"occluded" poems
“Moby **** Herman Melville
<•>
~for the lost at sea~
after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining
the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls
sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality
I’m called to depart my beach shoreline unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming
god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion, nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties
my in-camera brain eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles
walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?
puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others
perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered
Memorial Day 2018
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
Slotting into geological time
"As a man thinks, so is he", ferillergood ye may
as well add as subtract.
Am i right or am I wrong?
Dexter, yeh, that'n
or Sinister.
Being left or right,
That's jest sided-ness, a sort,
a me-trick-able stackable thing,
with an in
side and an out
side and a top outside and a bottom outside
and a front inside and a front backside
and a back frontside with its own inside.
Like you.
Value pends 'pon sorts of things
into similarities of singularities,
if I got that message un occluded or
unveiled of sacred meanings.
There seemed to be no code
"if a man (voice) says a thing that is true, but
I did not say it: does that make it untrue?"
I answered, "Lord, you are truth."
Wow. Look what I said. truth you are lord.
Punctuated equilibrium humm white noise of wonder
can it be?
'Think so.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 3:17 AM UTC
As I travel back to my younger days,
I remember my occluded mind.
The doings of neighbourhood and community,
Being taught always,
Darkness is sorrow,
White light is where
Peace and beauty you'll find...
That black shirt needs no washing,
As you cannot see its furrow,
White ones should be cared...
Hide yourselves with a black cloth,
Show yourself off to the world
With an angel ring that's white....
My heart is about to rot,
My mind with agony was already whirled,
I shall now began to fight,
For my skin Is dark,
But is brighter than your soul...
Jul 2, 2020
Jul 2, 2020 at 1:03 PM UTC
What was her name?
**** I can’t remember.
It was a boy’s name
made feminine
with a little “i” at the end
like maybe hearing it would
make you think of
some fat guy making pizzas
until you see it
spelled out or
until it becomes attached
to her lips and hair and
skin.
The “i” was not dotted
with a little heart,
(not her style at all) but
I should have a picture
in a box some where with more pictures.
I don’t.
I’ve got little notes,
tiny thoughts scribbled
on empty match book covers,
on the backs of
pretentious
business cards,
in the borders of
the mutilated,
amputated flesh
of decrepit
used up yellow pages,
ripped from a dead and
disjointed phone book.
I woke up from this dream
and groped for something
to scrawl on,
anything,
because it seemed significant
at 2:38 am.
In the desert somewhere,
(I’ve never even been)
you were
looking out the window
and the way the parched
dry light crackled
around you
you might have been an angel
or a sign
partially occluded by glass
advertising something
I could never afford
like family or god
when suddenly you were not
a silhouette,
not back lit,
but glowing.
You were so in love, with
who I don’t know, and you
went into free fall
back
onto the bed
pulled your knees up
to your chest and
kicked your legs giggling.
I was part dead, half ghost
and still happy that you
were so happy.
I said, “you’re pregnant?”
knowing the way you
know things without
really having a way
of knowing
in a dream.
You laughed again
grabbed your little dog up
in your arms,
(I’ve no idea where the pup
came from), and baby-whispered,
“You’re going to cut
the umbilical,
aren’t you?”
and I woke with
the image of that mongrel
chewing through
the cord.
I am
waiting at the pharmacy
and the…
technician,
is reading the
cryptic symbols
penned in
indiscernible Latin,
my prescription.
She is not beautiful
but very fuckable
And in my mind
I am constructing an
image of her ******
likening
the shape,
size, color, etc.,
to her mouth,
when I see
my own writing on
the back
through her precise
fingers.
The tech,
she is holding a
snapshot of her.
It might as well be
a picture of me
vomiting or
************ or
defecating.
This
is what I have left,
my version of a photo,
my dream,
scrawled on the back
of my medicine.
**** getting better.
I ****** it from her hand.
I leave fast. I will
never go back.
This is no chemical imbalance.
This is not my inheritance.
The loss and pain, sometimes,
that's the pill we need to swallow.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 11:14 PM UTC
As a teenage boy I used to fall asleep at night
listening to the graveled voice of Ernie Harwell
fashion for me word-images of the exploits
by a band of superheroes called the Detroit Tigers.
In those semi-lucid moments before slumber,
I could see the shimmering outline of my destiny:
you see all American boys are meant to be Tigers.
So imagine my confusion, when I fractured
the right talus bone my Junior year of high school,
even putting on weight around the middle,
where no athlete worth his pin stripes would gain.
My karma had begun to take on mass.
I began to acquire knowledge, as the only perceived defense
against some parallel universe impinging upon reality.
Oh, I had everyone convinced, even my keenest teachers
believed I was destined to make my mark in scholarly pursuits.
But no one saw the crying ego of one meant to be a Tiger,
nor how that bottled up the emergence of the Man.
Never reconciled, the Man curled up in fetal dormancy.
Lifespan became synonymous with interstellar drift.
And every encountered star of knowlege was dwarfed,
having long ago collapsed of its own gravity.
Still the heavens of knowledge are auspicious,
so I looked outward, when all the answers lay concealed within.
Only as my life left the outskirts of occluded reality
did I then begin to inherit from my instinctual id,
begin to listen to disconsolate internal voices,
who had known me all along, perhaps better than myself.
The thing is ... the stage has long been set on middle-age,
what props lie about are encrusted with patina,
laden with a dust impossible to gauge or preempt,
made worse by the lack of cast, save one.
Neither Beckett, nor Pinter, could have absurded this.
So, when my acts strike you as quixotic,
when I cut with a penknife through propriety,
it's because I finally remember what it meant to be a Tiger.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
What do they mean, this actor-as-if and the never-did, or says-he -never-did, sacrifice or sacred be made?
Primal, on to logic, come reason.
The artifice of sacrifice,
whatever necessitated making sacred a thought?
a sign for a time when words fail,
if words were to fail again,
in confusion after war,
this sign says
trust. Yes, such a sign. By this know us,
fret not, good news... not here...
secret. Sh.
Suffice to say sacrifice means more and less than most
Jordan Peterson /Sam Harris fans would act as if they believe
but, to live as if
be live
me
that's new at every opportunity, pay real close attention,
a safe zone, far from that same madding crowd…
(occluded allusion,
The Classic Far From The Madding Crowd Movie)
I see that crazy dog herd the sheep over the cliff, and I cringe
I cringed then, in the dark.
I was holding your hand but I've forgotten your name,
thanks for dropping by.
Tell Sis hi.
still
be live in the home
a safe zone, far from any madding crowd…
clouds are aloud
contrast to the blues and greens and puples and yes
keepemkeepemkeepem AI wantemferwampum
yeah, this part is
wat do you say? crazy weird need you add **** crazyshit weird ****
if you were a platypus, just cruisin' playin' hunt with hi-tech
magneto-electro-gravitonal sensors, in a pre release, like alpha
version of the proteins involved
And you find your way back to where you once belonged
blocked by a thing named a weir,
it 'lows water through, but not you.
What do you do?
the mud settles you, scout around,
an unhearable sound
an unfeelable touch,
a final beacon, repeating the final news from platypus you,
it worked. dis encorporation all gone rhythm engaged.
Est. system reliable against all obstacles: .166 billion years
by the measure of the man, who was the angel
rolling the rock back up the hill.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
Poet to my eyes, you are the sight of whitecaps
On the sea water, or the sudden turn of a bird
In flight and as the wave I roll and break,
With drowning wings that lift toward you, my sky.
Mistress to my soul, I am the nave of your holy
Cathedral. My head is but an occluded riff,
De-noting songs you make in aisling airs of light
Polyphony, my star over-sings the windy globe,
She swallows heaven, like swallows blacken the dusk.
Shearwater bird, strip my surface with your cutting
Wings. My waves peak to reach you starling girl.
The sloughing chill of winter dies quick in sighs
Waft asunder my little Indian summer, wake me
From sleep and I shall dream but once for your kiss.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 9:53 PM UTC
The old man tempts smoke down
The throat of green beer bottles
From the night before.
Cigarette a tool of precision,
Smoke falls like a lozenge
Until the bottom is occluded; endless.
When viewing art he takes to the moor,
Emergent properties of flocking birds,
Overhead patterns he can understand
Without knowing what it means.
Creation is ongoing, cumulative.
Bone upon bone, centuries of death
To build a monument for living.
The old man paints fissures on the foundations
That cultivate famous skylines,
Smoked windows interrupt sunlight;
No one is looking out for him.
The flocking birds circle the air;
Static black on the page - angry, restless.
When making art he suspends disbelief,
Essence of life locked in time,
No beauty in the fault-lines of a face
If no one has seen it smile.
Empires are falling, unknowing submission-
Tower of Babel, Interstate Highway;
All roads lead to terminal erosion.
The old man bites the skin
Around his weathered fingernails,
Fear is his mantra.
Cigarette a tool for soothing,
Smoke falls like a lozenge,
His hunger is permanent; endless.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
she was a neophyte to her own life,
syncopated heart beats to a still night.
occluded love behind steel bars.
ubraided her brain With mind scars.
staying reticent to the people her own home,
her transitory smile was well known.
for her smile was a beautiful sight.
it was left with the vestige of a loveless light.
only repudiation to what people preached,
feeling that her soul was a disparate beast.
her idiosyncrasies were inhuman in nature.
said to be intractable in her own behaviour.
never did she speak to humankind.
but inside her head was a loquacious mind.
only wanting a stasis within her sadness.
only to be taken by insanity and madness.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC
over teacup...fine porcelain..
delicately chipped....coniving eyes....scrutinised...tallying..gulliblity..naivete..desire...
wizened fingers...talonlike..
tattoo.....mesmerizing......
rhythms..
.......crystal ball... occluded....
fee exchanged..... hand......
presented....lifeline..short.....
love line....broken...tarot...
offered....indecsion..
..crystal....
....still cloudy...gap toothed...
..contortion...cards on....
table....impaired cognative function..accedes....
fee transferred....
.....cards..shuffle..pirroette.........inverted...laydown misere....
palaver..delivered....twocups... happy but sad.....prince of....
.....two sheets to wind....done
in....teacup rattles......
....session.........ended..crystal ball..sphere of silence....
.......future..still..shrouded..
...wallet..lighter... sozzled.....
laughter...all the.......
.............fun of the fair.........
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
Homesickness blues,
Blue skies; confused.
Paradise has slipped from view,
Occluded by opened windows
In emptied rooms.
Let the light fall in
But it falls on nothing.
Dust kicks up in the wind;
Brief interlude of a confident June
Before falling down again.
No single tongue that speaks my own,
Home was when I talked to you.
Now that you are gone
I wait by the phone
And hope you are waiting too.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 3:41 AM UTC
What is it
within the realm of
my Self
that has the nerve
to question the divinity
of this current, fleeting moment?
Is it not the vessel of Life, itself,
that is used to navigate
these, the occluded
Seas of Death?
Could it not be
that a Mind and Body
are the very salvation
over which we so toil?
Would it not be an act of pure mercy
to have the capacity to look around
and to think, and create
while, all the time,
being pulled under
by the inevitable tide of change
we, in English, chose to call
"Death?"
That, in itself,
should inspire me to carry on
and to turn an eye
up from the ground, back from the past;
to within my self; this current moment;
and on, upward:
to the skies and, likewise,
the future.
What is it about my Mind
that so enjoys, or perhaps requires
some selfish sense of 'overlooking'
for the sake of ephemeral comfort?
Alas,
I know what word I would use,
but I dare yet not to use it;
for, t'is that a word, itself,
isn't the concept, itself;
and it's use would be to misdirect
from the nature of the experience,
and to mistranslate what I feel.
I realize the necessity
for names; for words:
we use them to facilitate communication.
I also understand their limit:
there is a great realm
beyond the transparent restraints
of our Languages.
I would identify the culprit
as either "Ego," or "Id."
But, better yet, I would argue
"both and neither."
Freud had some great ideas,
but I tend towards Jung-
I could sooner call it the Shadow,
or at least one aspect of it.
The Shadow is semi-subconscious.
It is an amalgam of fears and repression.
It can only hold so much pressure
before it erupts.
So,
I implore you
to study your Shadow.
It has great potential for change.
Failing to utilize it
is to be utilized by it.
Make it work for you
or you will work for it.
Use your Shadow
to your advantage,
or it will use you
to that of it's own.
Pick apart your Self;
put it back together.
Sometimes that's easier said than done,
but, with a proper mindset,
it'll come and leave
before you even know it.
It happens all the time.
Refuse the shackles
of thy Shadow;
break the chains
and share with the world
the fleeting feeling
of self-liberation.
That is,
if someone doesn't misinterpret what you've said;
looking through the Shadow,
everything looks darker.
Realize where you're going.
Realize what you're doing.
Heed what you feed,
external or internal.
Seek Balance.
Explore Ideas.
Gain Understanding
no matter how slow:
at all
is far better
than so many.
No one may escape these Seas;
but you can start some ripples
that will propagate ad infinitum.
Ask. Practice. Learn. Grow.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
( Sonnet )
Poet to my eyes, you are the sight of whitecaps
On the sea water, or the sudden turn of a bird
In flight and as the wave I roll and break,
With drowning wings that lift toward you, my sky.
Mistress to my soul, I am the nave of your holy
Cathedral. My head is but an occluded riff,
De-noting songs you make in aisling airs of light
Polyphony, my star over-sings the windy globe,
She swallows heaven, like swallows blacken the dusk.
Shearwater bird, strip my surface with your cutting
Wings. My waves peak to reach you starling girl.
The sloughing chill of winter dies quick in sighs
Waft asunder my little Indian summer, wake me
From sleep and I shall dream but once for your kiss.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
the woven intercept
*the crescendo soft ascending,
commandeers our riveting,
we do not surrender, taken, nonetheless,
our deference to an elegant wand wave,
combo hopeful and all encompassing, the helplessness
both well understood
the progression higher, steady on,
a rapture going to a defined ending,
concluding voyage occluded, for now,
but the setting sun rays us a plan, a path,
teasingly, soto voce lips moving, “this way”
follow on the unsteady water
restraining resistance failing, flailing weakly,
it is both early morning and late afternoon,
the light warms, but each, a timbre different,
the pitch and intensity tho one and the same,
yet, order confused, still, we are given-in
giving in unwillingly
absolution unrequested, but awarded anyway,
shelter from the storm of safe and warm,
children begin first school day, but adults
know better, beginnings full of risks unforeseen,
the season changes, normalized, but would be refused
if we could
the waiver offered, the woven intercept read,
emotional intelligence so fragile, on and on,
sidekicks, lovers, connected by a dotted line highway,
the space between permitting anything we want,
but contradictories say, wanting everything, impossible
but the viable solution singular
how do we leave it then? we leave it thus, clarified,
separation is a kind of attachment, voidable, when,
kissing comes calling, from all around the world,
the crescendo ends, we each have read the intercept,
it concusses, interpretations differing, yet we don’t care
lying through embracing lips*
our tune is a mismatched matching,
a vision ending and yet anew hatching,
this is love, understanding, undefinable, undefeated,
a changeling definition, paths possessing multi-endings,
loving is the unceasingly, desirable imperfect struggling
unique, singular just like everyone else’s
9/4/19 9:07am
nml
(she'll know)
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 2:14 PM UTC
*Though our galaxy is
tinier than the eye of a smallest ant
Yet while loving you
I had a perforation is my heart
So big to swallow millions of such galaxies
Since birth this hole
Was occluded by
learnings and knowledge
And remained unopened
Till I saw YOU - my LOVE!
Rare it is
To unclose this hole
But just a glimpse of yours
Did the trick...!
Where, O Beloved
Where, O Beloved
You acquired this MAGIC
To open this hole in my heart
That can **** in the entire universe
In an instant
Just by a single thought
of LOVING YOU?*
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Once I noticed a great writer, and he had no comments.
To remedy this occluded justice,
I left a colorful comment upon one of his best.
Immediately a scathing message appeared from him,
Though he had never messaged me before;
I had an instant moment of understanding
Of why he had no comments; it was just too obvious
For my childlike mind to have avoided the trap.
A few more condescending messages,
And I deleted the comment; nothing more needed saying.
I had trespassed on hallowed ground,
I had merely to retrace my steps
And all should be forgiven.
I intruded upon your life, which I could never really see,
Through a series of locks and channels
It remained invisible to me.
And again I invaded privacy, caused consternation.
Compliant, I withdrew all my excursions to your door
And with an effort, I mitigated any unhappy
Emotions remaining there.
I do this to spare everyone more pain.
But it comes at a price.
Did you ever wonder how all the people
Who go to the grocery store on Sunday mornings
Could have such well-defined niche lives?
They think they are defined by what they do,
By a synthetic order that's tacked over the hours of freedom.
There is an affliction, in which every single hour
Must be made to account for itself.
But what if they woke up some day
Before the grocery shopping was done,
Would they feel they had missed out on something
Inestimable and uncommon; worth sleeping in for-
And replaced it merely with something
Utilitarian and predictable?
Be careful what you trade your Sunday mornings for.
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 6:20 AM UTC
by far the worst cruelty in love or affection or attachment is that it is involuntary,
when you care about a person,
they suddenly become a piece to your puzzle,
a part component of your being.
when they are absent from your life, truly a piece of your life is missing
a silhouette shaped wound, a metaphorically bleeding chalk outline,
the scene where a friendship died.
sometimes a person can come back,
but i think the wound can scar over.
it's shape distorts - their puzzle piece no longer fits the same
but with effort and will, you can make that piece fit again,
it will be tight in places,
it will feel odd and the image will not line up just right,
but
you will be whole again.
often they didn't ask for this, love is insanity that way, a kind of self harm
but volumes have been written on the stupidity or futility of love.
so we keep doing it, cutting and cutting. odd pieces here and there breaking us up,
fitting us back together. odd bits skewing the image,
the puzzle of our own life made occluded by the inclusion of others
people aren't meant to be islands to themselves.
but neither are they aren't meant to be filled with person shaped holes.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
Poet to my eyes, you are the sight of whitecaps
On the sea water, or the sudden turn of a bird
In flight and as the wave I roll and break,
With drowning wings that lift toward you, my sky.
Mistress to my soul, I am the nave of your holy
Cathedral. My head is but an occluded riff,
De-noting songs you make in aisling airs of light
Polyphony, my star over-sings the windy globe,
She swallows heaven, like swallows blacken the dusk.
Shearwater bird, strip my surface with your cutting
Wings. My waves peak to reach you starling girl.
The sloughing chill of winter dies quick in sighs
Waft asunder my little Indian summer, wake me
From sleep and I shall dream but once for your kiss.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
Rhythm straightening
The early morning gray looks at me
Overcast, the sky blankets me in bliss
The cool rain chills to the bone
The cool bones rattle to the ground
Skeletal street lamps illuminate dark business
The occluded acts of idleness on a weekday evening
Sitting on paved carpets and waiting for It to happen;
Today we create for ourselves
Because there is no path but our own
Through the sterile darkness of de-electrified night
The dead hyena by the highway
The leering eyes of his surviving kin
Beasts can feel the concrete start to crumble
They're waiting outside the city walls, gleaming fangs, gnashing jaws
Knowing our day has come and gone
Our soft, tender meat will be all that remains
When the tools of our dominance disintegrate
Breathing easy this late in the game
It's safe because all we can do is wait,
Or create
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
A companion poem to:
When Love Grows Old [1]
a differing perspective,
liking the eye opening
view this occluded,
cloudy closed Saturday,
a morning gray, early days,
it comes with opportunities
aplenty & new word combinations
in a new world awaiting a Magellan
I spy discoverer, and
we
two
have more than 150 years
existence tween us and that
makes me grin, because I anointed
her to a new position yesterday:
Chief Technology Officer
the very expensive machine
that supplies us with energizing
fresh plasma, clean blood invigorating, without which
we could nary drag our antiquated
bodies to the next day,
got on the phone, dialed an
800 number,
stuck het hand deep into it's gizzard innards, and released the
machina from it looping flashing
display of displaying its non-cooperation and its message that
It was unwell, abd she operated,
and made out coffee machine well
again
snd gave us this Sabbath, a reason to be thankful having righted this
left footed poet to a younger
poet boy~man
again, a gain!
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 8:34 AM UTC
Heat Lightening
by Michael R. Burch
Each night beneath the elms, we never knew
which lights beyond dark hills might stall, advance,
then lurch into strange headbeams tilted up
like searchlights seeking contact in the distance . . .
Quiescent unions . . . thoughts of bliss, of hope . . .
long-dreamt appearances of wished-on stars . . .
like childhood’s long-occluded, nebulous
slow drift of half-formed visions . . . slip and bra . . .
Wan moonlight traced your features, perilous,
in danger of extinction, should your hair
fall softly on my eyes, or should a kiss
cause them to close, or should my fingers dare
to leave off childhood for some new design
of whiter lace, of flesh incarnadine.
NOTE: The title is not a typo but a double entendre. Keywords/Tags: sonnet, rhyme, love, lust, desire, *** petting, necking, parking, date, dating, lovers' lane
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 8:34 PM UTC
Flowers of tomorrow
She takes to the fields with less than a goodbye
Embracing all the soul of the sun, wind, sky
Silhouettes as we are left in the shadow of the door
The cover of all bright lights giving us solitude
Neon in the alleyways of greased memories
Injured beyond the thoughts of my dying reveries
Occluded by periphery and gargantuan senses
Implicit in their discovery of the ***** of time
Hope and death and sorrow and gain
Paint all the gates of joy and sacrifice
Meander in the fields of the day
Yesterday and today take up my way.
Jul 10, 2011
Jul 10, 2011 at 7:51 AM UTC
There is something awry
I can feel it
as I step into
the thick and tense
stifling and sinister,
suffocating ether.
I have a peripheral sense
of an occluded slumber,
a disturbance.
Begotten by me?
I can only hope not.
Haunted by something unknown,
unseen but not unheard.
A sound, a whisper, a chill
Ghastly squall
The rush suspends my breath,
captivates my thoughts,
hurries my pulse;
throbbing and pounding,
in my dizzy and cluttered head.
The door has closed.
Impulse and instinct
drive my body
but it is dark,
never-ending,
surrounding
Me.
Perturbation reaches up
And grips my very being;
strangling my conscious,
operational will.
Numbing all perception short of
foreboding and dread.
My entranced, mortal corpse
stumbling over my own hastened direction
that it already knows.
Scrutinizing and bellowing
an audible, unmistakable
laugh
which freezes me again
with crippling petrification.
There is no escape.
Now face to face
as I turn to confront it,
stare to glare.
Menacing and perilous
it consumes me.
Devours me.
Immortally imprisoned by
It.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
Is compromise a ***** word
Truth is found in strange pools
Let us be truth explorers
Let us ferret out the corrupt and **** it
Horrible citizenry makes for horrible policy
Recognize your space and value within it
Don’t give me your self help
Simply give of the self
Stay informed fellow Americans, fellow countrymen
Don’t let the Republic suffocate amid pure democracy
Ratchet the brainstorm
Make the connection in the middle when building the tunnel
Is middle a ***** word
I’m stymied at the junction of ambition and lethargy
Occluded at the crossroads of the gospel and the blues
I’ll simply take the fork Yogi
I still want simple solutions to complex problems
The mindless maintenance of the Trump Bulldozer being one
Hillary Clinton being another
The time has come for the third party to rise again
Resurrect the Bull Moose
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC