"nowness" poems
raindrops bounce on
the window frame,
reminding me we're
in this room together.
your words are raindrops
playing on my metal frame -
nowness splatters
into existence -
you remind me that
someday we won't be
in this room together.
you repeat endlessly
between my ears -
I sing along to my favorite song -
I want to tell you
all the lyrics
but my words fall
like raindrops.
unspoken are my
tear-shaped raindrops -
their tremors taunt me
on this side of the pane -
you remind me that
we were always
in the wrong
alternate universe.
the raindrops refract
your light,
dissolving a warm glow
into the evening fog,
you remind me that you're gone.
maybe the rain stopped,
but the silence is only
the absence of your voice,
the rest is just noise.
I think of our raindrops now -
smiling -
knowing that you have an umbrella.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
Elegant you are
so precious
a twist of wings
so gracious
—in this nowness
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:37 AM UTC
Hops and topsy-turvy jumps ― blurred movement
muddles across the dewy meadow floor,
as though dawn brushes away the sandman’s magic
from the corner of sleepy eyes,
to cast an enchanting spell
A sudden hazy yet abrupt stop…
hastily, halting , frozen motionless
Stillness, as if some final destination has been reached…
Neck stretched and craning,
tilted with an eye to mother earth ;
a canted focus beyond interruption
In the blink of an eye,
with a vigor too rapid to capture,
as the nowness of urgency flashes ―
She stretches the earthworm
with the grasp of subsistence
knowing after fall becomes the long winterlude.
The morning sun illuminates the glow of the native Maple’s
glorious fiery orange and yellow color palette
A steady stream of animation rushes in and out
of the giant tree’s golden splendor
Abundance perishes with the seasonal gardens decay.
Mornings of blueberry and strawberry feasts
have left the red breasted robbers foraging
for the last rotting apples the deer have left behind.
Harbingers of spring…
Blueberry sneakers…
Gleaners of fall and winter..
“Teeek” “tuk” “tuk” “Tseep”....
fills the overhead air
with a beautifully chaotic verve
The flock returns repeatedly to and fro the towering Maple
to the ripened cornucopia of scarlet berry clusters of the Mountain Ash
The Robin’s flock ravage and gorge on the plentiful delights
Soon the crimson berries fuel of flight will disappear
as if it were only an unspoken allusion
of the passing seasons
The pearl gray sky is an ominous backdrop
for the fickle fleeting migrants
Daylight fades as the flock disappears
into a break in the clouds
fleeting unto the ominous pending winter sky…
In the blink of an eye ... life’s senescent seasons
transform the stormy whirling winds of change
bearing the golden Autumn leave’s splendor
across the rolling vista
like a higgledy-piggledy murmuration
of a migrating beautiful mess
The naked rooted scaffold’s branches stretch
across the sprawling tapestry of the wooded sanctuary.
Winter flocks of Thrush and Robins,
arrive on a frosty new dawn
Red breast feathers puff with the morning sun’s rays,
warming the tree tops leaning toward the southern sky;
Their journey here and now,
from distant mountainous horizons,
is part of a soul’s sacred circle of life…
November rivers ...the final autumn entry of 2017
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
Temperance for itself was not her virtue,
Nor was meekness.
She often would boldly and loudly
Run into the fray,
Singing lullabies
Half-naked
Dragging that **** one-eyed bear
Behind her.
She wielded it like a poleaxe
Against my knee
As she dashed into
Her Nowness of being
Then out of the room,
Her new-found feet
Carrying her off
Around the next adventures corner.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
Ello, Enlightenment.
Yet we meet again,
Your elusiveness is profound.
Because, I haven’t found,
How to hold on to thee.
Shall I sit underneath a tree?
No, I will just be.
In tune with nature,
Like the bees.
In my future,
What changes things? Powerfully,
I think, that it is me.
Self-centeredism is the past,
Forget your sins.
Commit good only, please.
Freeze time. Forward-backward,
Not an option, but now we are here.
Forget time, unleash your nowness.
We are here as sentient beings.
Can you change anything?
Be that which you are,
But don’t be the same as you were.
Growth comes from you,
Inside your mind.
It’s a choice, so choose first;
That which is better.
Don’t settle like the dirt under your feet.
Push forward and see the beautiful
Being that you can be,
that you are to me.
By: GeoEthE
Georges Ethan Eloquin
Good Environmental Ethics
Great Energy Everywhere
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
a green screen,
the imaged voice
in my head.
all is
but
what it is.
and when
spring comes,
wounded trees
bear a blossom
in their own blood.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC
Older-than-you people speak
But their words scream
Bombardments of condescension and pseudowisdom
"Things will happen and people will change"
They don't
And they don't
Ensnared by the lure of expectation
Their promise is just beyond your grasp after a billion grasps
One step away...for a trillion miles
But the potential of the now is undiscovered
Yesterday filled with regret and nostalgia
Tomorrow, well, it never comes
Nowness could be happiness
...Once the rest is gone
Isn't that what they should tell you?
And, but, can you?
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 1:54 AM UTC
Our lives are set-up in beautiful hypothetical.
Propositions swirl around like conveyor-belt sushi- delights to choose at semi-random.
Light and fluffy brightly colored choices.
Candied aftermaths of promise.
We stare at the world like through a pane of glass that houses every good thing.
Select a sweet impermanence.
Finger a whim.
Cast yourself onto a game of chance.
Play your favorite song on the jukebox of 'nowness'.
Skip all of the imperfections in a sidewalk.
Dandy through your daydreams.
To want is to behold.
To wish is to brush the tips of splendor.
All of it free for now.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
Born between a Womans legs--its always been that way,
never has been any different nor will it be any different.
Wrenched from sublime existence in the womb into a world
only guessed at through womb walls of flesh and muscle.
Sounds only vaguely felt rather than heard,
now rudely,crudely,loudly heard through ears
newly awakened into facility.
Eyes opened to see these big things occupying space all around.
Things that look like a distorted baby.
Youll learn later that it is age and food and experience
that distorts the babies body up to and beyond adulthood.
But now your nakedness feels air all over your wet skin.
Fingers,hands holding touching--
moving you this way and that way,
but no words in your head to describe it all.
Only seeing smelling feeling and touching with new fingers and senses,
fists closed at first--senses dormant at first.
Then a voice(for that's what it is)says sounds and words
(for that's what they are).
And other voices talk and laugh and cry (for that's what they do).
Sounds in your ears.
Sights in your eyes.
Touch on your skin.
Smells in your nose.
All these registering in your brain.
FEELING FEELING.
Lifetime has started in a different way to Wombtime.
The clock of your life has begun its ticking.
Your existence is being measured.
Until one day you look into a mirror
and see the Man or Woman you've become.
Known as so and so.
Believing in such and such.
Knowing this and that.
And all that time and space
in between birth and the nowness.......
You smile at your reflection,
note the wrinkles,
the suntan,
and you wonder where it all went to?.
More importantly you wonder
where is it all going to?.
www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
the maze
inside the rules of the car
you promise me that no matter what
insane or compromising thought might
have arisen from either our mouths,
there would always be the maze to keep us as friends- naked friends. ******* friends. hot, **** blonde and brown haired beasts summoning our human equity to arouse and arraign each other, each's other:
say,
drowning in internacional shipping bombings, lost at terminals, aboard flights.
noting our beasts
the minimalist pianissimo of black and white keys, the growing spirits of a Richter violin filling us up
with anti-matter, inside this hours black tideless extremes. this place's mooring soporific tinders. You placed this cart of humanness too close to the life you live
even say,
rules i wanted to know but
never have to practise in your absence
nowness self-less and losing to the light, losing to the ocean, each ounce of life is now vastly different
inside of me
where dead worms
cannot crawl
i continue to die beside your sprawl
where heavy night brings memories of
your skin affixed n entwined
each of your twelve unspoken names
each of these hours that won't be mine
and as this box of earth resigns
its peace, i wish never to have known
this haunting sea, where quaffing like
the enigma of misery
my secret voice cannot be free
my eyes cannot bare their sight to see
if ever chance should be
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 4:02 AM UTC
We were good.
While you were ****** and I was intoxicated.
I saw you through a Rosé tinted wine glass and felt your eyes caress me through the
Constant,
Concupiscent
THC haze.
We were junkies.
Sybarites on substances,
Addicted to lingered kisses.
****** on lust, wrapped golden.
Eye to eye and skin on skin.
Our altered minds in synchronicity.
Our bodies
pulsing
pulsing
pulsing
To instinct's beat, the almost thereness.
The best bit was always the almost thereness
while high as a kiteness because
After there,
Comes
Here and nowness
And
my mouth is dry
And your lips are tight
And you won’t speak to me.
So I try to ask you if...
But you shut your eyes so you don’t hear me and I know the answer.
You make me hate myself almost as much as you hate me so I know you’ll never love me.
But.
Your lips part in the coldest lie as we lie cold and lonely,
In the shared bed.
Sober and resentful.
La petite mort melancholic.
Me? Do I hate you too?
No!
I just don’t like you any more.
I’m not sure that I ever did.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
Ok, let me get this straight..
actually no.
I don't want it straight..
straight never went .. straight
to what it's supposed to lead to
Let me get this curved?
maybe that would help
then again..
curved is straight with a dent
what if I have multiple
d n s
e t
Then let me get this dented?
ups and downs?
urgh... de ja vu...
Let me get this...
now..
that's more like it ...
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 4:23 AM UTC
It's floating and falling at once. There's no footing, but still a softness that eases the passing hours. If tomorrow is a problem, it's tomorrow's problem as I sink into a perfect nowness that extends beyond the reach of time.
It's dark out here under the cloudy half moon. We sit comfortably in silence serenaded by the popping drops of leftover rainwater careening to their next place of rest. They'll surely be gobbled up by the cracks or the ******* air or the perfect flow of water right down the drain and out to the rivers and the lakes of the many.
Alone with the smokey dark, so unlike the music of the forest songs in the old home that now belongs to some other child who might be wondering at my initials in the long dried concrete. What ever became of the small strange hands that cast their delicacy immortal on that casual day one summer, one year, so far away from the tiny reach of these brand new fingers?
Don't stand on the big fan, child, or try to fly by lifting your long skirt just enough to feel the hot billows underneath. Wait (oh the waiting!) for the hand of god to fill your body with balloons, and only then will you rise straight up and up and up till the farthest star is a blaring blot behind you on the white black sky.
Sit there with the moon then and ask your secret questions. The answers in your swollen heart will sing like the cicadas clinging the trees and the jungle air will float you home on a cloud in the breeze.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
She no longer wonders
What her husband Brian
Is doing or where he
Goes or if he misses
Her; she has Una now
All to herself, no more
Sharing her *** life with
Brian and his quick fix
*** and his annoying
Sleeping afterwards sad
Routine. The last time she
Met him for a talk and
Tea to discuss their plans
For divorce, he sat there
Moodily smoking and
Stirring his tea with the
Spoon provided in the
Café and gazing out
The window at the rain
Running quickly down the
Windowpane. On what grounds?
He’d asked looking into
Her eyes, the lips she once
Kissed, unkissable now,
The dull wateriness
Hanging in there in his
Big blue eyes. Grounds? I’m in
Love with a woman and
******* her to heaven
And back, she’d replied, her
Voice carrying over
To other tables where
Old couples sat and who
Stared back at her softly
Tut-tutting. After a
Few meetings and him then
Knowing that she’d not be
Coming back home to him,
The road to a divorce
Was agreed and he sat
Back in the chair in the
Café with that sad eyed
Puppy kind of stare. Hope
She burns in hell, he’d said
Bitterly, maybe then
You’d come back home to me,
Nuala, and forget
This folly of *******
Women. Now she sits still
Beside Una on their
Shared big bed, feeling the
Closeness of her flesh, the
Warmth, the smell, the love shared,
The sense of fulfilment
After a good seeing
To. Dublin was all right,
But she wanted to go
Further south, away from
People who might know her,
People who pointed and
Gestured and muttered words
Behind their hands in shops
And stores. Una kisses
Her cheek, the lips wet and
Warm, her hand rubbing her
Thigh, the memory of
Brian healing over,
His image like a scab
She seldom picks at or
Touches. As she kisses
Una’s arm she senses
All her flesh tingle, as
If set to wires of
Electricity, as
If kissed by angels, touched
By God, seeing heaven
Through parted clouds, and the
Memory of Brian’s
Last pathetic **** fades
Like melting snow, with this
Deep nowness of love for
Una, brave new world, this
Inner fire and glow.
(2010 POEM.)
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 11:19 AM UTC
The sun blocks the darkness from entering
The fun blocks the pain of nowness
The cast grays blocks the blues of the smiles
The dark skin blocks the center the blacks, blues
The warmth blocks the freezing cold bitterness
The ignorance blocks the peace of painless
The eyes block the center of reality
The canvas block the passion of weakness
The hands block the closeness of grace
The heart blocks the sins of giving
The wakeness blocks the guilty of staying
The chair blocks the truth of the past
The creatures block the cup of fullness
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 11:43 AM UTC
There's a nowness to it,
they drop words and it's
like a fight between hummingbirds,
but how do they do it?
the
poetry pistoleros
sans
sombreros
performing like heroes.
I love them all.
Oct 15, 2021
Oct 15, 2021 at 2:34 PM UTC