"newness" poems
.
*Honeybees, birds and blooms unfurl
an enchanting spell
when spring comes by here
Memories waft 'neath burled rustic trellis
where flowered tendrils grasp fleshly
like the newness a love once tenderly embraced
Songbirds in your garden sing
of swooning memories rapture.., of velvet eyes,
the fragrant spicy nectar hidden within her walls
A song of honeyed bees' sweetest stinger,
and the poignant ***** of intoxicating surrender
lingers, bemused spellbound by a thorny heirloom rose
Sharp beauty beloved like a blameless trap
caught blissfully, breathlessly inbetween
all you wish for and all your wanton needs
Desire 's wellspring an unspoken passion
coquet swollen buds adorn blossoming,
sensual, untamed carnal grace
A picture perfect natural beauty;
sunlit chassé … feathered brush, demure blush
dancing with basket of lace petal’d perfume
For to colour a heart's blank pages
rapt in the poesy a joyous ecstasy ..,
enrapture with rainbow's luscious taste
What seems lost is but a tender vestige unfound
a passing moments innocence lost
to steal away like rumors of gold
These silent reveries seep from a hole in my heart,
as if ripe strawberries of yore, gently weeping sweetness
when pricked by a thorny rose
The ides of spring do still bleed a timeless ache
onto the page ... sweet naivety stung
by a mesmerizing dart to the heart
Songbirds in your garden do sing
of sweetest things immersed in nature's nectar
blissful memories sleeping in the petals of a rose*
Sung to the wind by a song sparrow — ♪ ♫...✩ ☼✩ ✩☺✩
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
419
We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—
A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—erect—
And so of larger—Darkness—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—
The Bravest—grope a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—
Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.
22.3k
you asked me to come:it was raining a little,
and the spring;a clumsy brightness of air
wonderfully stumbled above the square,
little amorous-tadpole people wiggled
battered by stuttering pearl,
leaves jiggled
to the jigging fragrance of newness
—and then. My crazy fingers liked your dress
….your kiss,your kiss was a distinct brittle
flower,and the flesh crisp set
my love-tooth on edge. So until light
each having each we promised to forget—
wherefore is there nothing left to guess:
the cheap intelligent thighs,the electric trite
thighs;the hair stupidly priceless.
19.4k
Enveloped in a cloud of rain,
drenching spirit and soul.
Sunlight flickering through clouds ahead;
finally hope.
Leaving sadness behind at last,
my spirit longs to move in the sunlight of dance.
My body singing, rising to its newness,
twilight is turning bright with vibrancy ahead.
Praying the path will not turn
to the dark rainforest of gloom once more.
Can I believe in the light?
Can I believe in a future with hope?
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 9:26 AM UTC
for what feels like
the first time
(in a long time)
i’ve met someone
and
everything’s exciting
it’s thrilling
exhilarating
to just
be myself
around him
and
i want to do nice things for him
i want to take off his shoes
make him tea
i want to draw ****** drawings of him
with sharpies
on napkins at parties
and i long to bring him home
go on long walks alone
with him
i wish to
write songs in his name
give him my earphones
(when his break)
and
we’re an
unlikely pair
and there’s
something
so infectious
about that
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
TOH ZINDA ** TUM.....
I feel like falling in love once again...
When I listen to this song...
I feel like a teenager again..
When I read the lyrics line by line...
Dilon mein tum apni betabiyan leke chal rahe ho.Toh zinda ** tum!
When you carry restlessness in your heart,
then you are ALIVE
Nazar mein khwaabon ki bijliyan leke chal rahe **
Toh zinda ** tum!
When you carry dreams in your sight,
then you are ALIVE
Hawa ke jhonkon ke jaise aazad rehna seekho
Tum ek dariya ke jaise, leharon mein behna seekho
Har ek lamhe se tum milo khole apni baahein
Har ek pal ek naya samaa dekhiye
Learn to be free like the swaying air around you
Learn to flow like the tide flows with the water
Meet every moment of your life with open arms
and experience newness every second you live
Jo apni aankhon mein hairaniyan leke chal rahe **
Toh zinda ** tum!
When you carry wonder in your eyes,
then you are ALIVE
Dilon mein tum apni betabiyan leke chal rahe **
Toh zinda ** tum!
When you carry anxiety in your heart,
then you are ALIVE
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
The Purple People come in many sizes, from small to extra-large – some are quiet and smiley, while others are louder and chatty. What they have in common, apart from the obvious distinctive pigment, is a welcoming demeanour that makes you feel that you have perhaps met them before or that you would like to meet them again.
I first met a Purple Person as I climbed the steps, looking for reassurance that I wasn’t late and that I wouldn’t stand out too much in my nervous newness. I’m not sure what it was about their purpleness, but I felt one step closer to acceptance as I walked into the warm.
I saw the matching purple banners and smiled at the attention to detail and the attention given to me which, while practiced, was far from forced and held a genuine purpleness.
I met other Purple People at intervals, each with the purple family likeness of a smile, even though their heritage varied in shade. The further I walked, the more I relaxed and found that some of the Purple People weren’t wearing the signature purple tee shirts, but it was clear they came from the same palette because their welcome carried the same purple weight and the same authentic purpleness.
This shouldn’t have been surprising, as I soon discovered that they each bore the same purple family likeness of the Purple King who welcomes everyone.
Jul 3, 2021
Jul 3, 2021 at 2:48 AM UTC
My Vellum
Alluring and demure
In your virginity
Never yet
Creased nor crumpled
Your tight young corners
Remain stiff and pert
In their newness
Your long lithe sides
Tense for my careful touch
Lest blood be spilt
My gold nib
I dip
In midnight ink
Piercing its surface skin
And lift
It drips
One
Two
Black
Secrets
Back to their bottle
My hand is poised
Over your pristine smoothness
And with calm precision
I carve broad majuscules
That twist and cut
To hairlines of breathtaking
Intimate intricacy
Quick teasing serifs
Long lingering descenders
Strokes of tactile
Joy
Then stand back
Empty
In wonder at
Your calligraphic beauty
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:16 AM UTC
my Mumbai woman
~~~
to my Indian poets & friends
all be advised,
my piety, my muse,
has decamped me for weeks on end
to your
yon far and fair lands
the red dot beside her
electronic signature
a sign of her absence,
seemingly to have been
magically transferred
to her forehead
so perhaps my love poetry
will become absent, reticent,
quiescent
or perhaps
it will build brighter, effervescing
in my very own Taj Mahal,
an edifice built by great love past
and yet ever still present,
for I testify,
I have many times it,
seen imbued,
lovingly observed
between a certain
men and women here writ large,
who there permanent reside,
and in my heart as well
spend a minute many,
all my fingers and
toes employed
how many, so many,
Indian fellow travelers
on poetry lanes and yellow dust encrusted roads,
in cities unpronounceable
that this illiterate literary fool
has come to know and multi-arm entwine
to you,
I commend and command to you
her safety,
asking immodestly for
an imposition, an interference
pray to the local gods,
your heads of state and highest nature's,
that they be her
beside,
her unobserved
safe-keepers,
as she treks your country's
Northern pastures
let her skin glow from
your brighter rays,
eyes even wider~wiser opened
by the newness of your antiquity,
your glorious,
poetic place
in our world
of words
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
the child of the child of my woman,
cries in the night,
rooming next door,
down the hall
and
he is
all children that cry in the night,
but he is
more mine
by right of quantity
numerous are the kisses lavished,
this biannual visit upon,
his four year old
oversized head,
(so full of 'bains')
his undersized,
protuberanced belly body,
a combo making him
no longer baby,
nor a grownup,
both states,
he denies accurately,
maturely in a wobbly voice
of utter certainty,
but lacking the adjectives
of what lies between,
he debates his state thoughtfully,
until distracted by other
more pressing matters of state
he is boy, little but vociferous,
quiet, pensive, his head a weapon
of...confusion and certainty that
being four years old,
he must perforce be
permanently
in skeptical awe of the world
this is the best position ever,
he has ascertained,
to filter and behold anything,
whatever newness arrives,
which is constant,
streaming and unending
until new is
fully digested, analyzed, and classified,
as if he were
a zoologist in
a wild and untamed land
only certain of what he knows
with perfect certainty,
he consults with me still,
"you kidding?"
such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory,
wise in the ways of grownups,
who, prone to deceive gleefully
his very
suspecting mind,
so much so,
they must be challenged and
rebuffed all too frequently
he cries in the night,
normal tears of discomfort,
physical or mental,
I cannot tell,
for his father
his parental hearing
more practiced, refined,
has preceded me,
such,
as it should be,
and I am dispatched back
to my 3:00am bed,
left only to ink
contemplative ruminations
on the state and nation
of being four...
and sixty,
and still uncertain, even more
than the little boy
of wizened age of annualized four,
the child of the child of my woman,
on
what is real, what is kidding,
in a quest unending
to better ascertain,
the state of my own being
and the transitory nature of
everything
all of what is thought certain,
falls aside,
under the withering,
unwavering,
critique of
"you kidding?"
and in this we are
more kin
than if our blood was
physically shared
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
the smell of a hospital
disinfecting hands and
identities
placed on the counter.
a passport-size ambition
a fingerprint of luck.
you have arrived.
you are here.
you came in
a bus full of languages
funnelled into the room
'welcome to - '
lost and found
in translation.
you cannot understand
you will try
to understand.
your newness.
new you.
you are new.
you do not understand
you are here.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 3:43 AM UTC
Reach out and touch me,
I'm real, and I'm warm.
I might be able to save you.
Come snuggle,
Tell me all about
YOU.
I'm fascinated,
And I think you might be, too.
I'm ready to lie next to you
And whisper things,
To curl my toes against yours,
Breathe your breath,
Be intimate,
Sharing,
Together.
Understand this;
It's not your body that I want,
It's intimacy of another kind,
The newness of shared secrets
with a stranger,
Companionship
That can only come from a combination of
Admiration, fascination, empathy,
Sympathy, and
A beginning.
Shall we begin?
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
Eyes open into newness
And find a smile
Dimpled giddy
With the happiness
That took only one look to awaken
And one little life to nurture.
Nine months worth of waiting
Melt into a promise of forever.
My love for you is an endless
Beautiful thing.
Bigger than the both of us
Loud and bellowing.
But I whisper it
because I want to let you sleep.
Apr 15, 2021
Apr 15, 2021 at 4:41 AM UTC
We slump in mismatched chairs. Two hunches
over shame and a 3am breakfast, I think:
*There’s gotta be a reason why art rhymes with ****
If you want anything to go anywhere with any respectable…affect,
the force of pressure on the inside must exceed that from the outside.
Interrupting this genius, He asks:
How can you eat that crap? It’s so…empty.
He is flipping through his coffeeblack back pocket note rag.
It’s soiled, wrinkled concave with the ever-heaving
stomachfuls of his inky midnight doubt, and I would really
rather not have it at the table while I’m eating.
I am pouring another glorious bowl of Frooty Froot Hoops—yeasty,
store-brand sugarfuel for the lower-middle-income child poet.
He spends another tasteless oatmeal evening
reading essays about how to improve his writing.
Instead of, like, writing to improve his writing.
I ask:
If you took a knife to the edge of your boundary’s boundary—stabbed right into your life-world’s fleshy monad-sac,
glory running ****** down your blade,
As you breached forth into the well-lit unknown,
would it still be courageous, if you emerged from
your warm wet ignorance, and they were all waiting outside with mylar balloons, a banner, and "Congratulations on your Artistic Rupture!”
in blue icing on the cake??
There's still a moment there, right?
Petrified in the sap of thrill, in the momentous-stasis between
The arrow flung and the arrow fallen. A moment of
advancement …a moment of abandon!
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
I say:
Newness, originality, (birth), is purely indexical.
It points, and no one notices that all those shiny vegas lights aren't really moving anywhere—It's just utility bills and light-bulb trickery.
They're asking for genesis extended, genesis again and again
and each false gesture points only towards another
incandescent unreachable elsewhere.
(He nods along, still, not listening.)
But there's little monotony in taking a stab!
Even if it's just for them, again, those perennial spectators expecting,
Waiting outside with ***** little pocket notebooks of their own,
crowding the bassinets, ever-eager to begin another “surprise" celebration.
Gulping sweet, sugarpink milk, I say:
I happen to like this crap!
It keeps my knife sharp.
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
Freeing from the shackles of the past
trickling down to a catharsis
at the slender neck of the hourglass,
the golden grains of sand
dribble down
to create my reality.
Unhurriedly they flow,
with me they flow
into the forgottenness of the past they flow,
to rise like a Phoenix
clothed in the newness
of the present
to create a new me!
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 12:46 PM UTC
Loving you feels like home
like a fireplace I never took the time to sit in front of
like this warmth is a newness I am just now experiencing for the first time
like I don't even know how to be cold anymore
loving you looks like a sunday morning
or a tuesday
like a bed with tangled sheets
like the glow of sunrise crawling in through cracks in the blinds
like the dent in the mattress of a body
yours fitting perfectly parallel to mine
like the mess of human we are
poured together between silk and skin
reaching for a touch to remind us that this
is real
like I have never seen eyes look at me the way yours do
loving you sounds like the loud of my laughter
unbound in its arrival
like the calm of silence
like I could build a fort out of it
like blowing out the candle in the corner of the room
and how comfort stays still even in darkness
loving you tastes like the corners of my lips stretching outward
like the habit of a smile forming
like a permanent sweetness on the tongue
like a craving I could never lose
Loving you smells like my sweatshirt
like your face buried in my neck,
my own pressed against the soft of your chest
like how knowing your morning breath is a privilege
loving you is like a poem without ending
like I never want to write ours
so I wont
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
Another copycat,don't do that it's all been done before and one more pretender shown the door,
swing out
swing in and another cat comes ring a ding, ding.
I need uniqueness
I want to feed on the sweetness of novelty,there seems to be less and less of that deliciousness and not much of that newness I can claim for my own,
I think I'm fading into the woodwork,full of knots and gnarlings and look at me darlings as I disappear.
No copycat here,
this is a first time,straight from the bread line into a basket case and how can I possibly face that which is new?
New is getting fewer and the few who do new don't know and never knew what few could be in this land of lots and plenty for me.
I was told that old is the new folding currency and that doesn't suit me,too many wrinkles,too many nooks and nannies with crooks,like little Bo-Peep,I wish they'd all sleep,
there is time for the sheep to try on for size,oh my dear Lion what gigantic eyes,
is that a bit new or just me cooking stew?
A copycat like folding currency folds flat and I'm having none of that,I like the chinking and clinking of real gold and that don't fold.
So beware if you share and don't credit the writer,who with meagreness in his pockets pulls his belt a bit tighter,one more notch he can't feel,,one more meal never felt in his gut,but
copycat see,copycat do,copycat never think anything new.
What are you?
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC
When I was traversing in the alternate universe,
I couldn't stop sneezing.
I couldn't handle newness.
No benedryll for adrenaline.
The stars paved sidewalks
Into the deep depths of a frozen sea,
Straying salt crystals freely,
Caught by the laughing galaxies,
Who played marbles with dreams.
My hands began to twitch
Like piano ballads being spun in the air.
And I when became whole;
I existed, finally.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
May this day be good
May this day be a total rebirth
May this day be blessed
May this day be filled
With the newness
And freshness of a prime
May this day be joyful
As it was a decade and nine ago
May this day be what you want
May it be what God wants
May this day be good. --------------------------------------------
May this day be good May this day be a celebration
May this day be an epic
May it be a remembrance
Of the most cheerful moments in the life of a mum
May this day be heart warming
A blithe past the zenith
To be remembered many years more
Ever sweet and merry
May we smile with glee
May this day be good
------------------------------------------------- May this day be good
Just like the first
And just like now
May this day be remembered May this day come again
May it come again just this time round And the next
And the next of years unceasing
May this day be my joy And yours
And yours also my friend
May this day be your birthday
May I wish you a happy birthday...
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
When sadness clutches your heart
and you mind knows not were to start
When every sound and touch evades
look in my eyes, I'll make your sanity remade
If dispair brings fear and its many tears
and if you seek the truth, but it disappears
when every sound and touch evades
Look in my eyes, I'll make your sanity remade
Your eyes watch what words you say
to others, yet they keep them at bay
you wonder if your in this life to stay
Look in my eyes, I'll make your sanity remade
The newness of the morn, the chatter of the birds
starts a new beginning to melt away the hurts
hope is always in you, never goes away
look in my eyes, I'll make your sanity remade
Look deep inside you, you won't hide no more
For I'm the savior you've been waiting for
I'll dry your tears, chase away your fears
all the sounds and touch with me appear
I'll be the one to hold your heart
guide you to my bay, in hopes you'll stay
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 11:04 PM UTC
Oh baby –
We were doomed from day one.
Though we weren’t in the Jazz age,
and we weren’t in the modern age,
We were in the age of us.
Wings on my eyelashes,
A silky robe around my shoulders,
You wore a vest and a tee shirt—
Indulged in cowboy bohemia;
God, it was ****
Oh baby, we thought we were unstoppable
We drank too much
Met new people by liquid courage
And found fearlessness suited us well.
We harnessed the trade winds
and went where we wanted.
Interest and innovation embedded in curiosity;
In art and newness and literature and truth.
Calling ******** like we saw it
We were entitled and young and free
No restraints
And hey, maybe that was the problem.
The problem with freeness
Is running and running and running
Until you forget what you’re running towards
And instead find
You’re actually running from.
Oh baby-
We were doomed from day one
We just didn’t know it yet.
I’m just too tired to run anymore.
I could have been like Zelda.
Tired from the facade,
Strong and petrified at the same time,
Finding distractions in every part of life
That made me forget we weren’t as free as we thought we were.
God, Baby—
Didn’t you know we were doomed
From the very first day we met?
I suppose I should thank you:
Thanks for breaking my heart;
You saved me from breaking my own.
I could have been like Zelda.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
New beginnings come with a frenzy of excitement and curiosity.
It all felt like going to school for the first time.
Take back to the time when we were taking our first step into the wisdom of life.
Doesn't we all felt the same while stepping towards "A New Beginning"?
The feeling we know will be experiencing every time while staging up to a new level
The mixed feeling of joy, fear, passion.
The keenness for having a new array of beautiful and inspiring souls.
The moment for increasing the souls in your circle.
The moment for reliving the feeling of newness.
New Beginnings always brings an insane amount of perceptions in a life.
Oct 10, 2021
Oct 10, 2021 at 4:07 PM UTC
Hello old friend,
With your tall sweeping evergreens
Towering almost endlessly
Into a blue clear sky
The endless swell of traffic
Cars peeling down the street
The smell of roasted coffee beans
From some hole-in-the-wall cafe
The obvious transplant donning an umbrella in the Autumnal warm rain
The light sprinkling of water enough
To nurture the verdant green
Hello old friend,
Mt. Rainier, she greets me,
Looming ever majestically
Over expanses of tree and road
Her white peaks cresting over
Fields of blossoming flowers
The tulip fields scattered across the sloping
Skagit Valley, her vineyards spanning for miles and miles
Hello old friend,
Seattle's grungy nature
Masked by her streets of trendy
Cafes and farm-to-table restaurants
Her mom and pop cafes
Her canvas gray dress marred by graffiti
And street tags
The busker on the street corner panhandling for change
The homeless sheltering under a cardboard blanket outside of a Starbuck's
The transplant with the umbrella stopping down to drop change in their jar
The crumpled dollar
The locals who pointedly ignore him on their way to work, to school, back home, to somewhere...anywhere...
The constant dazed bustle
The stench and pungent odor of ****
Curling around every seedy corner and
Affluent street crossing
Hello old friend,
It's been a while
Let me nestle into your newness
A new coast greets me across the horizon
Replaced by homespun everything
Pastoral fields where the bovine and equine reside
Hello old friend,
I suppose you're home now
I suppose you're home...
Oct 30, 2021
Oct 30, 2021 at 10:46 PM UTC