"minutely" 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
Idly stationed in the bucolic hills,
sits a stone well; unknown when abandoned.
Though her people foregone, water yet fills
as much as you can want for. In tandem,
are high trees less old than she; occluding
the view from pathless and naive strangers.
As their wish in well is to keep obtuse,
those that siren would otherwise capture.
Her drink, one thinks they'll constantly receive.
In reality, they'll only be taken.
Youth will fade as the heart minutely bleeds.
Their hollow, dried corpse will be forsaken.
And though her hole but a tall dark crevice,
I see my reflection on the surface.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 4:16 PM UTC
The old fable covers a doctrine ever new and sublime; that there is One Man, — present to all particular men only partially, or through one faculty; and that you must take the whole society to find the whole man. Man is not a farmer, or a professor, or an engineer, but he is all. Man is priest, and scholar, and statesman, and producer, and soldier. In the divided or social state, these functions are parcelled out to individuals, each of whom aims to do his stint of the joint work, whilst each other performs his. The fable implies, that the individual, to possess himself, must sometimes return from his own labor to embrace all the other laborers. But unfortunately, this original unit, this fountain of power, has been so distributed to multitudes, has been so minutely subdivided and peddled out, that it is spilled into drops, and cannot be gathered. The state of society is one in which the members have suffered amputation from the trunk, and strut about so many walking monsters, — a good finger, a neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man.
Man is thus metamorphosed into a thing, into many things. The planter, who is Man sent out into the field to gather food, is seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. He sees his bushel and his cart, and nothing beyond, and sinks into the farmer, instead of Man on the farm. The tradesman scarcely ever gives an ideal worth to his work, but is ridden by the routine of his craft, and the soul is subject to dollars. The priest becomes a form; the attorney, a statute-book; the mechanic, a machine; the sailor, a rope of a ship.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
I am caught, in your eye,
and I drown, in your tectonic wave.
You rattle, intimately,
for me, and shake...
You shift,
minutely,
soundlessly,
collapsing, into sprawling patterns,
into formulaic strains, of madness.
Then you madden, me, as you cascade,
into beautiful, and brilliant shades:
Your Rorschach mosaics,
in prismatic hues.
Each gemlike, facet, of YOU, that is you...
Burning out my gaze,
with your radiance,
as you irradiate...
I'd give anything...to label each color,
that infuses, your face...
Scattering trickles of light,
and roseate shapes...
as if your soul,
were a treasure trove,
of the most precious jewels.
Your vibrant emeralds...
your smoky citrines...
your sapphire blues...
your ruby reds,
and your royal amethysts, too
You twist, in my hands...
and, under the light,
I turn, and return, too,
if only to seek,
a fleeting glimpse...of you.
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 9:52 AM UTC
Let me ask the question that I've wondered for what seems like centuries.
Let me know.
What exactly is the ************* point?
What drives you to turn emotional "love"
Into physical "love"?
I have been constantly dissatisfied.
Endlessly unamused.
Forever jaded.
To the point that I can't imagine the notion of this ********** being even minutely beautiful.
Or even worthy of being the median of which love is concocted.
**** it.
I don't want to understand.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
Millions of minutely small scales
Cover its delicately sheer membrane.
refracting light scatters our sight
and only iridescent hues are seen.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
Whether you are going or staying or sitting or lying down,
The whole world is your own self.
You must find out
Whether the mountains, rivers, grass, and forests
Exist in your own mind or exist outside it.
Analyze the ten thousand things,
Dissect them minutely,
And when you take this to the limit
You will come to the limitless,
When you search into it you come to the end of search,
Where thinking goes no further and distinctions vanish.
When you smash the citadel of doubt,
Then the Buddha is simply yourself.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
Almost like a mirror to
Look at you. A sort of Alice on the other side
Of the looking glass.
You are a reflection I never thought might exist.
But there are flaws spiderwebbing cracks into the glass,
The picture so minutely cracked here and
There that it might all just
Fall out of the frame.
Words, picked like highhanging fruit,
Stack and
Form the
Edges of your
Mind--
brilliant walls of Buckingham but also the boxes of fruit
(high hanging like the words) floating down congolese waters
and into the heart
--of Darkness? only kurtz knows
but does it matter? still Grand as ever--
They're words I see in myself on my side
And music from Mechanicsburg Anchorage Dar es Salaam
sings down the same Congo we share
But the only cracks I see are with me.
Your words and wit are the envoys,
Celebrated diplomats from the Heart that lies
downriver.
eyes flash and the Fruit is bountiful and
Hail the heart (wherever whatever it is down the River).
The words are strong as the man who sent them
(somewhere in the Heart)
Such strength to speak and shout
Respect commandeddemanded in the fruit
I often wonder if I have it.
And each time I know I don't
Another crack is born.
the tally man sends his beautiful fruit--
strong as everforever
To the world, smileonface and gleamineye--
and you're him
on the other side
at the Heart.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
Robins scurry, heads askew
listening to an underground frequency
smooth rasp of worm skin slipping
through subterranean mazes.
The ever-changing pond
mirrors varied green and clouds
mythical beasts reflect and rest
weary from endless migration.
Eagles ride the wind
fingered wings minutely adjusting
as the current rockets them aloft
on a thermal through the blue.
The heron balanced on a spine of rock
cares only if the tiny fish
silver under the surface skin
will soon belong to him.
Each in tune effortlessly
on earth, in air
never regretting being here
or there.
While earthbound creature, I
am reconciled to a grounded fate
as winter rain lashes the edges
of my ragged, useless wings.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
I am done,
I came crashing down
Like a thousand light bulbs
fitted too tight on high ceilings.
I flickered minutely
In the last hours
And then you ignored me
An anomaly that can't be fixed.
I crackled inside
Heat burning the glass,
You wanted me to light
Up your world, but I burned.
But trust me
I would have glowed
And shone bright but sorry,
I swear I'ld be among the stars.
But I wasn't
Instead I lay on
The floor that you swept,
And I was done, unfinished my
Purpose.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
'And am I then a pyramid?' says Senlin,
'In which are caves and coffins, where lies hidden
Some old and mocking hieroglyph of flesh?
Or am I rather the moonlight, spreading subtly
Above those stones and times?
Or the green blade of grass that bravely grows
Between to massive boulders of black basalt
Year after year, and fades and blows?
Senlin, sitting before us in the lamplight,
Laughs, and lights his pipe. The yellow flame
Minutely flares in his eyes, minutely dwindles.
Does a blade of grass have Senlin for a name?
Yet we would say that we have seen him somewhere,
A tiny spear of green beneath the blue,
Playing his destiny in a sun-warmed crevice
With the gigantic fates of frost and dew.
Does a spider come and spin his gossamer ladder
Rung by silver rung,
Chaining it fast to Senlin? Its faint shadow
Flung, waveringly, where his is flung?
Does a raindrop dazzle starlike down his length
Trying his futile strength?
A snowflake startle him? The stars defeat him?
Through aeons of dusk have birds above him sung?
Time is a wind, says Senlin; time, like music,
Blows over us its mournful beauty, passes,
And leaves behind a shadowy reflection,--
A helpless gesture of mist above the grasses.
1.6k
Oh!! Your shade
you appear to be seductive violet
to brick red for your mature taste
my tongue is greedy for you
you calm my nervous system
but my heart envy you,
as nobody can give me such pleasure,
Your one sip,
reminds me of,
how passionately you were made,
how each hand picked berries were minutely harvested,
how each berries were separated from stem & leaves to reduce the bitter taste,
how each berries were tipped into a receival bin,
how each berries were crushed to extract your purity
So the flavour of each berries can be felt
You are not too sweet, you are not too bitter,
thats what give me pleasure
"You share a human relationship bond"
nor too sweet neither too bitter
that creates love between a relation
You are not just a drink, you are the nectar of lords,
you make people beautiful to adore themselves,
you are the king of romance, where everyone wants to be your queen,
You are the shadow in darkness,
You are the undefine,
Thats you
"My Red wine"
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 5:08 AM UTC
I was driving to work tonight and I almost swerved off the road because I was staring at Orion's Belt as it hung near the horizon of the sky.
Please study the following photo and connect the dots on Orion, his belt, and his arrow:
(A detailed answer will be on the back for comparison)
I do not pretend to understand astrology nor astronomy.
Orion’s arrow always points north. You can use it as a compass if you are traveling somewhere where there are not many signs of light. In October, if you crane your neck and squint your eyes and maybe pray to God, Orion will shoot arrow after arrow off into the sky and you will be able to make your first wish upon a shooting star. (If you are in a desert, and that is why you are navigating by constellations, pray for help.)
His belt is made up of three sisters and I wonder if they talk to him in the night and keep him company?
(Is it possible to be up in the Heavens, overlooking the world, while still feeling lonely and insignificant?)
Constellations move minutely every year. In this way, they are similar to humans. Always roaming. Always looking for change.
When Orion boasted that he could **** any living animal on the planet, Gaia, the Earth Goddess, objected and sent a scorpion after him. After his death, Zeus flung his body into the stars; fractured to pieces, glowing softly in the night sky, Orion continues to hunt his prey into the dark, cold depths of the Milky Way.
Maybe, if you prayed to the Greek Gods, you could find yourself breathing in the stars, too.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
She sent a package
tied in this biege tweed cord.
It turned out to
be a picture of you two
at the lake,
that day it was cold
and she wore that beanie with the flames,
her hair all curly and escaping,
your lips all red and chapped.
A folded note tucked on the inside
of the frame reads:
"I have Connie,
**** you
Love always,
smiley-face,
smiley-face
smiley-face,
smiley-face,
me."
Connie: your/her rat terrier.
You put the picture
in its black frame
on the tv table.
The tweed
you nail
to two spaced planks
on the wall above the tv.
It's like abstract
modernist-expressionist-
constructionist-art.
It's just one string.
A taut cord
of brown tweed.
The black night comes,
over and over,
over and over,
she doesn't return,
but the tweed remains
as taut as a fingernail
or an exposed artery.
Somehow
it's so human and obstinate
that the woven vertebrae
seems to curve minutely
and femininely.
As time passes,
the tweed moves
from beige
to golden
and gravitational.
A call to a friend goes something like this:
"Come over here, I've got this amazing thing on my wall."
The friend, Eric,
calls more friends.
The friends come over,
all piling around this golden tweed
after they've taken stock of the kitchen
and Wild Turkey.
They take turns
plucking it,
thumbing it,
putting their ears to it,
and studying it,
all
at your insistence.
Somebody,
******* Eric,
coughs in the room.
More people begin to cough.
Eric walks up
to the the string,
that is nailed at top
and bottom
on two spaced planks.
Eric gives it a final hard tug,
snapping it like a belt.
the tweed hums and shivers off a few flakes
of dust and amber material.
"I've just wasted five minutes
with this thing,"
Eric says
to the string,
and you.
Eric speaks for the group.
He turns and leaves,
taking the whole group of
twenty
with him.
They trail behind Eric
like a great, long tail
flicking
and knocking things over
in your apartment
out of sheer agitation
on the way out.
The golden gravity subsumes you.
You do not close the door behind them,
you can't even hear their tiny, black voices
as they all clamor into the elevator
and ding.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 11:30 PM UTC
God is waiting for me some where.
He wants me to do my duties perfectly.
He is minutely observing all my thoughts,words and deeds.
With an ardent love for Him I am fighting the battle of life.
I have totally surrendered to Him.
Developing absolute faith on Him I am moving embracing the mountains and dress.
The waves of the sea are dashing.
Under the stars and the full moon I am exploring the infinite.
God is patiently waiting for me.
He wants to fulfill His mission and vision through me.
Catching a glimpse of His peace and bliss I am forgetting my worries and anxieties.
Sometimes I am feeling His touch inside my brain,body and mind.
Being enlightened and illumined in the best possible manner I am serving my family,organization and society.
God is saving me from all dangers of life.
Overcoming the challenges I am fulfilling my hopes and dreams.
One day I will mingle with God and experience eternal peace and bliss.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 8:20 AM UTC
It’s like something’s inaudibly whispering
Words floating by on silent wings
Hints that I’m somehow drawing nearer
My worldly lens grows minutely clearer
More in tune with things perhaps
Seeing before seeing
Feeling before touching
Yet still grasping nothing
But Hope
Hope holds on in spite
Reading between the lines
Of a taciturn soliloquized life
Night after lonely night
The romance of unturned thoughts
Silently spiraling
Into the silhouette of a design I can barely see
A puzzle I’m missing all the pieces too
Yet if I shut my eyes
Perhaps I can make out its imprint
Etched into me
Been and always
Wandering aimlessly by design
Following the nonexistent trail
Imperceptible and clearly marked
Faith begetting sanity
I’d swear on
What others would call a reverie
A fantasy
The pining of one
Is my knowledge.
Sitting here, watching the starless skies
The romance of thoughts imprinted
Silently spiraling into a silhouette
Taking form
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 7:23 AM UTC
Took mother in law to do the weekly shop this morning
Nothing unusual about that
Did mine in 20 minutes
Waited over an hour for Mary but she is 83
Anyway, I love people watching
Going up the aisle, two mature ladies
Blocking the way nattering as ladies do
But what a subject
The menopause!!!!
Now I'm an old man, thought I had heard it all
But boy
Such graphic details when you're buying a pack of lambs liver
Anyway aisle blocked so turned round
In the veg aisle now
Young woman buying loose potatoes
Can't be that difficult
OR CAN IT?
Every single potatoes minutely examined
Every minor blemish checked
Nearly 10 minutes for a few potatoes
WOW, it must take her 4 hours to do her weekly shop
Its great being a man
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC
A crow in sorrow
drenched in monsoon
The song of new season
that flooded the village
And the once green cornfields
now enzymed so minutely
A crow sings today
for his wife is waiting
and his children are waiting
drenched in monsoon
A vulture soaring upright his zenith
A happy season to follow
drenched in monsoon
And less he cares the thunders
or the bolts of lightening
the angry droplets eating up the village
A vulture drenched in monsoon
waits for the last crow
A feast to be ready
Some die in despair
Some in excitement
In season to change
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
each tempered by slivered moments:
slovenly on the floor lay tethered,
both, separate,
honest light.
when it is time that you do not
see anymore, the shadow of my passing,
when the twilight gives rise,
a felled star in the world,
when damp kisses are beleaguered
by the driest of lips,
out of merely, a wide-eyed vainglory,
there will be nothing that all my songs
send a dancing, tiptoeing light
careful to arrive at one day
when you face is held with utmost care
and my hands not its owner,
but a handful of names.
when it comes that we are two fish
struggling in a current's dream —
not a single twitch is born. you will slip
past the interstice of love's net
and i cannot see you anymore in the
depthless blue.
the intelligence of stone tells me
nothing but silence, hemmed in
to a great monolith of daylight.
i exaggerate, the sinking of ships
and amble blindly with the whole of
my motion, like flotsam weary of its
preordainment. portraits sow themselves
battles, cleaving them minutely against
the simmer of quiet. when it is time
to let you go, i will watch you leap forth
into the ripe air like a child seeking
home, reiterates in flight a height
i cannot reach for.
when it is time all of this,
mote it be, clenches in thinned streaks
of turpentine, all of my walls will be clear
and not a sign of your colour
will scream pain like a tortured vandal.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
purple silhouettes in skies tinged and
minutely poisoned music while
rhapsody blended slowly across
forever ruefully contemplated
dreams of hope
and love beneath concealed
insanity
concealed beneath love and
hope of dreams
contemplated ruefully forever
across slowly blended rhapsody
while music poisoned minutely
and tinged skies in silhouettes purple
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
It was a tall and white door with the **** at the level of my heart. I knocked discreetly to enter in audience at the cross spider tamer. A fat and redhead man chewing his whiskers minutely. I was wet because of emotion and warm like a freshly hatched chicken. The man spoke with a shrill snigger because it is known that death is not as serious as life. You just swallow a knot in your throat from the corner of the star still left for you. As if you drink hot milk after chickenpox. Sometimes only the sun remains for you and you die in winter. Other times you shake off the stars and the moon from your hair like an autumn willow. You get so annoyed that your eyes roll in their orbits until the spiders stop jolting on your photograph upside down.
It was a perfectly ordinary day. Except for the fact that they sold more tickets at the county fair carousel. Nobody is perfect. Not even those who predict the weather.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 9:22 AM UTC
In the past month i have been depressed, angry, ecstatic, energetic, lifeless, happy, and hopeless.I have hated myself and i have loved myself. I have done things that i never thought i would. I regret some of them. Others confuse me with the way i want them and want their complete opposites. I am a man of complete confliction. I am scared that my confliction has cost me you. I fear I am alone. But i know i am not. I have people, some that i want in my life, others that i don't. And i have God. A god i at times scream at, whisper to, or share a secret smile or sadness with. A god that i trust, but that i fail maybe even more than minutely. A god who you believe is using this circumstance, this what seems like utter loss, but is really just the building of walls, the lessening of potential, the closing of doors, to make me turn to him. And i am turning, but i am still failing. I am still conflicting. I fear i will forever. And that i will never be good enough. That i will never return to the state of being enough to be with you. That i have given you up for my conflictions, my mistakes, lusts, wants, and compulsions. You are guarded. I am guarded. I can no longer lay my self before you. I cannot bring myself to. I do not know if it is for this, or for something else that you have your walls, walls that i never wanted, expected, or even feared could exist. I have been blindsided by this. But you are not here to help me. God is, but i remain in this limbo of thoughts and actions that dont add up.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
ope n al l t h e smal lt hin gs (between)
th ei rmiddle s i swri th e ge n tl y
m yst er y (that which tiny wanders
awe) brigh tfast bl indl ingly w i t h e r s
faceshands
into dust stumbling minutely though
g r a s p in ga nd b i t i n g
so open all the small things (boys and
girls open them they have empty which
like you have and faster more colorful
nothing they) s o
open all the small things boysandgirls
spilling from them running rivers of
poppies splayed out in raw pallid eve
rushing through cambered fragility
(that instantly with precise mess flair
with the curving orange of death )
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
I curse daily
I curse hourly
I curse minutely
I curse secondly.
I curse, to unleash the anger that resides me
I curse, to answer their inquiries
I curse, to flood the barriers of anxiety
I curse, to liberate the love inside me
I have found the friend to echo my sentimentality!
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC