"narrowness" poems
*O Devi, awaken the good in all,
there's no demon, nor devil
but in our mind, our will.
Raise our spirit, O Devi,
to the mountain's height
so we can use our might
to leave narrowness and rise above,
learn to live in amity and love!*
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC
i want to eat you
let no one else have you
tie you to my bedpost
and leave the house for the whole day
uneventful day graces
what might one say when all
the cookies are gone
make merry with marrow narrowness
the slave’s in my bedroom with
window blinds open for all to see
in shocking stark gestures
and through showering trees
my dear, where has all the poetry gone
i might answer, where the cookies
and love went, the stubbornness
of push and shove, you speak when i say you can
beg when i want you to
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 2:40 AM UTC
in their disguised self-centered ways, the faithful are obsessed with going to Heaven and staying away from Hell
1
all the faithful,
these holy believers,
they all fear this address:
No.1 HELL, OUTSIDE UNIVERSE,
POSTAL CODE: 0001
all the faithful
want to avoid this place like, well, hell!
*the non-believers just take it easy;
they have no such obsessions*
all the faithful, the holy believers
they all aspire to this place:
ONLY 1, HEAVEN, DIVINE UNIVERSE,
POSTAL CODE: 0001
they all try and get there
and with their narrow True Only One Way
they think they'd get there anyway
easy as if you'd googled for Heaven
*the non-believers just take it easy;
they have no such obsessions*
2
*and well, if the faithful are always imagining what God sanctions
and says, I don't see why their opposites can't also imagine what this Grand Supposition says*
and in their aspirations,
to reach
ONLY 1, HEAVEN, DIVINE UNIVERSE,
POSTAL CODE: 0001
the faithful
***** the planet earth
with all their doctrines
and their aggression
and their violence
and their narrowness and bigotry
and their holiness and their obsessions
and creating constant divisions
and so I can sympathize
with their supposed God becoming sane
and thus declaring to the faithful:
*Oh no, I'm not letting you ******** in
as surely you'll make a Hell of Heaven;
I'd rather let in the non-believers here anytime
at least they don't have your hang-ups and perversions*
conclusion
well, the poor faithful then, the holy faithful wholly excluded, they'll have to content themselves with Googling for Heaven, and viewing the streets of Heaven on Google Maps of the Divine World
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 6:08 PM UTC
Sometimes,
I am afraid there are so many
People In this world,
So many crowds to
Walk through,
That eventually I might never
Recover the body (and mind) that are
My own.
Some days,
Even when I am alone in the
Pale light of my very own
Thoughts,
I seem to lose myself in the
Vastness –
I seem to lose myself in the
Narrowness.
Do you ever wonder if it is
Possible that a person could get
So lost inside their own self that
No matter how hard the trying
Hands grasp through the
Darkness of the soul,
It could never truly be found again?
It’s funny –
The places a person will discover himself,
Not in the back of the mind,
Usually,
But in the back of the hand,
In the back of the throat, ending
At the tongue and the
Slightly-open lips.
Occasionally,
I climb up an ancient wooden staircase that
Ascends into an attic,
And I gather the thoughts and pieces of
Myself I have hidden there.
And, just for a challenge,
I try and assemble the pieces together,
Like a necklace-
The kind of necklace that looks
Interesting enough,
maybe even beautiful,
but is never quite wearable.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 12:35 PM UTC
awakened cows chewing
a mountain pass
dawn warms their massive eyelash rows
clinging drops of dew
spark in rhythm with the cud
darkness rumbles distant now
clouds dispersed to other nights
while metaphoric bull unhinged resounds
the cosmic rut
must i hide my love for this
unweave my judgment from my sight?
what in me defies all sacred holiness forever sung?
bees will ravish even newly opened buds
who am i to battle with the lightning's surge?
presumtuous coverings
can net me willing lustful
stars i see a field i open fertile
ecstaticly unblessed enough
lost heroic i had thought to know
pretends a second thrum
i see in random eyes the breaking sky
and lightning branches over snaking crevices
a sound of faultlines folding free
tectonic sexplay deep
in lava belly
far behind the summit mount--
there i see the sun a base as well
earthen seedbeds heating heights of life
space is cracked!
vast width enwombs the narrowness i preen
in nervure's shine,
a sponge mycelial with soak of raining
carbon underground
the drumming hoofbeats shake and settle
days dehiscing spinning sun
to somber eve in active rest
dreaming pasture real
within a trailing effort's ease
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
And the knowledge of the hedgerow plant, I found embedded in leaf veins ... like in mine, etched along blue lines of a notebook. In the ripples on the remnants of water that pooled, before the mudflats claimed them are the striations of ol'butot near Naivasha. His stories tell of caves, a gleaming obsidian of a pre historic introspection. Do forty day fasts suffice to exorcise the springs of sulphur or the forced baptism of a flash flood washing six souls to Hades ? The sun glinted at me through a narrowness of fate, a gorge of interminable seconds and I marvelled at the strata of time in a warp, for it blurted out a moan.
Love spoke in nuanced layers of molten flow that crawled to stillness. Can I not say that stone speaks? A couple of hundred years back in time, self titled discoverers had seen land that had not been unseen by the thousands who lived for thousands until then. So yes, the strata spoke to me, like the striations in the leaves and the lines that were everywhere telling stories of interminable seconds. Time grooves like a death valley in an engraving, etched like a memory of that which has never been, ripples on sand, circles on water,
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 10:49 AM UTC
Braving lapses in neon dreams
You don’t like the look of air max 90’s
Besotted language intercepted not digested
The babble of youths who don’t talk correctly
Basking loosely in nonchalant demise
The **** on the floor, what a mess
Buttoned lips insinuating nothing decisive
You are hard eyed from men outside the pub, you look away at
Bluebottles lying inside neatly dead
Get me off this ******* bus.
Black lines, interrupting nothing deep
Why always black and never red
Broad landscapes intrude narrowness, delicately
But you close your eyes and hum the cure
Breaking laughter, ignorant nuisances drain
I wish they all were quiet and tame
Berating loud intuitive noises, djembe
Banging hands against the glass
Banging, lightning, ignored, deleted
There’s a fight going on, you will stay seated
Buried liquidized imagery, naturally dancing
The reflection of drama in a window behind you
Because listening is not done
You think about dinner and where you will buy it
Because light is no fun
You again close your eyes and think about home
Busy lovers inseparable never daring
You enjoy your thoughts
Being left in near darkness
You enjoy your thoughts
Watching interesting things happen
Eventually yelping even shouting trill howls
After the watch, offset retina kicks
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
Jingoism at its very best is still zealotry, and anyone with good sense can tell you none of that is good. Where has good gone? Narrowness is boasting ethnocentricity. The mind game of villainous blame furthers unkind possibility. Worse yet, demise of soul, to tout a right to defend, assaults a riffling on pith and marrow with no sane sense of psyche to lend. Basically then, we are told to "blend."
I cannot.
I am fanatical. My colors must be seen. This weathering of dark storm has unbiased relinquishment that must convene, upon a rainbow. With all heart and soul, given to Orlando.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
I want to spend a day in your hourglass
being turned on my head as the hours pass
sliding down into the narrowness
collapsing into a pile of spent amorousness
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
Do my eyes fail me?
Is the light of the sun useless?
for though in daylight I have walked abroad
from the confined barrel I live in
away from the rats
away a while from the stray dogs
that congregate outside my hovel
that want a bit of my sack of carrots
and discarded meat
that I picked up from the market;
and though I walked often with firm steps and keen eyes
I did not see a man, a woman, a human worth their salt;
and so I walk now
(for perhaps my eyes do fail me
and the light of the sun and moon is perhaps an illusion)
and so I walk now with a lantern even in broad daylight
and still I do not see a man, a woman, a human worth their salt;
what I see are swirls of violence and greed and pettiness
and whorls of self-preoccupation and bigotry and ignorance
and narrowness
all encased in flesh and bones:
leave me Sirs and sweet-dressed and made-up Ladies
and Children corrupt in the World of Adult Fanfare;
leave me and let me go on my quest further afield
as far as the lantern will allow me
even in this bright day ruled by the sun
and ruined by you Sneering Living Beings;
leave me to wander as far to see if I cannot perhaps find a human
in some corner….a surprise as one might find
a gold coin in some dark corner….
And I so hope that today perhaps I shall find
the human this bright day
by the light of this lantern
and not like yesterday and all days before
search in vain till the lantern light dies
and crawl back to my hovel
not finding one free of these or at least sincere,
and so worthy of the name of human…
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 10:41 AM UTC
They fall upon us over the spillways of time,
Burbling at us through some Radio Free Nostalgia
Courtesy of some college station sitting at the far left of the dial
Or streaky CDs at the rear of some forlorn shelf,
And we know them to be to be, if not outright falsehoods,
Among the more variable of truths
(As all truths are, if we’re being honest about the matter)
For when someone sets out to create the Great American Whatever,
It becomes quickly apparent that such paths
Are not straight and clear, but wind and double back upon themselves,
Replete with thorns and weeds with bladed edges;
Egos must be stroked, revenue streams and margins considered,
Leaving one’s primary legacy as a testament to compromise.
But to be a casualty is not necessarily to be a fatality,
And through the narrowness of a three-minute window,
Purveyed to us by quartets of chanteuses
Who were no strangers to compromise their ownselves
(So many staged photo shoots,
So many hokey Christmas songs and cosmetic-sale jingles)
We can glimpse momentary epiphanies,
Crescent-moon slices of the verities,
Which, if not the whole truth and nothing but,
Provide us with something to hold, something to hum
As we go about the tortuous business
Of making some sense of the whole **** thing.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 9:41 AM UTC
The churl in spirit, up or down
Along the scale of ranks, thro' all,
To him who grasps a golden ball,
By blood a king, at heart a clown;
The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil
His want in forms for fashion's sake,
Will let his coltish nature break
At seasons thro' the gilded pale:
For who can always act? but he,
To whom a thousand memories call,
Not being less but more than all
The gentleness he seem'd to be,
Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd
Each office of the social hour
To noble manners, as the flower
And native growth of noble mind;
Nor ever narrowness or spite,
Or villain fancy fleeting by,
Drew in the expression of an eye,
Where God and Nature met in light;
And thus he bore without abuse
The grand old name of gentleman,
Defamed by every charlatan,
And soil'd with all ignoble use.
1.1k
the past is awake.
not the break wave, but i am pinned against the pier
watching blood seep from new blooms.
i am torn from myself,
muscle is ripped from bone: anyway, i
am alive and i have been. i match my lipcolor
to my nailcolor - orange. call out the past.
loneliness sours everything -
orange ya glad you never loved me, bluesky?
i would have brought you along, to my done-day;
you could have been the executioner,
and i could have been the witch, doomed to drown!
you could have put me down yourself -
crushing my narrowness
into waterscape under the weight of your horizon.
doesn't that sound ****
i would have thanked you, and you would have
turned dark with rain.
anyway, loneliness sours everything.
i am still a grateful witch.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 11:10 AM UTC
O Devi, awaken the good in all,
there's no demon, nor devil
but in our mind, our will.
Raise our spirit, O Devi,
to the mountain's height
so we can use our might
to leave narrowness and rise above,
learn to live in amity and love!
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
Regrets are sad
like a cancer
that won't go away
she said
always there growing
like big black spiders
in my sleep.
The psychiatrist sat
in the chair
by the couch
where she lay.
We all have regrets
he said
part of the human make-up.
But mine are mine
she said
things I've said
or done or not done
or said and I can't
get them out
of my head.
The psychiatrist leaned
forward hands together
bald head lowered
a watch chain looped
from his waistcoat pocket.
What regrets have you?
he said
lifting his big
brown eyes to her
seeing a scenery of thigh
in the spilt of her skirt.
She looked at her feet
the black shoes
I got up the duff
and had the baby
done away with
she said
peering at the scuff marks
on the toes of her shoes.
The psychiatrist
raised his eyes to her head
the way her hair
was parted in the center
brown coloured.
And that is one
of your regrets?
He said
noticing her eyes
staring into space
the narrowness of her face.
Saw this picture
of a baby at the age
mine was when
I had it done
she said
looking at him
seeing his plump features
the lips moving.
Many women
have abortions each year
he said
some have regrets
some do not.
I didn't go see
my mum when she
had cancer
never visited her
and she died
she said.
Why did you
not visit her?
he asked
feeling a mild headache
beginning.
We had a row
about me having
the baby done in
and we didn't talk after
she said.
He nodded grim faced
and silenced
an inner laughter.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC
In brightest morns, in darkest nights
In sweet december days In narrowness two hearts ignite
A glow in amber rays They love, they fight, they come together again
They know it's right to share the other's pain
we watched as lads such nature's riddle
and now we're glad to be in the middle
of such enticement, of such commitment
of such unbogus romance
Let's savour a passion true
under a sky of clearest blue
This is our chance.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
My bridegroom lifts me up
from the world’s dark, said
Sister Clare, He holds me fast
against the world’s clutches,
His touch heals my deepest
wounds, my many failures.
His eyes search me and see
me as I am; there is no pretence
in His presence, no maybe
in His words. He lifts away
from the false prophets and
lying religions, He shows me
His love in a thousand ways,
His love has no conditions, no
limitations, no world’s whims.
He calls me out of darkness
with the slightest word, none
is worthy of Him, none seek
Him as they ought. He seeks
me when I am lost, finds me
when I cannot see beyond
the narrowness of the me,
am blind to the reality of being,
too lost at times to the world's
sad ways. He will lift me up in
the Last Days; will save from
drowning in my deep depressions,
my eyes open to the brightness
of His face. I bathe in His love
and grace, hear His call even
when the noise of the world is
at its loudest beat, I shall know
His love, feel His tender touch,
even when I am sunk in darkness
and the wild world’s too much.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
Wind always knows
it limitation
as it writes its swirling
scripts upon threadbare roof.
Lamentations for the
fields of empty prairies
as the dry leaves rustle
in strings of grass…
i do not know
my boundaries
the geographical shapes
of my darkness
for life
has been left empty
with only a puppy
of narrowness
to feed
scraps of plain verse too.
How the tail wagged for years
as empty …
i light candles
like images on the window
of my smile
for the sputter of light
is much more reassuring
than the breathless darkness.
i recite my own alphabets
that i have
hidden in the mysteries of my throat
and marvel as the moonlight passes
through the simple words
the trellises of upper
and lower case
Shades i have formed
with my craftless hands
and letters
speak upon the glass
of outside
like frost
for i have found my true words
and they fit my squalor
with a strength of calmness
for darkness cannot
abide in smallness
so it leaves me
as the darkest raven
ever imagined…
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
As the night unfolds
its quietness,
and distance
is silenced,
and movement
is carpeted
into echoing
rumbles,
a sight unveils
all once blinded
by day light,
by the hazardous
ransom of rush,
and it appears
before me
what lays
within
a trap of sand,
breaking down
the bones of will,
grinding morrow
into the narrowness
of a held back
gesture,
it appears
before me,
naked
like a stillbirth,
my solitude.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
Dark spotted room luminous
stage flare and fire
from the bandstand
reverberating energies
I hold a shipwrecked bottle in my hand
people are screaming
to the transient
and the metaphor
and the silent sky
I hold wicked form in my other hand
KURT VONNEGUT PLAYS
(Not a piano)
The room is faster
and chuckling heavy set back row phone call
girl scratches her lottery ticket
It's freezing out
I got a job at a movie theater, new time starts NOW
and we're all trying to make something out of tonight
Sylvia is shaking through the ferocious storm
that Sylvia, the same colors as an
inspired tattoo belonging to a year
everyone's on about
including ** Chi Minh City
and all it's superhighway narrowness n sunshine
What a hell of a year this one has been
(Blackout---Springboard--Parade--Pendulum--Butterfly--???)
SO LONG!
SEE YOU LATER!
THERE'S AN EASTERN SONG
I MUST PLAY FOR THE CHILDREN OF VIETNAM!
IN A LANGUAGE THEY DON'T YET UNDERSTAND!
After the show is done
I emerge and the modern rebel
puts on his jacket where written on his back with hard tape reads
“WAR IS OVER”
the hysterics go back to their usual voiceless catatonia
and I wonder at that moment
how we can feel so alone
with so many of us here.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
You showed me your rosary;
it lay in the cup of your palm
like a coiled pink snake.
You explained the prayers
of each bead:
the Pater Nosters, Ave Marias,
some others lost to me
in the frost of time.
I remember that
narrowness of your fingers,
the frailty of thumbs,
your wrists
almost transparent
in their soft whiteness.
You showed me
the crucifix
connected by
rows of beads.
Prayers held here,
you said,
lifting the rosary
for me to hold.
I felt it,
********* the beads,
smooth as snails.
I looked at you
as you stood
watching me.
Your blonde hair;
blue liquidy eyes,
narrowness of frame.
I gave you back
your rosary
loaded with prayers.
It lay in your palm;
I wished I could lay
my hand there
where the rosary lay,
but I looked at you smiling,
but didn't say.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
i wish that i could fix you.
i wish that i could take every single awful memory
that's clouding up that beautiful mind of yours
and throw it down the garbage chute where my own trash
plummets through the narrowness of bricks
and down into the huge trash bin waiting to catch it and
take it away into the world far from me
i wish that i could grab the super glue out of your hand
and i could carefully remove that mask on your face
without any pain and without skin tearing off
with it because of how long it has been on there
and i wish that i could heal every part of you that you feel
has been hurt, from the parts where lactic acid has pumped through
after a tough workout to that familiar place on the right side of your
chest that has tightened after every memory of your
past has been brought up
and now i wish that my words meant something more than the empty
"i'm sorry"s that i'm throwing to your net to catch from a
stupid little screen that cannot convey empathy any better than my carpet
can when i cry into it because i don't think that you really seem to
understand every time you're sad it kills me
but i just sound like a romanticist whose desire is lost in the space of verses
never meant to be read by the only eyes they are intended for
and maybe that's all i'll ever be
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC