Writhing about in man’s mythologies
Is a completeness, itself to affirm
Scriven in the ancient cosmologies:
The self-ordained perfection of The Worm
The Samsara of the self-seeking soul
And a self-admiring self-causation
Itself entire, a universal whole
Devouring its tail in auto-phagation
But metamorphoses have come to pass:
The endless worm’s head is now up its own (self)
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC