"migrates" poems
I wonder
how our great creator
built a vessel
strong enough
to contain my soul?
Each day my spirit fights
against my skin with violent
jolts as a young bird
seeking exit from a cage.
Unfettered psyche
free from me
bounces among clouds
rolls through deserts,
climbs volcanic ridges
migrates with birds in flight.
Curious instincts guide
my vital force inside and out
like honey bees
scour zinnias in full bloom.
Dare I release my spirit today?
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
*Once pristine water bodies, polluted
look heartless in their murky darkness,
chemicals that could alter even genes
are abound in wells, ponds, lakes;
poison in our veins inch forward to hearts.
Don't forget to see what's written on the wall.
Now listen
Even fairy tales are twisted to suit
to our sadly warped times!
His mermaid, an underwater teaser,
he met at a coral reef and fell in love with,
has a story we relish much,
view Hollywood her dream destination,
if water world would allow her five winks,
she'd dream of becoming Anjelina Jolie's body double*
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC
Symphony No.9 in d – minor, opus 125
Allegro ma non troppo
The silence gives way gently
to quiet tremolos rustling
beneath the beckoning
call of distant horns.
A melodic cell, nascent in violins,
spirals down to the somber depths
of cello and contrabass.
A sudden cataclysm
shakes the hall like thunder
heralding our universal birth.
Gales of sonic force
splashed like turbulent waves
against the rocky shores.
Drifting sans glass or sextant
on a sea of expanding mystery,
we gaze to the heavens
in hopes for a glimpse
of our father’s aetherial dwelling.
Molto vivace
With hands intertwined,
we dance in a ring
to the capricious airs
of the laughing gods
with Zeus himself on timpani.
So pass the wine and kiss your neighbor
and fill your glass to the brim!
For today is yesterday’s morrow
and tomorrow’s history.
Adagio molto e cantabile
There is no greater and more healing light
than the candles that shine
in the eyes of a friend
or loving spouse -
tenderly lighting our paths
through the storms and fogs
that cloud our lives.
Peace abides in a friend's embrace.
An die Freude
Against raging storms of
strife and sorrow.
we hear a healing voice
A calm cello hymn -
that migrates up to higher cords
of violas and violins -
breaking into joyous song
sung by trumpets, winds and drums.
Casting all shrillness of discord aside,
a baritone lines out Schiller’s ode -
and sings of Elysium’s daughter.
Quartet and chorus enter in
proclaiming hope for the human family,
A tenor raises a stein to valor
in the company of his friends.
The quiet pulsing of horns and winds
ushers in torrents of ecstasy.
Arms clasped in communal embrace,
we gaze to heaven on bended knees
then rise with a majestic fugue
that illuminates our souls
like a blazing Alpine dawn.
In a cyclone of passion,
Schiller's words and Beethoven's notes
entreat us to restore
what custom has rent apart
that each of us may live our lives
as brothers in heavenly sanctuary.
May 25, 2007
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
a candy apple red heritage soft-tail classic
on a rusted dirt road
i am built of where i've been
the mango groves
the east and west coast
and every camp-ground in canada
this map is my home
let me tuck you into the folds
and sing you to sleep
some place sweet
where the air smells of earth and rain
don't let the concrete tame you
the road under foot is not measured by the steps necessary to travel it
but the way one migrates over the breaking soil
resting between where we are and where we'll be
when our dreams run free
and the tent's set in the pines
barefoot
running shoes
doc martens
thumb to the sky
pack on my back
black top under bridgestones
let us fly
let us soar
s'go
i'll take you with me
like my sleeping bag
and skinning knife
and canteen
be the water that i drink
fuel the fires that propel this engine
drive me to the end of the road
where one can only go by foot
and feather
and foolishness
let's disappear in the fog of the north
the mud of the east
the heat of the south
the haze of the west
let's find ourselves in the topography of folded bodies
tangled up in a flesh scented tent
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
How do we define a peace land?
And where is the home, craving to return?
Listen, what did the birds and trees say?
The true pleasures lie beneath the mountain
A single bound will take us there
It is our first homeland where we were born free.
Seagull migrates well,
Pine tree wouldn't move
Look, they reunion in one home garden
They imagine that all their
Woes, hurts and indignities
Would not exist
in their imagined homeland.
Where we learnt justice at our mother's knee
return is easy, we just have to dare
The true pleasures lie beneath the mountain
In their minds, homeland
is in stasis.
The life they left is lingering
waiting for them to return.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 2:16 AM UTC
(Creation to the end of an Ice Age)
© 2008 (Jim Sularz)
Sun’s first rise over life-less skies, the earth cools, and the waters pool -
the sun burns East to West.
And the planet’s broken plates quake and move.
Lightning strikes, the waters stir, and the bonds of life begin to churn -
the sun burns East to West.
And the waters swirl in a living urn.
Strange aquatic things, they all evolve, some spiny finned, start to crawl -
the sun burns East to West.
And they slowly stretch ***** and tall.
Eons past where the cunning reign, a savage place, with small sized brains -
the sun burns East to West.
And the dead surrender their twisted remains.
An asteroid streaks from the sky, blocks out the sun, cause most to die -
the sun burns East to West.
And all in the blink of time’s eye.
Footprints in stone, some on mountainsides, make it clear that rocks don’t lie -
the sun burns East to West.
And the fossils always tell the time.
Eons past and eons more, the fittest evolves, and man is born -
the sun burns East to West.
And the early brain, once fast asleep, begins to dream and mourn.
The first million years, man lives in fear, learns to hunt, invents the spear -
the sun burns East to West.
And migrates to claim the vast frontiers.
Tools from stone and controlled fire, creates language, that shake man’s empire -
the sun burns East to West.
And splash cave paintings with human inspire.
Life-times of hunter-gathering, and story-telling in the dark -
the sun burns East to West.
And a world spins with a million hearts.
The earth starts to warm, the oceans rise, and the waters shape the lands -
the sun burns East to West.
And when an Ice Age ends, then comes, the Age of Man.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
Sitting in the gutter
Cause its the only place to see
What guts are
Wondering does anybody
Fight for anything
Anymore?
Cause I don't see it
I see people walking past
Opportunity
Walking away from things
With ease
Cold feet
Treading cautiously
Feeding doubts fire
Going about Life so passively
But Hold up let's join a cause!
Direct our anger
Politically, racially,
at poverty and inequality
Donate some money
Rant constantly about
Overturning regimes
Then retreat back to apathy
Woe is me!
Bleeding hearts in their masses
Floating past me
In the gutter
Cause its the only place to see
what guts are...
And hearts
Cause no one has heart anymore
Where is the love?
Where is the passion?
The courage and the loyalty?
All Going about life so Half heartedly
And what can you do with half a heart?
Give it to Me
Cause as I'm sat here
Reading entrails like some gypsy
Passing judgement on you
A poor reflection on me
It seems I lost mine
So I embrace the pain
that migrates from
an empty chest to
A swelling stomach
Lift myself up from that gutter
And feel what guts are
Take half that heart
And see how far it'll take me...
To make it whole
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
I live alone
in a room
my only friend
a rock plant.
*
A vase made of sighs,
converts **** non-audible AIs
to an unknown hymn,
replaces a half broken arm.
or was that a dream
during a harvest time?
or was that a gift
from a dear one?
*
I live alone
beside a window under skies
in a vase
made of colorful spots
my only friend
a girl
meditates in the room somewhere.
*
She, my sole flower
is a shape of a pink heart.
Her subtle transparent edge
glows my petal of gleam,
filters a beam,
and makes a rainbow kite.
*
My leaves, center her single dream,
carry a code of a parabolic green.
*
At dawn, she sings a love song,
invites all the blues of skies.
At dusk, she migrates them towards tones of nights.
A dot sinks within the brightests of stars
and finally
into my heart of hearts.
*
She collects then pure droplets
from a precipitating river - crossing unknown realms
in which of each
every season
a silver moon blossoms
to reflect a blue-green star,
she ultimately waits for:
‘That one!’ she shouts
deepening her pinks,
beating rapidly,
shaking my photosynthetic organs
‘There... we come from!
from the dancing, shapeshifter one!’
She, my only friend is a dreamer for none.
A dream of dreams about an unknown realm.
A girl with big words,
‘Someday’ she says ‘Someday,
when we be one as a timeless time but
I hold a key of Now from you for now
as much as I am of you,
Love will be a technology then for all - as is
then we be of love and One’.
‘but for now’ I say ‘for now’
‘at least, be my only one’
and I dream…
dream about a shape of the moment of that very someday
when she finally understands
and ‘yes that blessed someday’ I say,
and as usual nod and tune my stem.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
a foreign feeling migrates in.
in with the winter winds
it comes.
ready.
raw.
musters strength.
guiltily building up.
it move from the
core of being
outwards.
pulses like liquid heat
poisons the blood
swallows whole
its innocent host.
runs rampant
exposure in spurts.
unwanted attention.
shameful movements.
anger and hate.
anger and hate.
rage.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 3:09 AM UTC
Lately there have been days where I catch myself looking for you in the strangest places;
In train stations, sanctuaries, the corners of your room that you never set foot in,
And there have been days where I feel so small that just leaving my bed seems like the bravest thing I've ever done.
I blame it on the way you seem to swallow my darkness without absorbing it,
The way my chest tightens at the thought of your touch,
The way I cradle the ashes of what we once were.
We ruined each other with passion and fire,
And there are days where that fire still burns in my chest, migrates to my head,
And my skull begins to feel like a whiskey glass in a bar fight.
These days no one ever tells you about the difference between heat and warmth,
You learn it yourself when his hands scorch your skin and his fire burns through you
While he pours lighter fluid down your throat.
I wake up as a stranger in my body these days and I whisper to the mirror, "I just want to go home"
And thoughts of you remind me of how to get there.
It seems like we're straddling the line between love and Stockholm syndrome
And it's automatic for me to call you by your sins rather than your name,
But these are the days when I need you to lap up this nectar and hear this truth,
As well as all the blurred intentions behind every "I miss you."
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
I'm one of a kind.
Stuck in my own mine.
The only place I can find, a calm find,
Is the confines, of my own mind.
And it's fine, at least I've
told myself a thousand times.
Now I'm sick of messing around,
Started laying these rhythms.
In perfect line, one at a time
to inspire these inquiring minds.
So they will find;
History, or Herstory, repeating itself
Line after line; over time.
through these thoughts of mine.
All this sadness, at the expense of happiness;
straight up madness.
Killing yourself with this mad stress,
while chasing success, in all ways.
"Always ends up a mess," experiences says.
Taking baby steps towards more unhappiness.
Worry free days, migrates to migraines, with growing pains.
What's perceived as success, should be worth way much less.
Cost of yourself, at the expense of progress, that does not exist. Got you living a dream, while you losing the rest.
Blood thicker than water, but not baguettes or the flesh.
They will, **** you for the dough, then fight amongst themselves over the wealth. Their net worth, worth more than how they value them self. So you "so soon, they forget." And to, get what they want, or perceive as need, they'll use you to get. So be careful, in the pursuit of happiness, don't lose sight of yourself. Or it will be your final regret.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
Bathed in the winds of butterfly
Wings, the breeze kisses my face.
A kaleidoscope of colour migrates
Touching every sense as I walk.
In the tall grass swaying like ebbing
Waves that tickles my thighs.
Shaded green from above, resting
Upon this oak, we both breath.
Alive yet one is free and stationary, while
The other is a prisoner always able to move
To any and every place.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
it migrates into purgatory fashions
and plays like a quiver on the nerves
oh so rich art thou in artifice
that would have me believe
in a cold and unattributed consciousness
like an infestation of infant prodigies
for it is a vicariousness of viciousness
that leaves the music of C Major
devoid of untold homage
and a singular letter on a scale
is it a transmusicality of mutation
punctuated by red felt tip notes
for all music is life
the life of C Major in the time
of vicious vicariousness
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
I'm retracing my steps
with a skeptical pen
and my tired feet
through our brief story,
to see where I started
to walk off the page.
I try to pinpoint
every smile that was half hearted
and every remark
that was unremarkable
before the pain in my feet
migrates to my head
and this pain in my chest
punctures my pride.
We had a petite love,
never quite blossoming
never quite growing
to it's full potential
and I'm the one stuck
wanting more time
and I keep wasting my own time
so I can't place blame,
but I'll let a little anger
sneak through
because it's warranted,
and because
it feels so ******* good.
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
Contamination seeps and weeps from pores and migrates from your skin to mine
I cannot see it but I feel it, sliding over me and sinking through layers
Through my skin and my nerves and my tissue down right to my bone
Where you pause; take a breath, look around;
Try on my internal machinery for size and speed and duration
Drag and rip and tear my insides for a sign and the very spark of life
Then, once located you break through, right down and into my marrow
And consume all it is there that makes me immune
Become a part of me in the parts that I was not even aware existed
A lovely parasite who feeds on my secrets and bathes in my blood
A darkness within which perfectly mirrors that already present
Both of me and alien, twisting the two so intertwined that no lines can be drawn
Until we are but intermingled and so all is lost in bones that have become yours
All that skin and those nerves and those tissues, lost unto me and gained by you
To be devoured through duplicities of dancing and deception
A most beautiful way to die, to simply cease to exist to be
Devoured by a love so consuming and false that not a trace will remain
When you do not falter but dance on; playing out your parody of happiness
With all of those who once thought that they too knew the steps
But now what remains at last knows better
And as it burns it both regrets and adores you
It both loves and it hates you
Wanting but denying the need for a being so superfluously mendacious in their meaning
So extensionally versatile with their morals and reduced in magnitude by their ploys
Now the ash can rise above, constrained by no sentiments to bind nor naivety to hope
To fade into comforting insignificance as you compose a ********** of life with bitter strings
Tying irreversible knots in all others connected to your skin; secured by but the very finest of threads
On the edge and ready to leap; always with a larger hand in sight and the treachery to take it.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
Keenly sharpened lashes black the soul
Shroud the awful secrets of portals
Two brown pretending eyes pulling in
The sun, moon, light, every remaining hint
Yet prey's feet split the difference over floor
Soles stick to stone, *** warms, heart exposed
And the blood kept sacredly entombed
As prey migrates wildly out of vein
Til the gun dogs swap kisses
In familiar red
Keenly sharpened garb draws the edges
Grants malevolence a silhouette
Encroaching ****** deviance
Dances her hips so sweetly you forget
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 1:07 PM UTC
What do I know of this Blue Bird?
Absolutely nothing.
I know It flies so high into the pink of the sun,
It migrates south one year then comes back
north for the next.
I know It likes to sneak Its eggs
into other nests to ensure Its brood
survives.
But really,
that’s all I know.
I know nothing significant—
I know not what It feels,
what It thinks,
I do not see Its memories as a young chick
learning to fly, to hunt.
All I know is that it's blue
and likes to crack nuts with
Its sturdy black bill.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 11:03 PM UTC
I sense your
Fragility
Unpainted lady
Wings frayed from
Flight through
Storms of static
Voice flutters
Digitised,
Fragmented
Subtle beauty noted
I acknowledge too
The strength of
Your journeys,
Of
One who migrates
Across continental drift
Through dark tunnels
Of despond
Yet with
Psychic power
And mothering love
Surmount all
I call too
If you may
Hear...
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 7:16 AM UTC
You’ll find a turtle walking slow,
or in the sea prepared to go
a thousand miles before its old.
It migrates without being told.
You’ll find deer mostly in the deep,
and every one knows when to sleep
and when to stay awake to feed.
They do the things they know they need.
You’ll find a tree that buds in spring,
and every year it leaves a ring
inside a ring. It also knows
to lose its leaves before it snows.
And grasses grow in rocks and chert,
and roots go dormant when the dirt
becomes too cold for them to swell
and pull cool water from a well.
And rocks will weather when they thaw,
and shatter when the weather’s raw,
and leave behind the smallest grains
to nourish all things when it rains.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
Nest prepared with care;
waning winter waits
for breaking shell,
and migrates
in the air
of a fledgling spring.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
Settle in my heart, swoon with my soul
In a human delight, human after all,
Where beauty blooms without bounds
Where flowers dance with no sounds
In a living soft drum, red, red-red;
Beats resonate a rhythm never been heard
With a flow of passion migrates red, red-red.
O, this floods of regular love rhythm,
It counts my sighs in cadence with them,
When you packed memories, body and will,
And departed countries late that evening,
And returned with angels in a dew cell,
On a harvest day, early one dear morning
With songs of birds on kindled wings,
Invisible heavenly bliss, joyfully swings
In meadows cradle that seems still,
A bliss has chosen my heart to dwell,
A human heart, a will with machine skill,
That lives, loves and imitates a drowned bell.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC
Taking a bite into a sandwich,
A well made peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
And tasting nothing.
The jaw moves up and down.
A hand migrates to the temple,
Feeling the muscle respond
To the empty, automatic, chewing.
Boring.
Breathing in a breath of fresh air,
A spring breeze carrying the scent of lilacs.
And smelling nothing.
The lungs expand and deflate.
A hand is placed on the ribs
Feeling the bones respond
To the empty, automatic, breathing.
Boring.
Watching storm clouds in the distance,
A western front bringing the rain closer.
And seeing nothing.
The eyes' gaze broken with blinks.
A hand is placed next to one eye
Feeling the muscles respond
To the empty, automatic, blinking.
Boring.
Turning on a car radio while driving,
A voice reports the unusual weather patterns.
And hearing nothing.
The ears started their phantom ring.
A hand is placed on the volume dial
Feeling the ear drum respond
To the empty, automatic, ringing.
Boring.
Picking at the worn steering wheel,
A ripped, and tattered leather covered wheel.
And feeling nothing.
The skin got caught and ripped open.
A hand is placed over the heart
Feeling the chest respond
To the empty, automatic, beating.
Boring.
I don't care.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 2:49 AM UTC
We all enjoy the heat
until it becomes unbearable
As everyone migrates to the rain storm headed east.We'll all be grateful that sunshine came, they'll want you back
Once bored of the pouring rain. If you really keep close watch,You'll know that we treat people the exact same.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
Hope migrates to
sunny island shores.
There is no sorrow,
roses always bloom,
and the birds of paradise
fly forever free.
The salty ocean
cleanses the rot
from the skin
and the heart.
Jul 4, 2025
Jul 4, 2025 at 6:42 PM UTC