"musings" poems
I feel strong tonight
A hundred songs burst from me
In colorful bloom
The darkness holds fear no more
I laugh in the face of death
Dreams cannot threaten
I fear no nightly phantom
Day will come with joy
But until then I will sleep
And rest my wearied body.
My mind is awake
Thought after thought captures me
Musings, wonderings,
Daydreams before I slumber;
Life is bright and wonderful.
Yes, I feel strong tonight.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
Musings of a Police Reporter in the Identification Bureau
You have loved forty women, but you have only one thumb.
You have led a hundred secret lives, but you mark only
one thumb.
You go round the world and fight in a thousand wars and
win all the world's honors, but when you come back
home the print of the one thumb your mother gave
you is the same print of thumb you had in the old
home when your mother kissed you and said good-by.
Out of the whirling womb of time come millions of men
and their feet crowd the earth and they cut one anothers'
throats for room to stand and among them all
are not two thumbs alike.
Somewhere is a Great God of Thumbs who can tell the
inside story of this.
12k
black and blue...
or a million shades of grey..
life trapped in a kaliedoscope..
prisoner of a psychedelic realm.
Caustic pain covered with plastic smiles;
tears are the treasures of scintillating eyes;
song of the soul, smothered'
by musings of my mind.
(04/11/2013)
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
Drama like rats biting at my ear. I can hear them confiding in me their troubles, yet I am not willing to listen. I'm tired. So very tired of all their musings, ******** screaming, ranting. It's not that important, it stupid, silly ignorant. Life is so much more then this petty childish behavior from full grown adults. I am not a leader of a team, I am a babysitter. But here I am, ranting about them as they do others. Am I no better then they?
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
He awoke.
His eyes opened slowly with a purposeful slowness; an action that for most people is the beginning of their life was, for him, a procrastination.
He arose.
The floor felt cold, unwelcoming as he stumbled reluctantly to the sink. The bristles rasped against his teeth, gums bleeding out of spite.
He entered.
Breakfast—a lonely egg, boring toast—entered his body; each bite was scooped with the utilitarian vigor of one who is no longer enchanted by food, yet the relationship must continue: a compulsory marriage without option for divorce. This discomfort washed down with lemon-water.
He contemplated.
Thoughts, those musings that are feared, condemned by most and yet became the greatest of comforts for him, reminded him that one day it all would end and he would be free.
He wasted.
He stretched out his hands, offering up his life force in the daily sacrifice to the eager god that, in return, lit up with the brightness of a thousand stars that blinded him from all that he wished not to see.
He showered.
Cold water ran down his soul, icing the most superficial inflammations while taunting the deepest wounds; no matter how long he remained behind the curtain, there would be no true respite.
He returned.
The blackness beckoned. He entered willingly, surrendering himself to the dark embrace of that demonic respite, his beloved above all others.
He died, once again.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC
The first time I made love to my mind
When love escaped from the gaps
Between our silences and overthinkings
I saw the naked mind.
We sailed from thousand cuddles of imprudence
To a long warm kiss of sanity.
While I dwindled in her arms of fool's paradise
No sleep just one long weary night,
Her ****** reeked of loneliness
I licked it. Hoping to taste ingenuity,
it was the aftertaste of forsaken feelings
that made me ***** her
till she stopped moaning neon dreams.
Somewhere in my walkabouts in her
I created deep craters of memories
Which she took for love bites
were, in fact, scars for life.
We were virgins on our quests
Thirsting our way through wanting and longing......
She made me swallow lust
Slowly. Heavily downtown.
And fingered it, the ***** of thoughts
Ruptured.
And she bled musings.
And Phantasmagoria exuding from her holes
And Spurting into mine like a cascade of brooding melancholy.....
And.... And....
The night my mind lost its virginity,
I sat down to write.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 6:21 AM UTC
Is there love in a coffeehouse?
Like those silly Hallmark movies?
Coffee is love
But hides in mystery
In laptops and cell phones
In wandering eyes
And ****** musings
In the buzzing sounds of a lovely brew
To be consumed by you
Mar 17, 2024
Mar 17, 2024 at 3:34 PM UTC
A queen she is called
Rich with light hair
Bright like the sun
It shines.
And in her eyes
The deepest sea's
Savage waves
Are calmed with the batting of long, dark lashes
Her lips,
Like pomegranate
Together or apart
Keep a perfectly hidden kiss
The skin she occupies:
Immaculate
Like the body
She wears with grace
Yet within this ruler
The flawlessness
Of her exterior
Has vanished.
Inside her brain,
Dark brooding
Thoughts
Roam around.
Senseless ideas
Nestle in her heart
Looking for the passage
To the outside world.
Her locked mind
Has time
To wander
Behind shut lips.
To infest with
Musings of better places,
Of welcome speech,
And worlds beyond this.
Yet,
She cannot
Get through this life
With such thoughts
Soon enough
They begin
To gnaw
Her
Breaking her down
Piece by pretty piece.
The beauty of her face
Will soon be absent,
An ugly exterior
To match
What had been
Flooding her insides.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
At this point I know it's over
They've told us where the plane is heading
I've always thought I'd know what to think if something like this happened
But I'm lost here
I'm not thinking about my beautiful wife
Or my daughter
My parents who will outlive me
Or my friends who are off living their lives
I keep thinking about the mailman
No really I do
How he'll have to go around tomorrow
Passing this tale of tragedy
Gracing my family with statistics
Thousands dead thousands hurt
I feel bad for that mailman
For he will never truly understand the pain he will bring
This mailman does not know my name
He does not know my wife, my daughter,
The man next to me,
My first grade teacher, my first girlfriend
He does not know my dog
He does not know my true dreams or my hopes
My ambitions, my musings, my innermost thoughts
No this mailman only knows he is passing out the paper
Delivering news to millions who do not want it
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
I am not what I used to be
So now in the shadow of unspoken events
Everything whimsical is leaving
Words fill my head, they fragment like artillery shells
they tare through it forcing irreparable damage.
Time has accelerated
Born out of the absence of light
Shaped by my own hands
Justly worthy to be referenced and adored
I re-encounter what my elation briefly with held
The thirst for the dangerous
Obliterate the incomprehensible crowding thoughts
The stampede within my head
The mayhem of the many visions
Lock them down, all that fracture within my head
Inexplicable wanderings of mindful musings
Spontaneous perceptions
Shadow of foe
Encircling their fears with distractions
Pulsing in endless repetitions
I am the one whose throat is stripped bare.
I am the one who has not spoken in years
A distant moon to sense
© Crystal Erickson
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
The wick is fading, and I have no matches left
In this dark abyss where I sit depressed
My valiant heart has become a perch for crows
Smile shaped in stone
Each embrace stiff and cold from my marbled soul
My arms depict a grasping hand
Reaching for a world these etched eyes will never know
Trapped in the heart of a withered artist
His mad dealings mold and make me
A victim of his musings
Crafted in a candlelit madness
Delicate delusions and vague allusions
To courage in the many veiled faces of death
Carved and set at the base of the steps
Statuesque
Jul 2, 2021
Jul 2, 2021 at 5:19 PM UTC
***Hear ye!
Hear ye!***
Oh how I love concrete poetry!
Itching to write and sculpt and mould.
Twiddle my thumbs as I thought to myself silently.
Reckon I'd render my musings in italics and in bold!
***Hear ye!
Hear ye!***
30 days of concrete, wouldn't you fancy?!
These poems, they come in various shapes.
Would you consider them "poetic eye candy"?
If I fashioned poems to look like grapes!
***Hear ye!
Hear ye!***
Awashed with excitement!
I can't wait to share!
Fantastical, delicious and ultimately succulent!
A wonderful spread of such wordy fare!
***Hear ye!
Hear ye!***
When is this... GREAT BIG AFFAIR?
On the morrow, I'll dish out the first serving!
Do tune in if you so do care...
30 days of concrete! The shape fest is beginning!
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
first date conversation: research
on lemurs and taxis without floors
because the city is too poor
for upscale renovation
and we exchange backgrounds and
drug stories and some-day-soon
kind of musings
/a southern peach and a sour
stiletto; the man in corner singing
slowly Nobody's Child/
and eventually we write our names in chalk
on the ceiling (and the wall because
I'm tired of places appearing as if I'd
never been there at all)
and later still we write our names in heat
against the cloudy window (twice
because the steam keeps swallowing up
our evidence of existence)
but it's easy to write again and
again because our names are the same
and I'm starting to believe in this idea
of genuine permanence
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
it's okay to experience
the worst things in life,
nothing other than it
can make you hardy.
it's okay not to be perfect,
as no one out there is,
you can't even be perfect until you
satisfy the beholder's expectations.
It's okay to fail sometimes
it tastes bitter, but not boresome,
ceaseless success can make you happy,
but to subdue lack of success is kinda reward.
It's okay to be lost
in your deep musings,
to wander the unsure ways
in quest of esctasy.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 2:28 AM UTC
Once I read this quote
about how quiet people
have the loudest minds.
Now,
and only now
do I know what was meant by this.
I sit there while you talk.
Just sit and listen.
A little nod, a silent sound
of consent.
That's all you'll see from me.
Because I'm not a talker.
I'm the one who listens.
Attentively. Tireless.
An open ear
for everyone's problems
musings, thoughts.
And I don't complain
or give advice
I don't argue
or deny
I will just sit there
subtly smiling,
gathering my thoughts
inside my mind
And you are grateful
for that someone
who listens and cares
without judging
But ask me once
on my view, my experience
I will start slowly,
trying to hold back
on all the things unsaid.
tiptoeing around
so as not to drown you
And finally it will overthrow
my discipline
and words, letters, stories
start flowing out my mouth
passing the barriers that
have so long retained them.
And I'm afraid it might easily
crush you
because there's so much within me
that wants to be said
and so very few people ever taken the time
to listen.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
On the face of it, there isn't much about this bird
To stop me in my tracks.
Brown, oblivious, busy with the ground
It totters along on stilted legs
Probing among the frozen fields.
It's the name that's the trouble.
Childhood hours spent copying pictures
From the Readers' Digest Book of Birds
Call to mind the name, 'Curlew'.
In my house, though, birds had Scots names
and my dad, a linguistic David Bellamy
Urged us to conserve these rare words
or lose them forever.
Goldfinch? Gowdspink!
Starling? Stuckie!
Blue *** Umm...
But the undistinguished gentleman before me
was definitely a whaup.
Curlew or whaup?
Which is it to me?
The English of books
or the fading Scots, maybe closer
to the bird's wild home?
Textbook reality
or romantic poetry?
Or both - can the creature sit
in two states at once?
"Schrodinger's Curlew", I think with a smile.
("Schrodinger's Whaup!" bellows the bit of my dad
that lodges in my head.)
Here, under a cloud of my own breath
In the low winter light,
Neither seems quite adequate.
And then, untouched by my musings
The bird spreads its wings and lifts,
Naming itself, with a long, pure note
And my heart, in two states,
Leaps
and breaks.
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 12:03 AM UTC
The anxieties are there
about meaningless things
and the meanings behind them
Time is spent
wondering
What he's thinking?
What he's doing?
What he remembers
and holds on to?
If any?
If all?
Why he's with her?
If he thinks about me
like I think about him?
If he thinks about my touch
like I think about his?
If he yearns for me?
If he wants to taste my kiss
and all of me
again?
So many musings
driven by curiousity
by desire
by a muse,
in every sense of the word
Awakening something deep
within me
deeper than lust
deeper than longing
An intensity
that's intoxicating
addicting
terrifying
An insatiable hunger
to search and swim
within his soul
one touch,
one moment
at a time
Only felt
never acknowledged,
engulfed in secrecy
engulfed by secrecy
Drinking each other in
between nuanced subcontext
one moment
at at time
Setting each other on fire.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
everyone has that place their mind wanders to whenever boredom strikes, or whenever they become "zoned out"
mine?
my mind always imagines a ballerina in black, doing pirouette turns over and over again
it's especially vivid whenever i'm listening to music
over and over, round and round
i only realized this today, & it made me wonder why my mind always drifted there
i thought about it until i realized
how fitting
my conscious mind is always turning in circles
so of course my subconscious mind would, too
his hands on my body
the reeking smell of alcohol and coercion
my mother's lies
my brother's handshake with the grim reaper
the realization
the humiliation
the first time i told her i hated her
the sting of her palm against my face
my father's alcohol problem
i can't escape alcohol
my alcohol problem
the feel of the blade against my skin
the sterile smell of the crisis unit
everyone's willingness to condemn & forget
i don't forget
my body
his breath
her lies
death
humilation
the sting
the alcohol
the blood
the sterility
the pain
the pain
the pain
over and over, round and round
turning constant circles in my head
i fall down
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
I keep the shower window open
In 20 degree weather
There’s somethin’ about feeling
The freeze and burn together
Fusing two halves,
Fueling one desire
Steam pries at pores, like
Needle nose pliers
Winter exploits wounds
Haughty exhales through
Diamond ****** wrist cutters
Cascading
Cherry brandy drain water
Licking ankles purple
Branding Frost’s musings
As my final verse
Fire, ice — whichever comes first
Duality be ******
I favor efficiency
I’ll marvel as *********
At the sadist who takes me
But know that, once
Is all I can endure
And of this, I am sure
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
Persuasive notions locked away,
in many minds that go astray;
When working along cryptic lines,
which falter during chaotic times.
While hidden in a separate space,
these musings tend to be erased;
Forgotten now in empty spheres,
dissolve as echoes of chronic fears.
Perhaps society has been foretold,
of magic tales so brave and bold;
Yet through the mastery of lies,
they disappear before our eyes.
Inside the quaintly shuttered room,
the words seem subtle but still in tune;
When wanton tales aroused before,
a complex world of closing doors.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
There in the field she came to me,
The last of the silver honeybees.
I could see the years worn in her face,
Lost in the dark, one foot in the grave.
She held the ache behind her eyes,
So young to have her throat closed tight.
Poor girl, an orphan, with ribs of steel
Bone cage laced too tight to feel.
Then came the lonesome cosmonaut,
Betwixt the stars, those years he lost;
A nomad’s tale, nor here nor there
Too high up to come down for air.
Celestial darlings, they go round and round,
Dysphoric we hasten the final burnout:
From birth to evanesce, the hedons expire
Would love rot my teeth for afflictions less dire?
Last came the poet, out from the gloam
******* on pennies, and ink soaked through bones.
She gathered her strength and fell from the sky
While friends in high places twinkled goodbye.
Jan 9, 2023
Jan 9, 2023 at 4:23 PM UTC
October 20, 2018
I've spent this year
Learning how to deal.
This isn't melodrama
Just the truth
Condensed into just a few words
To express a vastness
Guaranteed to fill a few pages.
Like all years, it's been bittersweet.
I've fallen down
Tripped up
Left a bruise
Quite a few times.
But, of course
You have to fall --
Maybe even bleed a little --
In order to teach yourself
The triumph
Of bringing yourself
Back to your feet.
I've stood in front of a lot of mirrors
Most of them metaphysical
Truly getting to know the girl
On the other side.
The more we talk
The more I like her.
She's a hot mess sometimes, sure
But she's kind of a cool person to have coffee with.
She doesn't look like she used to, not at all
Especially when she's obviously trying to do better.
She still chews her tongue a bit
When she admits that she's wrong
And she's so very shy
When I ask her what to do
And she responds:
"I don't know."
I should tell her that I love her
A lot more often this year.
I've found that the heart is a wonderfully strange instrument
And that the soul is not an *****
But is something very, very real.
I've found that the former
Is as good at persevering
As it is at making messes
And that the latter
Is something all-too-useful
In the modern world.
I've found that most friends are fairweather
And, often, so am I.
I still hold out hope
That, maybe one day
I'll discover loyalty
That can be truly permanent.
Lastly, I've found that poetry
Is a beautiful vessel
Worth so much more
Than worrying about boys
Through a series of rhymes.
It's quickfire, artful catharsis
Freeing a caged dove
With words that make me feel
As if I can make my writing soar.
It's filled to the brim with love
And laughter
And tears
And imagination
And anger
And fear
And reflection
Just like these passing years.
And with every one I finish
I long for many more.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
The slits of glass give way to light,
Which cuts through the air and sun leeched curtains.
It falls weightless on warming skin,
Breathing life into stillness.
A gentle caress, a sultry glance;
Statuesque, they cast shadows on the wall.
Shadows that illuminate and contour,
Express and entrance.
Longing rapture in eyes, incandescent and iridescent;
Loveless yet sensuous silken skin that tells of life well lived.
Your broken heart rests on shoulders, colored and vivid;
A world is painted in timeless elegance.
What horrors has she seen? Said the looker so enthused.
What grandness has passed her eye? Says another just as true.
Oh the colors so earthen tell of pleasures and sorrows, yet whisper of frailty.
They speak in tongues that can never be trusted, only pondered.
The intricate oil work from a badger’s fair coat,
Show delicate and smooth,
All the features of her roistering frame;
Passions of the heart now told by passions of the brush.
The life is still, but forever infinite.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC