"negotiates" poems
She is the lady on the road.
She is a mother, a sister, a colleague, a bird, a lassie, a damsel.
She is the lady on the road.
She spreads love and enriches kindness in the society,
She is the crux of an organization, and the fundamental principles.
She is the lady on the road.
She twinkles with the stars and shimmers with the moon,
She scampers with her pets and hops like a frog,
She is not a nomad, but a faithful keeper.
She is the lady on the road.
She wears short skirts,
She wears tight tops,
She doesn't encourage the flirts,
She neither abominates the leering of cops.
She is the lady on the road.
She holds a honourable reputation,
She forms the base of ethical standards,
She buries the grudges and resolves the dissension,
She consolidates herself and maintains her fettle,
She is the epitome of cheerful disposition.
She is the lady on the road.
She ignores the catcalls,
She endures the torture and prevails her morale,
She is a monument unshakable, and a stone unbreakable,
She dumps her burdens and enlightens her destiny,
She protects her dignity and negotiates with denunciation,
She does no harm, but deals with it.
She is the lady on the road, ..the seventh wonder of the world.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
She is olive.
A tan-skinned Jasmine.
A rare earth metal;
and jewel-encrusted.
Sepia crescent moons
Dart at me. And then away.
A velvet petal.
My spine crumbles; rusted.
And when she negotiates a lone fold,
it
babbles
down
to her shoulders
and comes to rest
across nape and breast.
As if immune;
she
never
resisted.
She manipulates this simple tuck,
and every lesson, line, lecture, lash and lambaste in my language or hers is gone and has never existed.
This only tuck,
that single fold;
who gives a ****
Or so I've been sold.
Her hair is coveted;
linens for kings.
It gleams in my den,
near unworthy things.
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 9:46 PM UTC
Of man be there two.
One holder of mirror whilst other a scryer,
renders mirror to glass pierces through.
Where one speaks the other is silenced,
mere whisper acknowledged in this interchanging feud.
So in this blurred intersection,
where there is no reflection
Then what man of man be the truth?
What man of man be the truth
as he stands here split in two?
Be it what he thinks or what he do
that makes the man?
This single man in double view.
A multi facet that will reveal itself in time due.
A facet only glimpsed in certain light,
gone unnoticed by friends.
One and the same in this game of life
where does one begin and one end,
when it is only in the battle that they raise their head?
See the chimera for what it truly is,
this lone Mr a Hydra instead.
Each flitters between life and the scythe
as they fight for control.
Each condemned to the darkness
as the other negotiates sole lease of this soul.
But Death haunts the two because the two
form the whole.
And so this dual begins
without rules and birthed in sin.
Begun with one who seeks to release his debase desires
that lie un-mired in mind,
confined to an imaginary state,
where he can ****** slander unheard
but then he plays with fate.
He plays with fate, when he opens the bottle,
hands himself to the primal,
unprimed for the battle that lay ahead.
That lay in head and heart and will;
one's will that will leave one dead.
But for now each has his role.
One takes the guise of a Jackal
in cunning he seeks to conceal the other,
his brother in hiding,
in sin he hides him inside him
but he will not be silenced.
The fiend longs for this angels confession
and will teach wings a lesson in flight
as he makes his escape in dark and in light.
So this would be angel tries in vain
to press the other down, so that he can remain
but he's wingless and in pain, feeling the strain of
restraints that will no longer contain
the hate that dominates as the other pushes free,
pushes to be this man's sole identity.
This poor soul thought he could enslave that which was caged
and to the beast he did open the door
but it was this angel that lost his wings
mauled by a beast that would not sing to his tune, just roar.
Each sacrificed for the other
as this man of man ends his days
cold on the floor.
For man can not negotiate with fate.
And when One cannot take rule
the pair will end their days together
in the dual.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
Maiden and Observer
As speculated,
The observer and the scientist
See an enigmatic entrance.
The arrival of the specimen:
He shows haste,
His wrist flickers:
Punctuality.
He mouthes questions of career:
Orderliness.
His vocal appetite silent:
Surrender.
He declares instruction:
Superiority.
He brightens athleticism.
Focus.
The smile appears through
in the unknownest places,
Within restaurant doors,
Through the soundwaves.
Through ideations:
Competitive movement.
Inertia and stagnation is of disinterest.
Wordly reflection produces empty reciprocration.
Can it be a metaphor for the observer,
Can the specimen by the symbol?
Both reflected from one another.
There is the one,
and then, the other.
The challenge is:
Exhibiting both states
Simultaenously.
This is the task of the maiden.
The balancer of scales.
The scientist seeks to understand,
There is evidence of somes sort
A hidden bliss a smile inside,
a moment of analysis.
Notions brought on by previous experiments.
Past failures predict present outcome,
Recent knowledge or estimation?
Emotion links to reason,
Reason negotiates but stands firm,
The scientist is fatigued, his hand lowers.
Body language is lazily interpreted by curious Observer,
Studying this new behaviour.
The professor places his spectacles on,
He sees no other path to take,
He concludes and hypothesises,
This specimen can be learnt from
No more.
Specimen's silence allows flowing thoughts to pervade the mind of the observer and the scientist.
Silence given to the cynicism of life,
the broadened mind
perceived as narrow.
The observer is observed.
Now conciousness changes in the realm of the user experiencing himself.
Self perception, self defense,
Guard is raised,
Gates are closed.
Only water flows through,
Other matter obstructed.
Maiden, Observer, Scientist, Specimen.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
i'm absorbing the pain of your lacerations -
the tattoos of your mother's screams
etched in between your knuckles.
a canvass,
whitened and deeply dented,
takes the form of wordless, celestial aspiration -
the manifestation of release from an invisible prison.
your clanging tin cup on the bars asks for logic -
in response,
the uncompromising transmission sits in silence.
your mind does not deserve such a fate.
under opaque bedsheets,
a reversal in perspective unlocks the gate.
a house divided may only stand
if division negotiates with gravity
in blind faith.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 12:34 AM UTC
I was 18 and surrendered to a Van Gogh sunset,
The Aegean Sea a calm mirror,
Plato’s sun, rose-red and dying,
A shift from wind to breeze,
Each night negotiates a calm.
There were eight of us
Inside the cave,
A cathedral inside a mountain,
Our home, high upside a cliff,
The mountain shepherds unhappy
With our stake,
Until we saved the lamb.
We’d found each other,
An octad to a family formed,
Wandering, drinking, annoying the Swiss,
Our freedom dangerous,
Beyond control,
Our odd desire to just be.
Hell, we were reading Hesse,
One of their own,
Our Swiss welcome spent,
They’d had enough,
And so we left for Athens,
To dance and sing,
And tender the sad patience of the Greeks.
Eighteen hours on the ferry to Eos,
People barfed huge arcs over the railing,
Then sat down to reread the headlines for the hundredth time,
Eos was an island of no cars, sparse electricity,
An abundance of religion
And a constant flow and cask of wine.
Retsina, the barrel sealing resin of the Aleppo pine,
An odd and unmistakable taste,
It left a hangover like a warning shot,
The only cure to drink again.
We spent Easter high on acid,
In the back pews of a church,
A thousand years of candles
White walls black with carbon,
A priest, a chalice, the smoking thurible,
A pendulum of incense and pure thought,
The ancients practiced faith with all their senses.
On cloudy moonless nights,
We walked the miles home,
Sandals slap on a sugar sand,
The beach ours, all of it
So dark we could only hear the sea,
The rhythm of the waves like the downbeat of the earth,
We plodded to its dark measure in a line,
On return, from village, church,
Or a lover’s walk through miles of wild daisies,
Until the rediscovered goat path up to our cave,
A Sisyphean task, a find each time,
Drunk, ****** alive, young, nuclear with hope and desire,
We would change the world,
We would mend kind all the broken parts.
And in our cave,
The sounds of others making love,
Rough grunts and soft sighs, whisper kisses,
I would think and dream,
And ride the silver of those waves
Our lives like skipping stones,
Brief, beautiful, and bound.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC
Sanmati, my guide, though is callow
Abnormal not in knowledge, not a bozo.
Negotiates well joy broad or narrow;
Merry as a lamb, sharp as an arrow –
Agile as a gymnast, as sweet as a cello.
Time and again found, never let her gizmo,
Ignoring angry love or any strict credo
Jib her down to cry and sit quietly in shadow.
Almighty will design her future like dido
Illuminating the world with skills and less ego.
Never be dull or extra-ordinary – no one follow.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 11:08 PM UTC
My fingers itch
My palms sweat
Salivia slithers
And slides down
My throat
My legs twitch
As your hands hover
Over my love handles
Your skin
Caresses carelessly
And I clench my hands
My stomach stays still
Empty from the epitome of
Butterflies that should
Exist there
Instead my brain urges
The idea
Maybe the nagging numbness that never
Negotiates will navigate somewhere else
Maybe I might feel funny, fantastic,
Or furious
Your hands trace circles
On my ******* bringing a trail
Of goose bumps
Yet I feel nothing
The numbness never seems
To end
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC
feeling sultry,
the air encircles the fan palm trees
afflicted stray cloud,
stipples in vain on banal sky
the presence beside the window,
hangs between sleeping and awakening
the soul starts to chat
with your images on window glass
the lithe summer night journey,
embraces the creaks of mind
the thirsty sleep,
drinks the dreams heartily
the grieved ship,
itself becomes the consoling sea
this summer night-
this journey-
the first inclination
towards each other-
these senses recall you
as i tie my heart-beat to your anklet
as i accomplish the wings to meditating caterpillar
as i trim the curves of rainbow in water-drop
as i gift the freedom to the breeze
you become my word
you become my journey
you become my love
you become the wait at my destination!
the lithe summer night journey,
embraces the creaks of mind
negotiates with the memories of bodies
it is an attractive incomplete devout journey !
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
Sore shoulders and weak knees,
my body is trying to tell me something.
Lactic acid is building up in my muscles,
settling in my bones: the end to the cycle.
Tomorrow will begin a theater of interactions that matter,
I should take a lesson in concentration.
This isn't what I want, I yearn for the aches,
I love the uncomfort.
Busy work makes me dismissive, and the people
don't help either.
Smooth-brained and simple minded, it's just a future version
of what could become of me.
An inch lift under foot is enough to ignite my intuition.
A weaker version of myself negotiates with my newly forming self:
offering dull reward and a safe spot reserved for my passive pleasure.
Real life low lives are enough to show me what I want.
Sore shoulders and weak knees, they beg me to stop.
But I didn't ask their opinion.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
dust devil spins up into the air
as your boot scrapes the pavement
a fair amount of echo lends surreal edge
but the cool heavy wet night air labors on your chest
the trailing edge of sunlight slips along a silent horizon
and fades into her hair
beads of sweat along her lip
which move slightly as inside her complicated mind
she sings her song
the sunlight carves edges along her supple form
harsh and dense against her her soft giving skin
point and counterpoint
pull myself up ontop of her
grind our sweat into one
her eyes flutter open and focus on mine
her mouth moves over my name
with a verbal caress that has intentions
but they remain unrevealed
she tastes the wine
and takes small measure of the bread
seeming to relish the textures
but its distracted thought that slows her progression
the world has gone
and its just the room that
negotiates with you attentions
fill and expend, fill and expend
the echoes have grown worse
till they thunder in your mind
and still there is no clear path
there is no future seen that dose not contain
dust devils in the soul
fill and expend
but your desert can never be greensward
your emptiness can never be
she sleeps
and you walk slowly to the door
open it and out into the wall of heat
and sound
faces and eyes
there is no escape
there is no staying
you must go
i have become the dust devil
evaporate in the air
no deeper knowledge need be spoken
i am as empty as the air
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
"once more,"
she promises herself
"just one last time,"
she convinces herself
"only one or two,"
she negotiates
"how about a little small one,"
her words make sense
but she promises herself,
"only once"
too many times
and now
she is reckless
{c.m.}
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
there's always expectations
when you have limitations
all their eyes
turn towards you
when time has run out
and no one will let us out
and no one will let me out
she's not willing
she just wants
a soul and human feelings
and when she has what she wants
the others still are waiting
and no one gets away
and no one negotiates
when you finally heal
all you have is another day
the expectations crush you
and limit what you have to say
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
This wretched woman's time had come
To reconcile her sins and pains
Her own blood had become her cage
As spirit dripped from her sweet frame
She yearned to reach out and adore
To exorcize her scarlet foe
And find a rare and blessed relief
That only this man could bestow
Her breath in gasps, her heart aflame
She gently negotiates the crowd
Until she spies salvation's form
His garment whiter than the clouds
With secret prayer she extends her hand
And gently grasps his flowing gown
Desperate that he does not
Notice her and turn around
For this moment she has lived
Enduring lonesome misery
Till hope appeared in prophet form
And a promise that could set her free
But as she knelt with hand gripped tight
The garment's owner sensed her touch
And turned to gaze upon her plight
And stooped and smiled and raised her up
His face ablaze with love and joy
Her spirit soared and her heart did swell
As he praised her courage and her faith
And told her they had made her well
The Christ had conquered blood and pain
And other times the sightless eyes
Had calmed the storm and eased the rain
And even death his will despised
He taught patience and mercy true
To trust in God to set things right
And forgive those who learn to hate
And cease from anger and it's fight
He made no riches, nor praises sought
But humbled he at others feet
Rejected men's sad power games
And thus selfishness did defeat
Today this world acclaims his name
And sings his praises publicly
Two billion followers know his words
And call us “Christianity”
Yet, if this world's “Christian” lands
Are grasping Jesus' garment tight
Then why is peace so far away
And nations ready or the fight?
For not prince of politics is Jesus Lord
or king of fury thus unleashed
But for grace and God's own glory
Is he the blessed “Prince of Peace”
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 1:23 PM UTC
Yesterday
Mixing potions of drifted emotions which strayed away in all the commotion.
Usually I stayed away, but today that door had to open!
With a bit of devotion, it finally gave... just to reveal the thought of escape,
I couldn't help but feel exhausted, afraid, anticipating any thought of what could await.
Disaster strikes!
In the form of loss, the loss of yesterday!
While the children play the sky turns grey, and all is lost... for today.
By early morn the next day, the sky turned bright.
And it arrived as no surprise, we know our Star marks the start of each day.
Though amidst the turn of clocks, we forget of yesterday;
To that I say: you should never let a day away.
And never bet on any way that you may have set up yesterday...
Life is water.
It may flow, it may crash.
But life negotiates any obstacle; death is it's only match.
In this life, we use "what was" to establish "what is", and we attempt to become what we should be.
However, rather than what we've been told we should be, look at what we could be!
Not merely a product of yesterday; because every morning, with our Sun, we are born again!
So just as our Star marks the start of each day, so too we mark the day...
But remember, we mark it only after yesterday.
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 3:15 PM UTC
Our Sweeney nurses his Falstaff,
Joining his hail-and-well-met fellows in mirth
This man of hearty life and laugh,
His fingernails rife with the stuff of earth and labor.
Outside, the moon’s reflection
In the sluggish and slatternly Canisteo
Is a portentous dot-and-dash thing,
Its light here-and-gone
As incongruous evening thunderheads,
Great wavy pompadours rolling off the big lake out west,
Growl sullenly as they move through;
Sweeney pays them no mind, as he has other fish to fry,
Regarding a frowzy pair from the sisterhood of round heels,
One of whom, catching his glance,
Crosses the room, mounting his lap and mussing his hair,
Purring ‘Jus wanna see how your lap feels, Hon.
At which she falls on the floor
(But softly, in the manner of an old campaigner)
Thereafter taking a moment to pull her skirt up just so
To adjust a stocking (black, with a run or two on display)
As her compatriot stands nearby,
Making calculations and considerations,
And with a barely noticeable nod to her co-conspirator
The pair head to the bar
While Sweeney, grinning the grin
Of a toreador expectant of victory and its spoils
Rises to join them and, just as suddenly, pauses,
Perhaps cognizant of the old poker saw
That if you look about the table
And can’t figure out who the mark is, it must be you,
Or perhaps it was the ringing of the bells on the hour
From Our Lady of the Valley
(Normally inaudible inside the tavern,
But the wind had made an odd swing to the southeast,
Allowing the chimes to occasionally outshine the jukebox)
Or perhaps something else intangible, inscrutable,
But in any case Sweeney bids his congregants
A hasty farewell as he saunters to the doorway,
Exiting into the humid, fecund evening,
And as he negotiates the sidewalk homeward,
He notes the odd evening singing of birds,
Their songs, even though he is part and parcel
Of this small city and its streets to his marrow,
Unfamiliar to the point of bafflement.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 1:35 PM UTC
I believe in dreams, I never recall them.
I'm Golden, logic is what I'm holding.
Thoughts and belief does come true.
Without proposals they go unmarried.
Love never tricks anyone into royalty.
When heart is pure, judgements has loyalty.
Fate controls money and severity.
My heart is three sided, halved is right angled.
The Angle is golden
The view has rotten.
People you meet. journeys you take.
The soldier
The teacher.
Straight line is a functional seeker.
That's a pointless slope.
Twice the rooted power.
A flawless masterpiece is common in description.
Time ponders the description in ambition.
That's logic.
I'm tired.
My mind took a jog
They say it's a marathon not a Sprint, that's love.
Who chose the pace.
The cup is bottomless
It fill absence.
I had a sip of that knowledge.
It took the pressure off.
The mass of my love is gravitational.
Their product weighs more than expected.
There's no work done.
I don't **** up
I **** down.
That's a silent trigger.
The future shoots the blanks.
It holds no offspring.
An intertwined distraction.
A soul full of observation.
Are they engagements.
Do they break the law.
The one is digital.
The formula is logical.
The system is sequential.
Can you hear that.
We all have two digital ears.
Eyes pixels at a maximum.
The zoom conforms nature.
They capture, they record.
They all can be taught.
I know my way around the looks, they never bought my value.
That's Illegal piracy, no such a thing as a fraud.
They just binary palindromes.
What value do they possess.
It's spontaneous, the character.
The algorithm.
The errors.
The code refuses to compile, I'm not a quitter.
I run.
Everyone negotiates when beauty is graphical.
Complements to the designer.
The greater power.
I always lie and I'd say I'm in love with HER.
That follows a paradox.
That's a screen play.
I touch, I'm gifted.
With changes we lifted.
Can there be the one.
That's a model sized case.
Smaller fractions are a chase.
The base, The Pace.
The changes are continuous.
They say let the good times roll and a rolling Stone gathers no Morse.
I believe love is a mental concept to stall human progress.
There's a lot claimed.
That changes with change in time.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC
the sun
is an
arbitor
of the
fire red sky
that negotiates
between the light
and the dark
said i
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC