"occlude" poems
don’t tell me “I love you” ~by Roxanne, for Cyrano~
<>
that’s a verse I’ve heard many too times before,
that’s a curse of low majesty, a quatrain too plain,
if that’s your best sally, retreat, say no more,
too simp verses, or ungolden silences, agents of dissatisfying pain
I need the best of your taste
the finest visions that you eyelids occlude,
make haste for my mouth grows exceedingly
impatient for the other senses to do their tandem wooing
slap only my face with the creature comforts others savor,
words of diamonds and pink pearls mined from your breast,
the bejeweled words that will decorate my evergreen,
that never dies, lest, unless and until,
you want my mortal affection suppressed
give me your linguistic promiscuity, wake me from the stupor
of ordinary, arouse me with thy tongue coiling, a bee sting delivery,
a wet poem that makes all my orifices!|offices weep, your mouth,
my souls recouper,
your wizardry bewitching,
answer my inquiry with unbounded festivity
then and after all, the plain simplicity of an “I love you,”
will be edged with sublimity, my mercies, your mercies
our jointed, sharp pointy, introverting, interlocking,
*our futures becoming
our pasts*
11:07am
19-9-30
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https://thenewgroup.org/production/cyrano/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwz8bsBRC6ARIsAEyNnvoENpdnWyqeUEwq0avNStgWCf4CocB1i239c2mHdNSFF8gOlWZtfjsaAls4EALw_wcB
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
Standing in the August sun,
Your skin soaks up the light,
And saves it for November,
When clouds occlude the sky.
The gentle breeze softly coaxes
The folds of your paisley dress,
To gather up their courage
And ask your hair to dance.
Silent finches straining to hear,
Her soaring, piccolo laugh.
The waves cresting to see,
Her pure and radiant smile.
Like stars that come to speckle
The navy nighttime sky,
Each morning a brand new freckle
Appears below your eye.
Adorned with grace and charm,
With patience and joy complete,
Dare not to look away,
None other can compete.
Grumbling fingers,
Untying scarlet ribbons,
White banners to unfurl,
And forfeit to the beauty,
Of my gorgeous summer girl.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
Language is an intricate map. One that we've collectively agreed upon as a means of communicating about the 'territory', or experience. Life.
We can draw a tree, and we can write the word "Tree", but neither are trees.
We can draw a pipe, and we can call it a pipe, but it is still only an image of a pipe.
http://www.exoticexcess.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/this-is-not-a-pipe-by-rene-magritte.jpg
Language is not the territory.
Language is but a toolbox. A toolbox filled with lots of cool toys and fun sounding words and some interesting etymologies.
But sometimes the task at hand requires a tool we've not yet conceived of, let alone one we have in our toolbox.
Different languages have different tools, but many will suit similar tasks, even if not exactly the same.
This is no reason to assume that, because our particular map is imperfect, that the territory is somehow more absurd.
The absurdity arises when we fail to recognize and respect the fallacies of language. A spiritual person will understand this notion immediately.
This, however, isn't necessarily to say a religious person will grasp it, and likewise is also not to say that a totally secular person won't.
In fact, I find that many of our conflicts with ourselves and others only arise because we squabble about our interpretations of the maps instead of realizing that the maps are in fact tools to achieve an end, but not the end itself.
Once we can step back from our ego
Once we can admit that we can be wrong
Once we realize we've been deceived
Can we begin to again grow strong.
Borders are maps. Humanity is a territory.
Dogma is a map. Reality is a territory.
Education is a map. Life is a territory.
We mustn't allow our perceptions of maps to occlude our ability to live as we are, an interdependent family of meat-bags twirling around a rather uncaring furnace in space.
This is where dogma comes in, and tends to ruin it for the 'little' people.
This is where money comes in, and substitutes itself for value.
This is where entertainment comes in, and substitutes itself for truth.
This is where ACTA, SOPA, PIPA, the Patriot Acts, and the NDAA come in
And move us one step further towards the Vierte ***** (Fourth kingdom. The Nazis fancied themselves to be the Dritte ***** or Third Kingdom).
Recognize the signs. Fabricate your own map. Then learn to leave it on the shelf.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
<>
“Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much?
Have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by Walt Whitman
§§§
*A night of reckoning, calculations repeated-checked, sums divided,
did I use too many, or not enough, words to be understood, verbiage eloquent,
did daytime reveal my poetic meanings, or double-occlude it’s essence?
I have reckon’d Manhattan Isle, circumnavigated its riverbed boundaries, a younger me, by kayak rounded it, from the Spuyten Duyvil Creek to the Battery, 14,500 acres give or take, a lifeatime to complete a dead reckoning, an unfinished full configuring.
but haven’t reckon’d that Earth and I will be entwined/entombed in each other’s arms, until such time, one of us or both, will be reduced to cosmic dust, our pride, our poems, will be equally unimportant and irrelevant, I reckon.
in retrospective rear view perspective, come to understand that we spend every moment of our lives, reckoning, determine the odds of which fork we will take, laugh out loud, for each moment, a poem is titled, the resultant, a poem - who needs a muse, you’ve got choices!
So, yes, Walt, the questing answers you’ve requested:
Aye, yes, yup, but no to pride, for pride and poetry in one sentence is
a death sentence at multiple levels, pride, poetry, ego, suicide,...sins,
so better no proud for it is the entree, the invitation to fall-fail...*
§§§§§
12:03AM Frieday
May 15th
my deadline missed,
but what is three minutes,
but empty pride...
Manhattan Island
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 8:51 AM UTC
Drape my conscience
In threads of spirits
And let reality's smog
Occlude our dumb wits
Soulless eyes reflect
Deranged, dusty lights
Bottles close at hand
Flung far into the night
Sobriety quickly fades
Unveiling bitter truths
Of enamored facades
And follies of the youth
The stark sky spins rapid
Emotions spilled on blackened walls
All sense of reason departs
And wild fantasies come alive
Wavelengths intertwine
Smiles rife with desires
Eyes slowly close half-way
And all hindrance expires
Bodies tenderly woven
Lips on insanity's lip
Mindless and uncaring
Hands in lustful grip
After the tryst is done
Our memory shall depart
We cling on to bitter *****
And the embers of the heart
When the smoke clears
And garish reason descends
Guilt follows; paths diverge
No memory of us remains.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
I am not a denominator of original sin,
some remnant or aftermath of fallen grace.
Indeed, I am hardly human at all.
I live in the spaces between breath and mist,
where gravity dares suspend its hold
and all matter slips away until nothing matters.
I pour drinks so I can afford to drink.
It pays my way towards the dead-end
now occluding the avenue that used to stretch
beyond it.
I am not a believer in disorganised action.
Each moment spent in self-destruction
was thoughtfully done to bring about art and demise.
I live in the moment between charm quark and decay,
where gravity falls to weakness
and all that matters slips into temperance.
I eat only to satisfy appetite.
It tastes of nothing but the dead-ends
that now occlude the avenue that used to stretch
far beyond me.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
The leaves parted
Pirouetting to the ground
And out he steps
Shaking spider webs from underneath his armpits.
He holds down a limb
And peers into the place he hid
And hears it call him back.
So he turns to see a world
That had forgotten him
But as it sees his cool visage
It crowds the city streets
And cheers for his parade at every corner.
And so he said,
That he would one day be again
For now he stews within the fires of
A world of solid walls.
So he crumbles back in shape
And stands alight for just a moment
Till his duty calls
And he is ****** back into hiding
Where there is no life
For him, though many say they see it there
It is the prison walls
That so occlude his sight that he be blind.
And with that moment of
Rekindled embers in the fire pit
He came to life again,
And warmed the hearts of those who once knew him
He washed away the past's foul taste
And brought anew the esoteric harmony
That so eluded us without him
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
Contrasted
Occlude
Nutation
Turntable
Reclusive
Apathy
Portmanteau
Oedipus
Soliton
Inerrant
Tricorn
Inculcate
Ovoid
Nowhere
:/noun/ käntrəpəˈziSHən; A relationship between two indications when a Thing with affirmation of another are also a negation of the affirmation in the opposition of the other.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel,
As if I’m lost.
Perhaps — I could,
Live under innocent white and blue skies,
Adoring pink fescues and red saccharum,
and
tangerine sunsets that
careen lavender and ivory,
aroma candied
arousing the birds, but rather
I am
Mending memories within the black nimbuses
within my cerebrum
Attempting to occlude unhappiness
But with the zephyr
The castle walls drop
The crows intrude, and ignorance floods
Now
I am drowning,
Grasping onto torched remnants of
A people that I once enjoyed,
Until their eyes were forced shut
from the stinging salts
and their words became
as venomous as mambas.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 5:38 PM UTC
Hi
from the night sky
We roam the void, devoid of any fears
Our blue sphere behind, a red one ahead
Headed to a rock so silent and dead
And yet, back home, there are cheers
Remember us as we make it to Mars
The two robots rumbling, raising sand
Sent to examine, excavate, explore
Plucking wonders from the ore
Wandering around the wasteland
A land of dangers and dunes and dark and dust
And crust and cold and craters and clouds
High
in the white sky
Remember us as you gaze at the stars,
For when times are tough and severe
As they veer towards war and cruelty
To peer into the abyss and, yet, persevere
Is nothing less than a lesson of ingenuity
Remember your Promethean flame
Its blaze, the bravery; its ember, the brain
With that fire you made us wings
This burning desire to be airborne is our bond
As we dare mighty things
With a yearn to belong
From the pond to the sea to the ocean
to beyond!
We'll remember men kindly
longing,
And hope, perhaps idly,
That mankind is coming
right behind
Clouds occlude our view as you
Hide
in the bright sky
And, still,
A blue dot ought to be there
To believe, even being small and pale
That it can dare to achieve such a tale:
The dark is not too much to bear
G'bye
from the night sky
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 1:55 PM UTC
I'm a lucky girl
U know why
Because there's a guy
That I like ,
He likes
me back
Now what are the chances of that
happening ? :)
Flirting time on occlude on
All parts of my body
Introspective is bright
No dissent
A sidle here & there
Halycon !!!!! Yeee Haa
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
A night of reckoning, calculations repeated-checked, sums divided,
did I use too many, or not enough, words to be understood, verbiage eloquent, did daytime reveal my poetic meanings, or double-occlude it’s essence?
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 4:14 PM UTC