"midpoint" poems
The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
****** it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.
11.4k
Muck bit her ivory nightgown, as if earth hungering
after her...the delicate collapse of a napkin,she.
Hours poured atop her head, her shaggy, silvery
mane suspended--its reluctant bounce captured
at midpoint...as a spiderweb under ultraviolet light.
Desert sands lost in contemplation, reminiscent of
her flesh--divulge her core as she sleeps in a
fetal position.
Her body spasms awkwardly...its will visibly slowed
from initial motion.
As the paralysis experienced by prey amid the astral
annals of nightmares.
She'll rise into that shine, wonder at the nightmare's
symbology...talk to her garden--whilst thinking of her
time to come.
Silkworm breached the parcel
of time, its cocooned inertia
coarsed through the opalescent
eye of God to Godhood.
Of time's ruination redeemed
in a solitary work...cupped
airless the unbridled form of
a trapezist spent itself.
Opened and closed somersaults
atripped a piece of said space...
nothingness regenerated to
move, to take step of itself.
A self-argumentative abstraction
glowed...undid its silken flag--
firmly planted in an undiscovered
region...her time come.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
A dream you told me of:
Defusing a time-bomb embedded in the womb of your dead mother.
I don’t know if you were smart enough to flip the failsafe
Or if you indiscriminately yanked wires out, like your dangerous thoughts.
A dream I told you of:
at the midpoint of their parents’ anniversaries, by the ruins of every immortalized
kingdom, she is wearing her mother’s dress and he is too.
“father wanted to castrate or **** me,” he said, conversationally.
they have so much in common. they live the tragedy of armchair **** fantasies,
tend to ****** their own genitals when lost in thoughts of the obstruction of
their desires. (which, really, is pointless
because they don’t desire anything besides fondling their own genitals.)
Blinded Oedipus does not notice
Electra’s concealed ******* dagger. A thousand years between them, yet they’re still children conceived of
Mitigated **** and blood sacrifice for the sake of sailing, and
Defined by deficit from the beginning; her crippled mind sang
to his hollowed eyes. Kinslayers becoming kin,
Entranced by the illusions of the other but really
Loving only the unmistakable reflections of their own sins.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
INTERSECTION
Today--the intersection
between yesterday--temps perdu-
and the day that follows now
a midpoint
that's where
the waiting is
time that
dangles
hovers
splits
divides moments
clean-cut partitions
clock-wise precisions
which define
what was
this is and
that to be
until the day
that follows
the imagination
the expectation
that is now
reality is the here and now
staring right in your face-
this is the time
the place
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
*On the barren
head of this plateau,
you're the midpoint.
A curious moon peeps
from the curve
of your neck,
flooding the
shoulders of solitude.
With a cello
between legs,
and a bow made
of moonbeams
you string those
rare beads of a tune.
Birth of sound
makes the sleeping
auras trembled.
Ancient souls explode,
fragmented forces
drink fresh
transcendence.*
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 9:05 AM UTC
<>
thirty years apart/making love at the midpoint/Zeno's minding the gap
<>
*we are a thrifty thirty years apart
but we make love as if it were an
after school, really hungry, special snack
laugh at myself once again
for this tom, **** 'n harried foolishness
knowing no good can come of this
other than what has already
come and gone,
life's reaffirmation is not age dependent,
we love in the light of embers brightest glow
the older man is at the midpoint trap of
Zeno's Paradox^
can never grow down to be
closer to her to her youth,
given his head start,
his slowing motion,
can never catch
her down,
or she,
up to him
physics laws forcibly insist they both have lost this race*
"In a race, the quickest runner
can never overtake the slowest,
since the pursuer must first reach the point
whence the pursued started,
so that the slower must always
hold a lead. "
as recounted by Aristotle, Physics VI:9, 239b15
*too quick to be born,
now the fastest and oldest,
though having reached
the equidistant point between,
will forever never be able to
close the gap
I mind the gap,
I mine the gap
for rousing poems,
from passion piercing fierce love making
prayers preserving the falsity of a
magic illusion of a growing nearness
that we will never grow apart,
burdened that truer is,
never ever closer
she asks me with great tenderness,
why I moisten mine eyes
after our great joy
replying, honestly
I am minding the gap
answers the broken joyous
poet of now, no way*
<>
"Mind the gap" ( listen (help. · info)) is an audible or visual warning phrase issued to rail passengers in the United Kingdom (and elsewhere) to take caution while crossing the horizontal, and in some cases vertical, spatial gap between the train door and the station platform.
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zeno%27s_paradoxes
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC
So funny how the reveal sometimes ends in surprise
When I, my leaning shadow, had everything to do
With the embarrassment of heart to another.
Soft edges have hardened, finally to their gain.
But the waiting now begins, for me, this selfish being.
The light part consumes and ignores the unbendable,
Insisting me to leave you free of my disconnection.
Possibly the good of me, or the evil has masked
My deepest seeds with hibernating greed and animosity.
All the fight left in me shudders deep into the
Midpoint of my body in fear of the reject I’ve past received.
But the aura of my chest says things will turn much differently
To beauty if I let it flow, for it won’t stop until I’ve cradled inner peace.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
nearing midpoint
and looking
twice backwards - once ahead
leaning ever so - modestly bent forward
in keeping with a
past and future futile balanced,
sad bent with weight of passé tragedy,
to leaning forward with speaking eagerness
a future anticipated,
dearly beloveds,
trundle to and from thee
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
burdened and yet unbundled,
eyes in the head back and front
who is pushing this carriage?
old love stories well recalled,
new love poems unwritten
I roll along, slow trundle
the human condition -
love failures only make you more
needy wanting
to run
faster away and towards
love poems
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Are you ever near the midpoint of a dark, bleak day?
When nothing at all seems to welcome your stay?
When inconveniences overwhelm and obliterate
So you can’t lie and contemplate without
Another hindrance to dim the clouds
But at that fixed point in conditional fatalism
I know that though I was bound to live through distress in its drift
I am being called to call my power and foray
Against the angst, the dark, the grief
Here I bring the day to its end
A new day dawns! In the late of the day,
In my quaking, in my gloom
In everything thing I’ve brawl against to counter monotony and grow
In depression lost, passed, and away
At this time I dawn a fine new day.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
as the father lifts his toe from
the starting block of his 75th year
and the son stumbles and gropes
past the midpoint of his 41st lap
toward an individual century
it is doubtless that neither of
them will make it to that
particular finish line.
no, it is certain that both
of them will come up short.
not a shame or a sham,
a slight or a shortchanging
just a statement of fact.
the father might come close
and for the sake of the son
it is hoped that he does.
The click and crackle of knee,
hip, and lumbar fill one’s ears
and thoughts with the rumors
of one’s mortality.
It is known that the father will
one day fade as sure as a sunset
and the son will melt into the floor
and stay there.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
This girl is no apex predator.
My glass is always at midpoint.
Yet I could literally drown myself in self pity.
And I'm about up to my hips in disdain.
Six feet deep in a predetermined hole
leaves a rare species with few options to begin with
even fewer still.
I suppose I could get used to the mud,
except there's a learning curve.
It's difficult to wade through the ground
when you've been treading neck deep through the water
throughout the entire duration of your lowly existence.
They keep telling me evolution is always inevitable.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
Lately, it's different
I don't know why,
like a current change,
like time is always on my side
Like I'm way too slow,
I cannot hit the mark.
The way I show,
The way I stayed until dark.
Simple tasks,
I have forgotten to do,
Backfires to me,
like a weekend flu
Sometimes I learn,
the art of execution,
but in some midpoint of that learning.
my mind goes vacation!
There's always a point re-occurring,
where I'm at the bottom wheel,
Where I'm no sharp-shooter,
where my ego has got to deal.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 1:55 AM UTC
Our life is like a colourful conveyor belt
Dealing with a deck of cards dealt
Some of us have a desire to know
What is life like across the rainbow?
Somewhere midpoint beyond the glow
Little bits and bobs are shed from the rainbow.
Coloured confetti for a new man and wife
Big bright balloons for a new life,
In this magic box of tricks
It gets tossed to become a six
Then when the dice is rolled
It disappears into the *** of gold.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Tomorrow is a new day unwritten
The next page of my own book of life
As I hold up my ink pen, you meet me there?
At the midpoint betwixt lumen days and umbra nights
As the world is itself, made of evenfall rides into
the veil of grey. Let the songs sing high,
and sorrow sing low but be so sweet
that I'll feel you in my soul
I await you on the bridge,
Kissing-sweet so come
and meet me there
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 2:38 AM UTC
Our life is like a colourful conveyor belt
Dealing with a deck of cards dealt
Some of us have a desire to know
What is life like across the rainbow?
Somewhere midpoint beyond the glow
Little bits and bobs are shed from the rainbow.
Coloured confetti for a new man and wife
Big bright balloons for a new life,
In this magic box of tricks
It gets tossed to become a six
Then when the dice is rolled
It disappears into the *** of gold.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC
I am adrift in shadow when parted from you
existing in a non-life and a non-death
caught between dominions of light and dark
my soul, disincarnate, hangs suspended
impaled upon the sundering hook of an obscene
numinous dismembering of the essence that is Us
twisting and battered in an enervating wind which
moans and wails like the wretched, suffering ******
filling a haunted and dissonant land with anguish
at the midpoint between rivened you and I
all aspects of me are halved, dissipated
I must survive with half a feebly beating heart
inhale for but one struggling lung, choked with ash
seeing only half the sky, half the world
My scattered thoughts incomplete and disordered
I drag myself, mauled and maimed, towards
the next transcendent moment of palpability in Us
Khronos, laughing, mocks all my efforts
drags the hours just beyond my numb fingers
I can only touch you if I reach inside of me
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 11:18 PM UTC
We feel it running up our spines,
It shivers, shingles, Soothe and sails
Drifting and isolated in our own timeline.
Keep it hidden, and it remains unadulterated,
From their senses.
Keep it under the sheets of our secrets.
Hidden yet shown,
So they won't know
We have created the universe of our own.
And if ever the time shifted,
and all reduced to dust,
Dimensions we are apart,
We will still own that space and time,
When I was yours, and you were mine.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 3:47 PM UTC
Keep this in mind
We rule this land,
We invented time.
We are the Master of our four sided horizon.
Let's keep this place and mark an X.
If time comes to take what we once have,
Keep this map and find the spot.
I'll be there couple of hours early,
laying yellow roses in your path.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
Halfway towards the midpoint
On my journey through life
I find an impasse shaped by love:
Love of words
The intimacy of bookshelves
Sitting in the back rows
Classrooms of right words wrong words
A trillion others between an answer
A lesson too subtle to learn
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
Like two yo-yo's we're taking turns on having feelings for one another.
Will we ever meet halfway?
We spin between fear and love, but never at the same time.
The midpoint is within reach.
Yet one rope is streched while the other is wrapped tight.
I hope one day our yo-yo's get tangled so we can live in balance and harmony.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
Are the leaves of autumn less glorious than spring
Does the sun shine less brightly past noon
Is night’s cloak less adorned or illumined
By the light of a full harvest moon
Has the sea lost its romance and mystery
Since man first beheld the shore
Have the stars in the heavens given up their fire
Do we long for their wonder no more
Is the game at its midpoint determined
Is intermission the end of the play
Is the vision of the sculptor truly revealed
In the unfinished half molded clay
Is a woman in full flower less alluring
Than a girl in the first bloom of life
Is the naïve young maiden more enticing
Than the woman who is mother and wife
No familiarity need not breed contempt
And beauty is not coupled to youth
For the woman who has lived, in all that she is
Reveals this magnificent truth
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 11:06 AM UTC
"Heavy appendage lying above,
Your weight equals your allure
Simple leverage outside to in,
Your potential follows behind"
I said while chained to the center
Bearing my burden as I did
"Your extremities lean too far south,
Weakened your zenith splinters
Your midpoint, threatened from end to end,
Is all that neither shall bear"
The shoulders of man began to bleed,
At the axis, where a silent atlas stood
"Hold the earth and tether it to fit
Hold the end up to balance the plain
Hold each other and revel in peace
Hold fast to the fulcrum"
With these last words Atlas left
Leaving man to work
And Man alone
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC