"mysteriously" poems
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
174.7k
the rose
is dying the
lips of an old man ******
the petals
hush
mysteriously invisible mourners move
with prose faces and sobbing,garments
The symbol of the rose
motionless
with grieving feet and
wings
mounts
against the margins of steep song
a stallion swetneess ,the
lips of an old man ******
the petals.
74.5k
*You're like a peacock.
Not because you look like a bird.
But because you're mysteriously beautiful.
I could stare at you forever,
And it'll still be the best thing to do.*
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 8:56 AM UTC
After the wind lifts the beggar
From his bed of trash
And blows to the empty pubs
At the road's end
There exists only the silence
Of the world before dawn
And the solitude of trees.
Handel on the set mysteriously
Recalls to me the long
Hot nights of childhood spent
In malarial slums
In the midst of potent shrines
At the edge of great seas.
Dreams of the past sing
With voices of the future.
And now the world is assaulted
With a sweetness it doesn't deserve
Flowers sing with the voices of absent bees
The air swells with the vibrant
Solitude of trees who nightly
Whisper of re-invading the world.
But the night bends the trees
Into my dreams
And the stars fall with their fruits
Into my lonely world-burnt hands.
_______
Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
13.9k
***Night came and conquered my ceiling
Head tilted back to inherit it's familiar splendour.
But she isn't there... Left my heart slightly gaping.
O twinkly one, have you seen her?***
*She's mysteriously veiled tonight,
Playfully on her halo, dances gentle light.
Don't give up on her, listless moongazer,
She wants to be conquered, put up a good fight.*
***Persistent skirmish that sets dreams and reality apart,
Eyes don't see what the heart knows so clear,
Clarity eludes when forgotten scars start to smart,
Do you know if she even realises I'm here?***
*She knows, and dreams of your happy eyes,
That only her will hold on their feverish gaze.
Unbroken threads of hope, your yearning to baptize
And her ice cold craters to be set ablaze.*
***Fire in my vessel still burns bright and strong,
Never extinguished behind the facade of my weary husk,
My flame would endure just as the wick is long,
Tell me dear star, will I see her next dusk?***
*When the sun's swords will seize,
slashing the sky in dazzling blue,
When the air will bring a comforting ease,
Her glistening "yes" will welcome you.*
***Your comforting words ring only of truth,
Winking in codes, you might be right .
Darkness had claimed and engulfed all proof,
Will you accompany me through tonight?***
*This piercing question you don't have to ask me,
For even though my light's billion of years away,
Twinkling in your dreams I'll always be,
The night companion, under your moon's ray.*
ryn
Dajena M
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
A melancholy ***** we came to adore
in mournful tone, finish the tale abruptly
and sob, uncontrollably;
"Memories of my melancholy ******
including "Love in the times of cholera"
are now part of our folklore, this land
of cashew groves and banana plantations
in Indian landscape, far far away from Latin American shores.
Her lascivious days are over
death visits the house of love, blood splattered
and a haunt of dark happenings, that begets children with tails,
shame, honor and secrets creep out of manuscripts.
Gabo is no more, no more"Living to tell the tale"
the Part Two, promised before.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, after three false starts
goes to his final abode for rest, now.
A coded manuscript, written in
in classical Sanskrit,
(the language of all divine texts
of Indian sages of yore)
scripted by the mysterious gypsy,Melquiades
predicts the wipe out of Buendia clan
of five generations
Torrential rain and deluge engulf Macondo,
ends "One hundred years of solitude".
Gabo you point towards east
what is the answer to the conundrum of Buendias?
In Mexico city
they were preparing to take Gabo to his last ride
to the origin of all magical realism he'd return
In a land far away,
yet exactly the same landscape as Latin Americas
we grieve his death as that of one of our own
Gabo, in past thirty years, you mysteriously taught us
to discern the magical realism of cosmos
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
She arrived mysteriously when the clock struck midnight on my dark rooftop. I turned and only her eyes glowed, they were inviting. I felt a seductive curiosity that compelled me to move towards her. The moonlight exposed her beautiful curse. She had black long hair like a black cats fur, red lips like they had been soaked in blood, and pale skin like that of a person who had seen a ghost. She said, "My name is Callidora, I will grant you immortality in exchange for your soul.” I shook in fear but her eyes said she could show me the world, what I desired the most. So I let her kiss me and lean toward my neck and bite me. We were flying in the cold dead air, taken from the living into something rare. My flaming soul in her heart now, my body reborn by her ****** saving kiss. She granted me the true gift of eternal life, a second chance that came at a price. I let her **** me for love because I wanted eternity with her.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
10.
We walk side by side, wandering around restlessly.
9.
Anxiety and Fear creeps between us.
8.
"Trust? What is trust?"
7.
What is Truth.? Which is a LIE?
6.
I could see your deathly psychopathic gaze, staring me sharply.
5.
The dark comes, the cold breeze fills in our gap, mysteriously.
4.
You keep flinching and fidgeting your pale blue fingers.
3.
"We can no longer be together"
2.
Define Blood,Murder,Death
1.
One
0.
Zero,
The End of OUR Lives
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 7:07 AM UTC
*It's mysteriously painful.
Why?
Because its painfully mysterious.*
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 6:14 AM UTC
Is it acceptable to **** anyone and everyone you want,
Be mysteriously exposed in your photographs,
Act carelessly with people and friends drunk and drugged and dicked out of your mind,
Forget the hurtful and blissful past for a reputation,
Exist in a way the girl you were never thought you could be the girl you are,
Because you’re in your 20s?
You remind me of the characters Greta Gerwig plays in some of her films,
But not Gerwig herself,
Although you do look an awful like her Hispanic version if there was one;
I guess that’s you.
I bet when I was placing the edge of the razorblade against my wrist,
You were getting penetrated and plowed by a **** between the legs.
Your innocence was smothered by your lust and
Our history got erased by your fears and flaws.
I just wanted you,
But then again, everyone already had you,
And it was not my fault;
It was your choice.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
O Thou to whom the musical white spring
offers her lily inextinguishable,
taught by thy tremulous grace bravely to fling
Implacable death’s mysteriously sable
rob from her redolent shoulders,
Thou from whose
feet reincarnate song suddenly leaping
flameflung,mounts,inimitably to lose
herself where the wet stars softly are keeping
their exquisite dreams—O Love! upon thy dim
shrine of intangible commemoration,
(from whose faint close as some grave languorous hymn
pledge to illimitable dissipation
unhurried clouds of incense fleetly roll)
i spill my bright incalculable soul.
7.1k
I have a crush-no wait it's a liking
I do not know him in reality
Only through his writing
He seems to know his way with words
Which makes me wonder about his love
notes that must flow with admiration towards the girl he chases
An unimaginable distance separates us
Not only in miles but in understanding
He might be a lovely poet
But his lack of comprehension makes me worry
I have made a fool out of myself
In talking to him I have missed the obvious
His thoughts are written mysteriously and beautifully
But in his mind, I do not exist
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
As they walked along after the matinee, the older brother teased his sister, “Hey, guess what, Frankenstein lives in the attic and he’s goin’ get you.” With a flushed face the little sister responded, "Nah-ah, besides the attic door is locked." And her brother smirked, “Think Frankenstein cares about locked doors?"
Throughout their childhood, the brother jumped out behind closed doors, terrifying his little sister, and with each fright he gave his own fear seemed to lessen. After a startle the sister thought, ‘Does my brother love me, like I love him?’, and she concluded, “He must, why else would he try to scare me to death?’
Within the decade, a sudden brain hemorrhage took their dearly loved mother. Now, untethered in their mother’s love, the siblings changed, tightened, within, While their father, a traumatized, war veteran, swiftly fell off the wagon, and the brother and sister cast off, rudderless, uprooted into troubled waters.
And with their hearts snapped shut, immersed in relentless grief, they parted ways. Some years later, their father died, bequeathed them both his unhealed pain. The brother, the sister, slid secretively into alcoholism, conceded the family custom, invested deeply in their despair, the two went on, married, raised families, conformed.
And time went by, as alcohol soothed the pain until the brother breathed his last, his belly taut with fluid, his liver destroyed, a life sentence ended. While she, the lone survivor, mysteriously yielded unto Grace and was pardoned, recovered, she finally understood, she knew deep inside; everyone did the best they could, even her.
…and within a circle of one; I loved them all forever and ever.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
She bares her soul
to no one —
a façade for each mood
that infests her thoughts
like the plague;
reticence stalks her
every now and then,
as she tries shying away
from her darkest
secrets ripe as cherries
hanging from the bough…
a charade of whims
planted mysteriously
on her sealed lips.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
what cheek, the audacity to sheer his name from his faceless appearance, well, I know something of names, and mysteriously common and vague,
said as often as ****
does not satisfy this certified member
of the hoi polloi of humens
grace,
with a small g,
not to be confused with those courtiers in human courts
who so address their temporal superiors,
who more often than not,
chop off with their head,
just god
downy not longer
for being insufficiently lying
in their obsequiousness
grace is a virtue par excellence,
multi~facetedly faced,
reflecting well and goodness
on both the speaker and the hearing,
if grace you know not the meaning of,
then research it and let it
reflect back upon your countenance
replace god with grace,
and forgive me this too obvious rhyme,
it will only be better days
for the human race
><><
my name?
hah!
sinner man
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 1:38 PM UTC
Dreaming is good.
But dreaming is bad, because it hurts.
Dreams die.
You grow up thinking you are invicible, forever amazing.
You grow up realizing it does not work that way.
You grow up to realize the people around you want you to be safe.
Life isn’t about being daring anymore.
Life is about having a safe future.
Pick a safe job.
Live your life.
Enjoy it when you can.
But the fireceness of life leaves you.
Adults burn the fire in you.
Cold water on your dreams, wash them all away.
Adults throw you in the wilderness to make you realize.
Realize life is not a game anymore.
Adults burn the fire in you.
They feed your insecurities.
Cultivate your fears.
Then feed them back to you.
They’re scared. They don’t want you to face a wall of disappointements.
But they won’t let your try, either.
Adults burn the fire in you.
Not consciously.
Slowly.
Mysteriously.
And suddenly you, with all your dreams in your heart, face doubt.
Doubt.
The worst feeling.
Worst than love. Worst than hate.
Doubt.
Sinuously cracking your hopes and dreams.
Doubt, creeping in your mind, burning bridges.
Doubt, expanding every time you hesistate.
Doubt, forever in your head.
Doubt burned my dreams to ashes.
Doubt washed them all away.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
The night has been commissioned
to awaken in me
the ubiquitous longing for your touch.
The mindlessness consumes me
when I wander from dream to dream,
fantasizing the ever after
that’ll mysteriously become present
once you touch.
The exuberant charm in every swipe
of the breeze broadens a smile,
reminding me of the endless passion
for good humor and intense delight
that you decree in large measures
whilst I quail in love.
It is diabolical, this game you play
of keeping in shadows
while I wither,
in the unremitting glare of the sun
that keeps me on the banks of the dark lake
leaving me with only
a few drops to wet my hand.
I will implore to have an end
to this ceaseless battle of restraint and abandon,
But am only left with a tremulous belief,
it is all not false what I see,
in the glorious mist that night casts,
I do not only sleep.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC
Eternity is closed !
- come back another day with
flower smears for eyes and sincere
passion on your
palms (weathered)
I need another Russian Doll -
Princess to frequent curtains
fashioned from fire & lead
equaling out to crimson folds
which mysteriously call to
the mystical hierarchies of
imagination
Silent requirements signal beneath the steps
which welcome
one (a stranger/
an Ibis-Beak cane & dark coat
stamped with August rain)
They arrive unexpectedly, as if to play the game
of cliches, they carry promises fashioned in foreign ports
tapping my knee
instead of my shoulder
having only known or recognized
entombment
(there is no hyperbole which lacks within
Nature's haunted heavens)
My strange visitor leaves / glass umbrella
in hand / to privacy / our brief interaction begins & ends with simple eager undertakings implemented
in the afterword
What is in another's contemplation of me?
whiling in manifest Theosophy -
- Thought form -
Primal child-rage / whisp of violet smoke &
inksplotches abolished, mutually panting.
Our decorated
four-legged hunter
has arisen and impatiently
craves for the Earth to partner at last with
the Sun
..The Sun a blazing dime
I can smell crispness
in the air
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 1:20 AM UTC
don’t call me pretty
don’t call me sweet
i won’t be flattered –
it’s not what i need;
don’t call me beautiful
don’t call me hot
i won’t be flattered –
i know i’m not;
but then so what
it isn’t like I give a
****
beautiful won’t draw the stars
upon the night sky,
pretty won’t write you a poem
twenty lines long,
slam and bitter-sweet,
beautiful won’t inspire
another soul to love me,
pretty won’t immortalise
my swift and shining mind,
beautiful won’t taste like
coffee and cigarettes
when i kiss you on the
mouth,
pretty won’t make you
laugh with a coarse voice
at 3 a.m.
under the stars,
beautiful won’t make you
stay awake till dawn
reciting frost, then plath
and then bukowski,
pretty won’t make you
crave for my
mysteriously gentle touch,
beautiful won’t make
my absence sting and
leave a burning scar,
pretty won’t feed you
with homemade crusty
cake glazed with chocolate
and raspberries,
beautiful won’t make your
body ache when you
wake up and don’t find me
in bed,
pretty won’t make your
head hurt with all the
existential questions
i ask before i’ve even started
to drink,
beautiful won’t cuddle you
under the sound of
heavy metal screams,
pretty won’t soothe you
when you need to cry,
beautiful won’t dance with you
with no music,
pretty won’t hold your hand
like i will though it’s
december and i have no
mittens,
beautiful won’t win
wars for you,
pretty won’t stay up all
night long to marathon
lord of the rings with you
and then maybe star wars
and then read some marvel,
and then make up
asoiaf theories,
beautiful will steal a glance,
but I will steal your mind.
hot might earn you a body,
with other words
you will enter my heart.
pretty might be enough
for a one-night stand,
but i can make you
be hopelessly,
tiredly,
desperately
in love.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
It all starts like a brick,
heavy,
shifting in your head.
You wish it'd just be lightning quick,
but it often tends to stay instead.
It makes you question everything,
No, you're not dead.
It's all in your head.
Just go back to bed.
By the way, you can't fix your problem with a med.
It's a cry
It's a scream
It's a begging self-philosophy.
I hold it up with a lie.
If it were a dream,
it wouldn't feel so real to me.
A storm in your mind,
all the creatures combine,
building up pressure,
they'll say that you're fine.
But that's not true,
they will lie to you,
then say there is nothing they can do.
They will fake,
your mind will bake.
It's not a feeling you can shake.
A lot is at stake.
I know.
I know where you go.
Digging yourself a dark, lonely hole.
Scratching out death, is your goal.
My migraine, is like a permanent stain.
Killing me; driving you insane.
I count the days like a prisoner in a cage.
I know how it feels, I still stand upon that stage.
Trying to withstand the rage,
and flip page by page,
but you can't even engage.
Since I was a kid,
it was no secret what the pain did,
yet I never hid.
I would just explode,
implode,
and be the **** you'd discover on the road,
maybe one day they will find a code.
And we all walk a lane,
for those who suffered this pain,
the agony of the grain.
That mysteriously grows in our brain.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain’s side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being,
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.
3.7k
I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I lay upon a grave, or bed,
(at least, some cold and close-built bower).
In the cold heart, its final thought
stood frozen, drawn immense and clear,
stiff and idle as I was there;
and we remained unchanged together
for a year, a minute, an hour.
Suddenly there was a motion,
as startling, there, to every sense
as an explosion. Then it dropped
to insistent, cautious creeping
in the region of the heart,
prodding me from desperate sleep.
I raised my head. A slight young ****
had pushed up through the heart and its
green head was nodding on the breast.
(All this was in the dark.)
It grew an inch like a blade of grass;
next, one leaf shot out of its side
a twisting, waving flag, and then
two leaves moved like a semaphore.
The stem grew thick. The nervous roots
reached to each side; the graceful head
changed its position mysteriously,
since there was neither sun nor moon
to catch its young attention.
The rooted heart began to change
(not beat) and then it split apart
and from it broke a flood of water.
Two rivers glanced off from the sides,
one to the right, one to the left,
two rushing, half-clear streams,
(the ribs made of them two cascades)
which assuredly, smooth as glass,
went off through the fine black grains of earth.
The **** was almost swept away;
it struggled with its leaves,
lifting them fringed with heavy drops.
A few drops fell upon my face
and in my eyes, so I could see
(or, in that black place, thought I saw)
that each drop contained a light,
a small, illuminated scene;
the weed-deflected stream was made
itself of racing images.
(As if a river should carry all
the scenes that it had once reflected
shut in its waters, and not floating
on momentary surfaces.)
The **** stood in the severed heart.
"What are you doing there?" I asked.
It lifted its head all dripping wet
(with my own thoughts?)
and answered then: "I grow," it said,
"but to divide your heart again."
3.8k
Speak
When you speak I see cascades of life.
Life and light tend to look the same.
Your light is turquoise and the color of jade sitting just beneath the surface of choppy water.
When you speak I feel heat.
You have yet to burn me.
You are the steady warmth of new born embers of a fire
yet to blaze. When you speak I smell salt water.
Even with a sting, you’re the most refreshing thing.
The ocean is not as paradoxical as your passionately
calm surface. When you speak I taste loneliness.
Bitter sweet like underripe tangerines.
I cannot know this beautiful mind of yours without encountering cold, rusty, metal walls
When you speak I hear midnight.
You know how to play the silences.
I hold my breath waiting for the next sentence you’re carefully, mysteriously orchestrating. Whisper or shout
speak to me againHole in my heart
Speak Karijinbba Beloved!
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC