"misalign" poems
Standing on the intersection of
a Monet, a van Gogh, and a Picasso
Nice piece of real estate!
Water lilies ~ Charrette de boeuf ~ Tete d'homme
Let's start with the lilies:
I'm impressionable and I gaze lovingly into the pool
I see my reflection slowly unfurl in the shimmer of the pink petals
As in a dream ... I float on
The watchmaker sends an instruction: rotate clockwise
Now an ox cart:
I seem to be walking in Poe's imagination
Crows flitting about as the ox champions
His burden on a drafty day
Another instruction from the watchmaker: continue clockwise
And now Tete d'homme ~ cubism:
My world deconstructs
Line by line, shapes and forms
Fracture into the subterranean unconsciousness of my mind
Leading to another instruction: close your eyes
Shift
Your
Perspective
Watchmaker says: open your eyes
Uncentre
Misalign
Unhitch
Watchmaker says: ens causa sui: 'a being that causes itself'
Now I've got Dali giving me niggling doubts about the nature of time
Sartre with a side of Darwin and I'm being and nothingness
Ground yourself Mullin!
Open your eyes ... this is reality
There's Rodin in a battle of good versus evil
Munch and no screams! This is good
Gaugin sharing his garden view
I'm in my happy place again ...
That's better
And here's Cezanne, Degas, Renoir, and Pissarro
Bringing me back into a recognizable reality
My eyes and my mind are in alignment here
But I can feel that watchmaker winding me back up
My iris constricts and my pineal widen
Third eye ain't blind
Hope someone is around to catch me
No worries, I'm sailing with Renoir and
I've found A Muse (Constantin Brancusi)
Ain't life a musing?
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
Don't let perception of the Weak-Minded kind get the best of your reality.
With editing, other people's words get twisted and misalign clarity.
Envy hardly reflects the truth- if so, it's a rarity.
Lurking under a cloud called obscurity- often they hide.
These Weak-Minded kind.
Thriving off of the pain of those they casually misguide.
Stirring up emotions then they run off to the side.
Cowards, these Weak-Minded kind.
Watching as two half-truths try to coincide.
Cut and pasted, the truth gets lost in time.
Feelings start to hurt as hateful words collide.
Repeating things never said,
But overheard more than a few times.
Angers flare,
As words fly.
Regrets of all kinds,
slip and slide,
Breaking ties,
damaging pride.
Fine on the outside,
Scared for life,
on the inside.
All because the Weak-Minded kind, rather lie.
It's people like this I despise.
Hidden behind their friendly disguise.
To afraid to show their face; but diss guys.
When you confront them; get no replies.
Just a shocked dumb look in their eyes.
These weak minded people are a waste of time.
They can't make up their mind half of the time.
So they are basically lying, all of the time.
Having a good-time, ruining your good time.
They only way to beat them; don't pay them no mind.
Best way to **** parasites, especially the Weak-Minded kind.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
Hounds
The hounds are barking again outside my window.
they are snarling and snapping with teeth of ice
that rips my tears into a tundra of frost.
The indifferent air carries their hunger
under the unhinged door in my head;
a gale is coming, feral and wild.
I am not comfortable in my head right now;
Chain smoke to keep my hands to myself.
I wander through ash and fire: what have I done?
Planets
I am helpless against my misfiring neurons;
numbed against myself and you;
Pills streak like comets across the bed.
In the sky the stars peer in confusion,
planets misalign again, a sun implodes,
Earth groans and shifts, somewhere something dies.
Swirling galaxies light up the synapses
Serotonin battles amphetamine
Orion stalks the twins and unsheathes his sword.
Submersion
I need some water on my feet, my head;
submerge me in the Lethe and bathe me in forgetfulness
the room grows hot and I swallow another star.
I am swathed in your concern, smothered by your regard.
I need clear air to think,
the night and the susurrus of hibiscus bathed by the moon.
Inside my room in my bed
white noise and white sheets wrap me,
bundle and bind me tighter than panic.
No, I will not go outside tonight.
The hounds are barking outside my window-
they come for me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
Creative actions are more than enough
To convince me that I am working hard
Blooming flowers prove the point
That nature has a method of showing the world
How amazing we all are.
Dedication from each of us can portray
The effort of clarification from results
Mornings of sunshine days are also great ways
To feel we are on the firmest of footings and cups
Of our enthusiasm drench us as our excitement bubbles
Flesh is weak they say but not so
Eliminate our thought process
Just leave the muscle and the bones of the plan
By any respect the job will be done
Sometimes dwelling on an evaluation is fruitless
Gain some notes in your tune
Misalign your face and just work at it.
Develop your space and live
Don't think too much
Enjoy the life with which we are blessed
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
The boy who clicks off the light, reads on the couch, to let sleep consume me-- or who reads beside me, metal-frames dipping low
while his eyes pour over the page.
The boy who tucks me in, acquiescing the blanket softer than peach fuzz-- like the ambrosial peaches his grandmother gifted him in the winter and he shared sweet.
The boy who always makes sure to kiss me good-bye
and fills the room with jazzy notes-- because they represent me,
though he never liked jazz much at all before.
The boy who asked me to wake him if I go somewhere because he'd prefer me to remain beside him, but he understands I have things I need to do, so he cannot always wake beside me,
a weight he can handle.
It does not match the boy who told me he does not love me,
though he likes me, and I am haunted by hollow translations
that force me to delicately dance around a swear word in the
English language like "love".
It does not match the boy who said we wouldn't have much of a relationship without *** and I am haunted by uncertainties of my convenience that force me to stumble with the hope that our
past does not define our present.
How I feel about you, through my actions, through my words, are truer than any logic, but that might not matter
because the boy does not want to hear words that have
a weight greater than he can handle.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 9:25 AM UTC
I will cradle your memory in my hands against my heart, and the pulse of it will be warm and soft against my fragile skin. These memories are permanent now; sewn into my bones and intertwined with the very core of my soul. In your silence their voices echo; how you're only one human in this fleeting life when the universe is vast and endless with so many more to meet, but they do not know you like I do, like I did.
If I ever forget the way your hands felt in mine or the way your smile triumphed over the sun's own, I want you to know that I will return to you somehow. Even if the stars misalign and this world collapses into the crevices, even if the end is in sight and my faith trembles with exhaustion, even if the distance between us grows infinitely, forever -
It's always been you,
it will always be you.
(A.H.Z)
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 6:05 AM UTC
There’s something in the silence, but it’s never been quite clear
Is it comforting or deafening, or music to my ear?
I find it in the quiet, it comes from deep within
It tells me where I’m going, and shows me where I’ve been
I don’t need an ear to listen, or someone’s hand to hold
Because my thoughts are loud and clear, underlined and bold
I listen to the echoes, but I cannot hear the screams
Of all the thoughts inside, and reoccurring dreams
Like a bullet searching for it’s target, I am looking for mine
Silence brings motionless and the planets misalign
I’m looking for that defining moment, when my world stands still
I don’t want all the answers, because searching holds the thrill
I want to be like the rhythm, to my favorite song,
Meaning I am sensible, and that I belong
But aside from the song, I find great value in the silence
Because for a few moments, it ceases all the violence
I don’t mean world wars, I’m talking about battles inside
I guess I’m saying at times, I’m conflicted on this ride
Sometimes life can be raging, like a heart attack,
But in silence, I find, that all fades to black
It’s a ride I can’t get off of, and nor would I try
Because that would be like gravity, which I cannot defy
So when my thoughts are spinning, like electric ballet dancers
I turn to silence, because it holds all the hidden answers
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 8:03 PM UTC
We enclose, impose and expose ourselves
As poets we do not see in black and white
Instead we use words to paint the countless colors
In between
Our stars align
Misalign
Great works of emotion
Spilled out from sore and joyous hearts
To reach the hidden cavities of those who read them
We are the dreamers, the night time schemers
Filling up afternoons with sunshine
Midnight walks with moonlight
Hold our heart, feel the weight of the world
Hold our gaze and see it
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
Love’s like venom in the vine, a pendulum in time,
A crescendo in your spine when the heavens misalign.
It’s a shadow on the shine, it’s a dagger in design,
It’s the chatter in your mind that you never can define.
It’s a glitch in the glow, the itch you don’t know,
A pitch too low, but it hits you though.
It’s a spark in the freeze, a bark in the breeze,
A lark that you seize, but it’s dark in the trees.
It’s a pull in the tide, a lull in the ride,
A skull that you hide with a smile full of pride.
It’s the crash, it’s the climb, it’s the hash of the rhyme,
It’s the past that you mime while you’re grasping at time.
It’s a thread in the seam, a dread in the dream,
A head full of steam that’s about to scream.
It’s the war and the peace, the thorn in the feast,
The beast you release when the hunger won’t cease.
It’s a reel that won’t cut, a feel that won’t shut,
A deal that you struck when your steel turned to gut.
It’s the tear in the weave, the air that you grieve,
A snare you believe but can’t quite retrieve.
It’s a hex, it’s a hymn, it’s the vexed in the grim,
It’s the text in the dim when the rest starts to spin.
It’s a maze in the spark, a haze in the arc,
A blaze in the heart that decays in the dark.
So twist it and take it, resist it or break it,
Insist it’s mistaken, but you’re stitched to forsake it.
Love’s a rhythm that rewinds, a prism in decline,
It’s a prison, it’s divine, it’s the venom in the vine.
Jul 14, 2025
Jul 14, 2025 at 5:36 AM UTC
'Perfect in countless ways' this shared thought lingers.
But they cannot create pretty, pleasant pictures.
For those 'perfect' puzzle pieces misalign - beware...
Knitting a painfully incompatible pair.
Nov 11, 2024
Nov 11, 2024 at 9:19 AM UTC