"nodules" poems
Brown oak leaves underfoot, last year's sodden
reminders that newness always ends. But
not today
while the creek, silent in summer, chortles
about last night's rain, full of spring vigor
far below
the limestone bluff edge where
I stand, chert nodules and fractals
peeking through
springy new undergrowth, broke down
limbs, leaf litter and dark soil. I came
for morels
but it's too early, too chill yet. Tomorrow's
predicted sun may bring them out. Early
mayapple
sprouts fool me, draw me to admire other
understory plants: trillium, maidenhair fern,
spring beauty,
johnny jump-up and more whose names
I knew once but forgot. I came alone and
I don't need
names. Names mean nothing without
voices and other ears. I love the silence
I bring here.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
for you
Never have I seen you,
or touched thy breeze-smoothed skin,
caressed the rounded angles of thy cheekbones,
with the worn~smooth heel of my thumb
it matters not
for long and forlorn,
have I come to love you
fat or pretty,
your physicality is inconsequential,
we have bound and blind~binded
our visible connection
by oaths and contemplations,
all codified in worthy action verbs
whispered in each other ears
we have spent our nodules of time
silently caressing,
word gentling,
and falling in love
this night has brought me
no sleep,
this day has brought me
no pecuniary relief
but words embellish me with hope,
dress and drape my face with
coming attractions,
for that alone,
*as if more were
even possible,*
I tell you this
straight out and unconfused,
I adore you
we are a lyric, a harmony,
an aesthetic unique,
for you have never seen my face,
yet this night,
thy comeliness has
stirred and up lifted,
thy tone and tiny gasps
my sundered parts
refilled and reattached with our own esprit de corps,
ethereal, ephemeral, yet so real,
I raise them,
to my lips,
and feel you as I do so,
gentling my cheeks
with your breathes breeze,
asking me live with joy....
tho never have I seen you
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
flourishing man twigs
your skin binder
seperating into
live lizard leather
you voice is making broken mouth noises
too much suction
FROM OUT THE
choir nodules
limpid eye spokes spin
in a humane wood grain
in
calliper, or in plurale tantum
knee cap tattoos
of crawling skunk stars
toggle cap vegetable yoga
in giant pollen helmets
sports magnets
in half wi fi marathon
what kind of *** uniforms
are they hiding in the cenotaph
sunday war things perhaps
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC
The bongo drums of his thought carrom across the cosmos,
revenanting across the dawn with nodules of coltan from beyond.
A clear channel for reading the universe:
"When you come to a fork in the road, take it."
"Thank you for making this day necessary."
"It's déjà vu all over again."
"You can observe a lot by watching."
“Ninety percent of the game is half mental.”
“Pair up in threes.”
The smell of a quantum of disconnect,
the taste of the magenta of non-sequitur,
the sight of logic colliding with chaos,
the touch of an insightful short-circuit,
the music of senseless syntax that says it all.
Coinciluckily, the saving grace: "I really didn't say everything I said."
"Always go to other people's funerals; otherwise they won't go to yours."
Who else would say, “You’ve got to be very careful if you don’t know where you are going, because you might not get there.”
Que sera, sera - "It ain't over till it's over."
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 2:39 PM UTC
The vein bleeds into routes on the flower,
Spreading rivers of nodules and colours,
Fastidiously opening up its body
To receive the ravenous bumblebee.
It is the beginning of a friend ship, a love
Consummated wholly with carnal desire
And mutually symbiotic congress.
The bee drinks up the nectar like its last supper.
This connection doesn’t demand anything.
They give and receive, void of expectations and desire.
The animal and the flower exist in their au naturale state
Long after the romance of spring **** them by.
Shalini Nayar
© 2005
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
By 3 months a fetus has developed its own
unique set of fingertips and by 10 it's supposed
to have developed a sense that s is loved--
so why am I 12 years old and feeling
like no one could ever love a body
as scarred as mine? I am a flower and I
am my own sun but I'm 12 and I haven't found that
yet. You're the fat clouds that drop
hot rain on my forehead and I do not
realize that too much water bogs roots down,
severs the nodules that keep it down. Rips
it from the ground so that I have no earth.
I am 12 and I have my first F and I'm
sick deep down because I know that it's
all I'm worth. My mother has
taught me how to love--with poisoned fire,
with words that speak of anything but.
And I scramble to avoid blaming you
for the 4-foot child that thinks
death is the ultimate prize, I refuse to
face your cruelty and call it abuse.
You'll never be out of the rain, they would
say--you'll find a dry patch, friends,
love but you'll never be out of the
downpour, hand-me-down hate cascading
in rivulets so much like blood.
"Family" is a bad word that turns my veins cold
but I will tell you that I love you, and I'll
get the words back, sandwitched between
bouts of rage and nights of crying myself awake.
I may never leave the shadow of your claws but
I will cling to this semblance of me that I've dusted
off of filthy bookshelves, piles of clutter, and sunlight,
do anything to keep it from crumbling
under the force of our years. I
am my own mother. I am my own sun.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC
One needn’t know the nodules of my
secret self
to clasp to my
super nova-
The ballpoint pen bears meaning beyond the plastic
even after extensive efforts
you can't expect to be the one
to ceremoniously break it
but broken, does it matter which beaten,
battered guise it takes?
Consider the others like it:
a million pieces of shattered sharpness, still producing ink.
No matter the tired efforts of your fingers,
extensions of the brain which aches for escape,
ragged nails picking at that plastic piece--
the potential remains.
Consider the ink: succinct
reserved, and well.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
death crept up my back
and fingered each one
of my spine's nodules
breathing icy wisps
into my left ear
laying me
deeper into my bed
dread penetrating
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 7:07 AM UTC
"Sonnets From a Conversation With a Friend XXVIII "
Trying to love the reflection riddles
Abound purely from the brain perceiving
As best it can particles pieces lumps
Aggregate nodules worded in the
Beginning of humanity grass leaves
Pond finger on up to various worlds
Entire infinitely manifesting
Wave after wave form sentient beings
Conscious i ego ***** movers shakers
Of god stuff psychic unity of kind
Compassion hate greed mind river just us
Together birth flow death to the sea
Never away from except the incomplete
Image reflected we're trying to love
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
The breeze brews black as Jason's ewe beats bold and blue.
At first glance - second even - past I
Rushed; brushing you from sight.
But now the mind drifts to nooks and nodules only the most desecrated synapses wake.
Soon I am distracted by the sight that sits before my eyes as they cast themselves left; find
Change. Monochrome shades; which have known each and every blade.
None alone, they condone propensity
Whilst surviving, prone. Unknowing,
Of what is yet to come. For what fun
Will it be to see them run and flee
Foresaking the rest without pause for breath, after all we are what is left
Each new lot an unruly and cumbersome hoard of faked shock and dross
Guised cynically as truth. Perhaps not a surprise to see that their starless faces are to me of more value than you.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 4:31 PM UTC