"murmurous" poems
and this day it was Spring….us
drew lewdly the murmurous minute clumsy
smelloftheworld. We intricately
alive,cleaving the luminous stammer of bodies
(eagerly just not each other touch)seeking,some
street which easily tickles a brittle fuss
of fragile huge humanity….
Numb
thoughts,kicking in the rivers of our blood,miss
by how terrible inches speech—it
made you a little dizzy did the world’s smell
(but i was thinking why the girl-and-bird
of you move….moves….and also,i’ll admit—)
till,at the corner of Nothing and Something,we heard
a handorgan in twilight playing like hell
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It’s a sun soaked feeling
Being raveled in love
Cloaked in speals of affection
Being held in my murmurous hands
Being in love or in lust?
The fervor for the feel of your skin
Enticing
From affection to desire
In a heartbeat
You make me OCD
I try to kiss you once
But have to do it twice to make it even
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
To be imbued with the conviction that empathic listening is a panacea,
by the surreptitious, murmurous harbinger and his mellifluous words,
provoked brooding that my comprehension of his susurrous eloquence was a mondegreen,
when this scintilla of sagacity left a fetching ingenue crestfallen.
By the surreptitious, murmurous harbinger and his mellifluous words!
I adopted a propinquity to this furtive, ephemeral epiphany,
but when this scintilla of sagacity left a fetching ingenue crestfallen,
I discerned this lagniappe beleaguered our dalliance.
I adopted a propinquity to this furtive, ephemeral epiphany.
When she became inured to petrichor I knew my method pyrrhic,
and when I discerned that this lagniappe beleaguered our dalliance,
I vowed to rectify the imbroglio for my quintessential cynosure.
When she became inured to petrichor I knew my method pyrrhic,
and I ruminated that her insouciance was only forbearance.
I vowed to rectify my quintessential cynosure of the imbroglio,
and fabricated a denouement to return her to halcyon incipient.
I ruminated that her insouciance was only forbearance,
until hearing her state our conflation made each a moiety of our own panoply.
She fabricated a denouement to return us to the incipience of halcyon
with ineffable felicity, and I remembered with ebullience my inamorata's words.
Hearing her state our conflation made each a moiety of our own panoply
provoked brooding that my comprehension of her susurrous eloquence was a mondegreen.
With ineffable felicity I found ebullience in my inamorata's words
and was imbued with the conviction that empathic listening is a panacea.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
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Acquiesce here my love
Ameliorate my heart
The assemblage of circumstance provides dulcet ebullience
An efflorescent dalliance conflated into cathartic becoming
My bucolic bungalow made upon your callipygous
A young Life’s denouement
Your evocative elixir fetching
An erstwhile emollient embrocation
Your eloquent fingers find their way to frisson
My felicitous chatoyant gambols in glamor like a halcyon incipient made ineffable by the look of the ingénue
The labyrinthine inglenook lagoon leisurely lithe
The murmurous daffodils wink at the insouciance of your beauty
A panoply panacea, the half shadow complete as an epiphany
Quintessential to feminine riparian resplendence
Your mellifluous voice, an opulent offing, the sumptuous summery soliloquy of an angel
Cools my soul like the smell of earth after rain
Your propinquity ripples the scintilla of my spirit
Your surreptitious smile like a zephyr quietly whispers
Its redolent seraglio sempiternal in my thoughts
As skyward gazes like saccharine gossamer lilt with the knowledge of our raveling juxtaposition
a masterful pastiche, the cynosure of divine revelation
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Labyrinthine is my heart, a maze dizzying
with your murmurous (though lovely) lilt my solitary atlas
along with furtive glances and scintillas of hope,
and dulcet kisses stolen not on a veranda,
for the fireflies and willows to witness,
but surreptitiously and sussorously
in the penumbra beneath,
kisses stubbornly efflorescent,
love sempiternal.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 3:40 AM UTC
My early sea town home came
With strides of colossal change floating between
The marrow of my bones; gnawing inside.
Chance always showed me where to go
Landing near deep, blue-green waves
That washed the soft slumber from my eyes.
Perlious seas to cover the silence of a murmurous beauty
Pouring into the Colombia Gorge that flows a horizen-line
Against the rim of peaceful strangeness in the city.
Darkening dusk hovered in the wide quietness
Of Forest Park with lanterns lit along the west coast
while I counted the spaces of plum-colored stars.
There I went running on the hills through the virescent woods
Of tall evergreen trees dripping wanton rain into the hollows of a wet earth.
Dressed in ghost-white like a wayward drifter.
Night, emitted a warmth of drunken red wine
With tireless voices laugh shaken to beats of ethereal music.
Departure struck me with sudden change to a new home.
Ripped away and fixed in the belief of happenstance.
Always to remember the feeling of being young
On this cold night in Oregon.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
There is a hunger I can't quench,
An addiction I can't subside.
An itch that burns under my skin
And I've tried scratching it.
I've tried.
I want that pretty silver tongue
To match pretty porcelain hands
Hovering over ink wells
And candle stands
But I can't have that.
I can't salvage
From the depths of my mind
A poem to wrap around words like
"Gossamer",
"Murmurous",
"Erstwhile".
Art is a circle
But I am a line with crumbling architecture,
My thoughts linear and grit;
My prose stuffed with an hour-long process
Of charm and wit.
I write these words to feed you;
Please you;
Fill you with the sense of understanding
That I can't come to.
My art is a lie with a rainbow
And I stand smiling in an empty room,
A vacant audience in a ghost of a show.
I write because I need you.
I write because I want to dance for you.
I write because I want to seem wise.
But all that it amounts to
Is a high that always dies
And a candle that burns out
Far too quickly.
This is not a cry.
This is not goodbye.
This is me.
And I hope, for me,
That this is enough to satisfy.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
Who lay against the sea, and fled,
Who lightly loved the wave,
Shall never know, when he is dead,
A cool and murmurous grave.
But in a shallow pit shall rest
For all eternity,
And bear the earth upon the breas
That once had worn the sea.
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after his lips
brazed mine, i understood what
churches meant to saints;
death and rebirth and homecoming and
ease. the artistry of our
flesh meeting flesh,
gentle grassroot heartbeats finding
heaven in the moles on our shoulders, our
inner thighs. he hums a hymn of becoming and i
join the chorus: a
kingdom of quiet wednesdays and
leaving forget-me-nots on my pillowcase to bloom.
murmurous, he sweetens my melancholy; our
naked bodies left bare to the seasons,
over and over again, unafraid. i
part my gracious fingers and
quilt for him a makeshift
rosebush beneath blue eyes and
summery glances. our
testimony is this:
underneath july starlight,
victory is found in the
warmth of our
xanthic chapel; a
yearlong love story left
zen in our delicate rapture
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC
He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
She, in the room below--his floor her ceiling--
Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,
And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . .
She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night,
His watch--the same he has heard these cycles of ages--
Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow.
The clock, upon her mantelpiece, strikes nine.
The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her.
The world whirs on. . . New stars come up to shine.
His youth--far off--he sees it brightly walking
In a golden cloud. . . Wings flashing about it. . . . Darkness
Walls it around with dripping enormous walls.
Old age--far off--her death--what do they matter?
Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls.
She hears slow steps in the street--they chime like music;
They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty,
Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn. . . .
He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence.
Far off they pass. He knows they will never return.
Far off--on a smooth dark road--he hears them faintly.
The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing,
Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath
Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly.
And death seems nearer to him: or he to death.
What's death?--She smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbows.
The last of the rain-drops gather and fall from elm-boughs,
She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings,
The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance.
A sparrow whirs to the eaves, and shakes his wings.
What's death--what's death? The spring returns like music,
The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight,
The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams.
The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure.
Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams. . . .
And death seems far away, a thing of roses,
A golden portal, where golden music closes,
Death seems far away:
And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers,
And spring returns to stay. . . .
He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter,
And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die.
And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight.
. . . The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky.
907
the ingénue stood on the sand of the lagoon.
diaphanous ripples waved her goodbye
and she waved back.
the murmurous offing swallowed the plethora
of scintillas.
she turned around and wandered into the
labyrinthine jungle, ignoring the
susurrous whispers of the eavesdropping
leaves.
the penumbra of her life faded into
a scintilla of nothing and she was swallowed
up by the offing.
it found her a dulcet morsel.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
I dread the trek
that takes me down
the whirligig
that spins me round
and round
I’m fastened to my plastic horse
a ripple of fatal
felicity
I fall
but float
my body buoyant
a murmurous being
dissembles my mind
and again with the haunting
the horror
rust eats the bones
moss creeps
consumes
the once proud souls who
no longer grant me
satisfaction
blissful insanity.
now the image
evanescent
my mind unravels
as I grip
my existence
no longer stranded
I am aware
alert
I am alive
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
truth is in deep kissing
truth
is the soft shell of a
metamorphosis
truth is in the sun rising gently, murmurous, in the east
in a ceaseless search for purpose
in the way Death makes music out of us
in what has yet to happen
in what has yet to hurt
but how can you say truth is not
in misrepresentation; misunderstood art
how can you say it is not the love you feel
for every girl you've ever seen
[the way you could almost melt as you
run your hand gingerly along her soft and her curves
and her edges]
how can you say truth is not a sin
how can you
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC
My love is murmurous
I do not shout for fear of being shouted down
My love is ineffable
I do not, cannot speak my mind
My love is gossamer
I do not care to braid it through my hair
My love is incipient
I do not intend to leave your side, until I can be by your side
My love is petrichor
I do not know its name, but I smell it after rain
My love is dulcet
I do not taste it anymore
My love is sick
I do not want to love you
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC