"microscopic" poems
notice the convulsed orange inch of moon
perching on this silver minute of evening.
We’ll choose the way to the forest—no offense
to you,white town whose spires softly dare.
Will take the houseless wisping rune
of road lazily carved on sharpening air.
Fields lying miraculous in violent silence
fill with microscopic whithering
…(that’s the Black People, chérie,
who live under stones.) Don’t be afraid
and we will pass the simple ugliness
of exact tombs,where a large road crosses
and all the people are minutely dead.
Then you will slowly kiss me
51.7k
I wish I was a dragonfly,
Blue in the shimmering sun
Settling on the tropical palms,
When my breeze guided journey was done.
The tips of my wings would softly skim
The water of the pool,
A microscopic dragon in flight
My eyes, two kaleidoscope jewels.
My family would have existed for three million years,
Or more,
But I shall glide for just six weeks,
Enough time to see, what’s worth flying for.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 5:30 AM UTC
this door exists,
stately and staunchly it stands,
disheartening and terrifying it remains.
the door is unlocked, yet cannot be opened,
for in it, a path in time...
one decision that can affect everything
[such as my choice to wear the necklace you adore,
which lead to you noticing me for the very first time,
or my idea to play you the song that you fell in love with,
which i can no longer listen to]
...for in this door, one path
is intimidatingly located.
every bone in my body,
every last muscle, tendon, ligament
each artery, each vein, each capillary
every single nerve,
even each microscopic cell,
implores me not to open this tempting door...
[it is almost as if my hand refuses to grasp the handle,
to unleash the unknown upon me,
the colossal chain of events that would ensue]
the immensity of the unfamiliar,
the unexplored,
tends to perturb me.
change is unnerving
and is almost as chilling
as an abandoned graveyard at midnight.
but i bring my mind back to the door,
yes! this preposterous door that i have contrived for myself.
why is the **** so easily turned?
why does it not put up somewhat of a fight,
at least jolt me suddenly,
as to frighten my curious heart?
it is a constant battle between my body
my mind
and my heart
as to which doors to open
and which ones to leave ever so steadfastly closed.
but never once has there been such a struggle
for them to reach an understanding.
somehow my heart,
[even though a fraction of me,
a fist, dripping in blood]
is prevailing for the moment.
my heart reaches for the handle,
attempts to unclose the door...
yet, with the best of its ability,
withstanding my strong-willed
and obstinate heart,
my powerful body and commanding mind
overcome this hostile takeover,
and the door remains shut.
it is my body,
my skillful mouth,
my soft, rose lips,
my elegant tongue,
and my vocal chords...
all of these pieces must
contrive the words,
conceive the change,
which will unveil the path that will forever alter us...
slowly, opening the door.
being as in love with you as i am,
i will not let you slip away from my arms right now.
but when we are not together
[*i wish you’d have been there,
i needed you there*]
i stare at this humbling door.
if i wait too long, i’ll forever lose you;
for it is you who will make this choice for me,
opening your own door, fearless and dauntless.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
My dear, if you were to cut me open,
to tear away my measly skin,
you would not find
the contents of an ordinary human being.
You would not find veins
or internal organs,
especially not a human heart.
Instead, you would find a battlefield, with freshly made bomb craters
and you would find discarded bullets,
fashioned from spiteful words,
that were perhaps destined for use on my worst enemies
but were instead aimed at myself.
You would find the remains of a daisy field
with the left over petals
looking vaguely like feathers
that fell from doves
or perhaps even angels.
You would find memories of a tiny village
once colourful and lively
but swept away by multiple hurricanes,
that took all happiness and innocence along with them.
Blood would not pour
from my lifeless body,
but dark cigarette smoke would seep from the wounds,
and if you closely investigated,
you would find that the fumes were made up of
microscopic black moths
that had all my lies and promises
carefully written all over their feeble wings
For I am not a human being, but simply a worn out shell of one.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
What is the versatile autobiography
of this bountiful of rice
boiling in my American kitchen?
This crop of microscopic slabs of grain
that was the one edible source
of preventing my ancestors' emaciation
One of such few things
connecting me
to my roots,
those things I can't help but bleach
in whitewashed and rebellious peroxide.
I will valiantly hang my head down low in shame
at the examples of my flesh and earth,
"those National Geographic cavemen,"
all the time being the zoo animal,
being blindfolded and caged by
these "secular, American liberals."
I love this food
that I consume like a vacuum,
this merengue and bachata
that I so happily shake my *** to;
but nowhere did I sign up
for these commandments
that I was appointed
based on the location
that I popped out onto.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:51 AM UTC
I never liked biology.
Not because it was boring.
It was fascinating.
But everyday I was reminded
that I am nothing more than
layered tissue.
And I have so little control
over how wide my eyes open
My thoughts are nothing more than microscopic zaps
criss-crossing tirelessly around in my head
I can't stop
hearing and
seeing and
feeling
and
I'll never
see my own heart.
I liked it better
when life was magical.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
From whom are you wanderer?
The road on which you unravel,
Basking,
and on the brim of infinity
the body becomes nest for neighboring
critters
Ineffable, microscopic, macroscopic
And in the (in) between
on the peak of no where the whole widens,
the well wanes a wish deeper,
All the while
diamonds crest beneath aim
Gold, my galore...
of whom, are you
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 3:50 AM UTC
inspired by Ben Noah Suri
<*>
come to us in twilight, and just before sunrise,
in the in~between times, when souls exit and enter.
through microscopic cosmic windows, and there
is nothing but you and the full emptiness of earth
and then!
fill our void with words as yet unborn,
and aid all our passages from nether to glory...
for you,
we, await...
for guidance inherited from
all your visions of greater-than-us metamorphosis
<*>
upon first awakening and reaffirmation of life,
reading the first poem of the day
6:59am
Sabbath
Sep 13
2025
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 7:01 AM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
I am a walking contradiction.
I am six feet, five inches tall
But I feel microscopic.
I am a proud Englishman,
Disgusted by his history and absent
Of allegiances to any land, any country.
I am a nomad, but there is so much I haven't seen.
I am filled with wanderlust,
But also crave routine, and hate change.
I am a passionate writer,
But it pains me to write.
I am so very concerned by the world,
Its people and emotions,
Yet I distance myself, want no part in it,
Thrive off any psychopathic habits I develop -
I enjoy the disdain I have for most people.
I am well-educated, above-average intelligence,
But I know nothing... and always will.
I am surrounded by people that I love and care about,
But I feel so often, so desperately alone.
I crave my own space, my solitude,
The freedom of my own head and my mind's
Undivided attention, but it haunts me,
And I miss the feeling of warmth beside me in my bed.
It taunts me. It makes me want to die.
I am a walking contradiction because I desperately
Want to live, if only to achieve something worth
Being remembered for, worth dying for.
There's no poetic justice, beauty in death of
An ordinary man with uninteresting achievements.
That is wasted oxygen to me, and wasted talent
(if you can even call it that for)
I crave success, but fear I am talentless.
I am a walking contradiction.
Sometimes I think I am delusional,
But, then again, I am one of the most logical people
I know. I'm boring. But I want to excite, to entertain.
I am not funny, but I want to make people laugh.
I want to live forever and die tomorrow.
I am a walking contradiction.
Nobody mourns the poor - of pocket or of soul.
I fear that I am both.
I fear that I am a walking contradiction.
Completely devoid of purpose, of meaning
But so hopelessly in love with the beauty of it all.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
every poem gets the exact number
of reads it deserves
<>
nah, I don't think that for
a millisecond,
shoot,
not a ****** nanosecond (1)
truthfully
I'm torn up inside
and my thinking
absolutely
could be wrong
or could be right
absolutely
just like the optionality
of believing in god;
has to be some force
of intelligence that
could create such
microscopic complexity randomly
or just thinking the world
is just a series of accidentally
interactions
so
who's to say what's good,
what's not so good,
and by what standard
one should judge
Is this a poem?
Heck if I know
and what sbout the poems that
get not a one,
a single one, absence of curiosity,
an unheralded execution.
death by silent ignorance,
a master's mastery of exactitude
all because
just because
Is that a collective decision
by an unconscious collective,
the best moderne equivalent of
the unmarked death
of just a single one of
your billions of brain cells (2)(3)
all I know is
that my confusion is confirmed
my constancy is inconsistent
my equatorial balance is
gonzo, dragging me down,
each division wants to piece me up,
and today,
right now
got no answers
at all
how do I define myself?
what categories do I fit
within?
and yet
that answers one question!
**do not write interrogatory inquisitions
at 1:15 am
(unless you're a DUMB lucky *******
who believes they got
answers**)
Jul 12, 2025
Jul 12, 2025 at 3:19 PM UTC
Ships, boats, seafaring vessels, and barks of yore
Showcased in acclaimed poetry
From Homer to Donne to Flores
Metaphors to represent sundry notions
Ships
Uncontrollably swirled in an unforgiving sea
An arc
persecuting the sinners ******
A shipwreck
on a desolate island, defining a lost soul
A speed boat
Perhaps, mans' innate desire to escape
Or searching for lands unknown
What marvels poets behold in ships?
If I scribed a verse about a yonder vessel
It would be a childish innuendo
About a ships mast
Or I'd make an astounding observation
Such as ships are big boats.
However, poets, true visionaries
Scope massive ships from
Microscopic aspects of daily life.
And I. . . I look at a powerful ship
And think I'm a little dingy.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
My skin begs me daily to care for it
Microscopic mouths yawning for moisture.
I ignore the voices and
laugh into my fourth slice of pizza.
I am trying to eat healthier.
But instead I just
Shower and hope
The mouths stay silent.
They’ve been screaming a while though…
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 12:10 AM UTC
One by one,
I have watched each of my relationships dissolve into bitter words on my tongue,
Like "I still look for your face even though you're a thousand miles away."
"I am in love with someone who doesn't exist anymore."
"You are the one thing I regret giving up."
"Forgive me for destroying you. I didn't know to be with someone who wasn't as broken as I was."
So you'll understand why I say that I was never one for love stories.
Marriage vows sounded like the screaming echo of future arguments,
Kisses looked like purple bruises, rather than happy endings,
And the only absolute truth I knew was that getting everything you wanted was just a precursor to losing it all.
Which is why this is not a cheesy tale of romance
but of something much greater
Of friendship that could shatter the world with its strength
Of an empty shell of a person who only knew how to drown and the girl who taught her how beautiful it felt to burn
Of two teenagers who may be microscopic to the universe but are worth galaxies to each other.
This is seeing what love has the potential to be:
Thinking the same thing so many times we could fill an ocean if people still said "you owe me a soda"
Whispering into the phone at 3am to talk about high school drama and our favorite teachers and a boy we used to love.
Biting tongues so that our bursts of laughter don't wake up our roommates.
Talking about everything and nothing, all at once.
This is realizing that love is not companionship.
It is completion.
So this is to my best friend:
A long time ago, I made myself a new skin out of sandpaper and sarcasm to scare away anyone who could ever love me
But now, I have never meant anything more literally than when I say that I cannot live without you.
And if you are the story of my life, then I swear, it is the one that I will never stop re-reading.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
It's hard to feel sad
when the sun shines in rays,
persistent as a mother,
and just as sweet and caring.
Green, microscopic leaves
flutter like the wings of fairies.
If cleanliness is next to godliness,
I feel like I'm in the clouds.
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 4:03 PM UTC
Author: Kristen Stevens
Current mood: frustrated
Anthony got a firetruck Lego set. The packaging says "ages 5-12". It also makes the claim "designed for easy building and instant play." Now I know he's only 4 but he's smart and not that far from 5 comparatively. I on the other hand am 28. Well outside the parameters age wise. Yet, this smallish box of tiny toys baffled me for over an hour. I have the directions, I've dug through the pieces, and am still mystified on occasion. As I'm searching for yet another microscopic piece of siren or whatever it was, I'm thinking..."5 years! I can't see any 5 yr-old sticking with this for this long without losing his mind. Then Mom would take it away because of the temper tantrum and never gets built. This is stupid! Where did that tiny loopy thing go?...etc" What part of an hour is "instant play" do they not own a dictionary? I could tell them.
Then once it's together, somehow Anthony keeps taking the windshield off. He's not actively disassemble it. He's just rolling back and forth on the floor going "whoo-whoo!" Lego's the most touchy toy on the planet. Maybe he'll get some more when he's 15.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 7:52 AM UTC
"Unsinkable"
was a myth;
which no-one ever said.
But she was beautiful,
the most advanced,
the biggest,
the "floating city",
the greatest ever made.
This magnificent vessel
which slipped out
from Harland and Wolff,
it cannot be denied,
was a fine symbol,
of hard work
and Irish pride.
****************************
That fateful night
truly was
a night to remember.
A night of heroes,
as men willingly
threw their lives away,
that women and children,
may live another day.
A night of heroines,
as women
gave up their lives
to stay with their men
as lovers and wives.
A night of honour
as Thomas Andrews,
whom Titanic designed,
and Captain Smith, stayed,
to their fates resigned.
A night of cowardice,
as J Bruce Ismay,
took a lifeboat place;
from a woman or child
stealing a space.
A night of tragedy
as more than 1500 died,
and of miracles,
that so many survived.
*******************************
One hundred years on.
RMS Titanic lies
broken on the sea bed.
At peace, in pieces,
she lies there
as broken as the dreams
of those who built her.
The survivors
who numbered 700 and more,
have now joined
all those who went before.
But Titanic,
gives new life today,
as she is being eaten away,
In bizarre irony,
this beautiful lady,
who caused death and strife,
is now teeming with life.
Microscopic life
feasting on this tomb
has sealed her doom;
as into the mighty hull they bore,
By 2030
Titanic will be no more.
Gone
but not forgotten,
neither Her or her victims;
that no-one can deny.
The great RMS Titanic
shall not
cannot
ever wholly die.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 6:05 PM UTC
moment to moment
we are the sum total of
our chemicals
we think of ourselves
we think of others
as an average of our
time and spacial synergy
an anatomical amalgam
a biological brine
frankensteins with
personalities, commonalities and
unique agendas
sprinkled with neuroses that
range from microscopic to
catastrophic, whether
chemical reaction or
hyperbolic extraction
you can choose to
canonize or demonize
as long as you can
recognize
the flesh and the blood
versus the fantasized
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
a bean like no other
bitter and white;
a microscopic dynamite,
peristalsis using all its might
my cave so suspenseful and hollow
ridges lined along its curves
churning to my so-called mental benefit
those gastric juices now released,
microscopic dynamite
simply had one more muscle to defeat
a match at last perceived
microvilli yearning love ,
in, it took the dynamite.
yet confused it became as
micro relations only last a short while.
"Nutrients" absorbed,
betrayal on its way
the bloodstream sent in shock
oh such bloodless atriums
oh such vaulted ventricles.
oh how my blood flow met its end.
Although deceiving it had been
no promises were riven
the dynamite exploded
and at last
no longer was I broken.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
This is not about you.
This is not about
the transmutation
of your jail celled mind
wrapped in self-help
and cellophane.
This is not about
your new found
discovery
discovering me
and my afflictions
according to the
white man’s diction
a dictation
of my past
extracted
and examined
under the microscopic
power of time.
This is not about
your self-defined
enlightenment
when you made
a deal to unearth
the truth of HeLa
coated in dust
covered particles
of HeLa
on your nightstand
and I laid
in a grave
unmarked.
This is not about
my big lips
and thick hips
under ***** covers
running a sweat
fever on my thighs
shaking feet in stirrups
and the pain was rich
after a tight pinch
and I didn’t know
what part of me
had been snipped
to grow cold
and never die.
No, this is not about you.
This is about me.
A historic legacy
left to thrive across the time
less chains of nucleic
tidal waves
Covalent bonds
could never rival
the strides of this soul
miles beyond
the distant
COLORED ENTRANCE
something brewing
inside dividing
inexplicable replication,
readying for harvest
behind a dried tobacco field
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC
I walk this hall; it is full but no attention goes to me.
I am a ghost among mortals.
My size would make you assume that I am seen, but inside, I make myself microscopic.
I don't want to be noticed, because the last time I was noticed, the most attention was a slap in the stomach, and a slur of slander creeping through my ears.
The thought never leaves.
It invades and cannot be driven out.
So yes I choose to go unnoticed.
My fears help me do that.
"He should be talking to others."
"He should play with the other kids."
Look at them.
They feel they know how to make it better.
They think they can fix me.
What do they know the closest to bullying they know is limited to Hollywood bullying.
But what do they know.
This new breed of bullying, this evolution of condemnation is unreal to them.
I want to believe them,
I want help.
But the more they try the more I want to do this by myself because silence is where I find peace, Silence does not call me fat.
Silence does not laugh at the way I dress or the way I walk.
So this is why I choose silence. This is why I'm invisible
I dedicate this poem to the people who made me not want to live. your efforts to destroy me simply made me stronger; thank you
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
The mountain becomes microscopic
when the sun shines on a leaf
or the ripples of a shallow stream.
The leaf has the precise shadow
of a winter stem on its white tongue
and the ripples make the stones
look like little dwelling places.
The mossy one I kneel upon
is like a carpet of fresh ancient forest.
A wind rises from on high
ranges over ranges…
There is still so much
possibility.
The world grows many times over
as the eye sees more than its sight.
I make faces and fingers
out of the stones and branches
and my own face in the water
is feline, a primitive mask
I take off for shining water underneath.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
I want to be so close to
You that I break that microscopic
Space of air and
Separate the atoms between us
Causing a nuclear explosion
That fades into colors of
Scarlet and sand
That burn into our brains and
Stick with us through the rest of our lives
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
Fingers
Picking ****** flowers
Dripping spice burgundy
Staining serenity
A touch of
Surreal simplicity
Undaunted movement of
Molecular fractals
Bursting in waves
Of fantastical light
Sensual trickles
Tongue
Licking sappy mosses
Amber and honey
Expanding swiftly
An odyssey through the
Gums and divisions
Between ivory teeth
Ecstasy aplenty
Flooding down through
The body
Leaving stains
Of serenity
Nostrils
Sniffing smoky cedar
Microscopic air ripples
Orchestra of tune and note
Tune and note
Whispers and cries
Kisses and sighs
Invisible in form and sight
These do travel
Through tunnels
Those give sense of smell
Droplets of spice burgundy
Toes
Sinking through layer
Under layer of moist clay
Descending in time shaken
Matter
Pores of the skin
Breathing air and soil
Replenishing vital veins
Rivers of beating blood
Unending
Molecular fractals
Fingers
Picking ****** flowers
Dripping spice burgundy
Staining serenity
A touch of
Surreal simplicity
Undaunted movement of
Molecular fractals
Bursting in waves
Of fantastical light
Sensual trickles
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
put all the words
in the world
in my two hands,
each a microscopic dot
of near invisible,
teeming, heaping,
ricochet intersecting
colliding,
cell splendid splitting
leaping,
until they,
wordlessly forming
a sign inquiring,
in neon flashing:
“What did I demand of them?”
”New combinations,” my reply.
how we
laughed together...
as they procreated
My Happy Request*
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC