"occupies" poems
As the smoke clears
I am left with the perfect image
Of the destruction I caused.
Here the air is heavy,
The weight of my mistakes
occupies all of the space in my lungs.
And tonight,
As I stand alone,
The urge to etch my flaws
Into my skin
Overwhelms me.
It craves the kiss of cold metal.
I am fighting a never ending battle
And my body keeps the score.
Aug 22, 2023
Aug 22, 2023 at 11:44 AM UTC
There are some people who drape themselves across others
like rugs,
who beg for physical affection
like a dog waiting to have its belly scratched,
who hook pinkies and elbows and knees
with their best friend from childhood while huddled under blankets
in the middle of the night.
I am not one of these people.
I sit on the arms of couches,
feet turned away from the pile of mismatched body parts
that occupies the cushions.
I am not used to being touched gently.
But something about you
makes me crave contact.
Hand to hand
Hip to hip
It doesn’t matter.
All my life I have been balancing on the edge of
fear and desire
in a world without all of my senses,
and I think
one touch from you
a brush, a spark
would send me falling.
No, not falling.
Flying.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
Why do you still occupy
the nooks and crannies of my head?
Drifting up through the cracks in the plaster
bent nails and poor construction
hammered hastily into place
How do you fill
my vacant minutes with shadows of you?
Your outline walks beside me on the street, wound up in my headphones
the echo of your daydream touch
a humming static on my skin
How still do you fall asleep beside me
when I am wrapped in the disquiet of a restless night?
How do you ease yourself into my brain like its nothing
and hide among synapses that try so hard to lose you
And how still to lose you?
When the thought of you occupies the wasted time
that escapes order and control
and slips under the floorboards
And in that quiet and that dark
is where you and I occupy,
held together by the wandering nature of thoughts,
that find their way into the nooks and crannies of my head
The thought of you is indifferent to my hasty plaster work,
and
the thought of you is intoxicating.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 6:49 AM UTC
A queen she is called
Rich with light hair
Bright like the sun
It shines.
And in her eyes
The deepest sea's
Savage waves
Are calmed with the batting of long, dark lashes
Her lips,
Like pomegranate
Together or apart
Keep a perfectly hidden kiss
The skin she occupies:
Immaculate
Like the body
She wears with grace
Yet within this ruler
The flawlessness
Of her exterior
Has vanished.
Inside her brain,
Dark brooding
Thoughts
Roam around.
Senseless ideas
Nestle in her heart
Looking for the passage
To the outside world.
Her locked mind
Has time
To wander
Behind shut lips.
To infest with
Musings of better places,
Of welcome speech,
And worlds beyond this.
Yet,
She cannot
Get through this life
With such thoughts
Soon enough
They begin
To gnaw
Her
Breaking her down
Piece by pretty piece.
The beauty of her face
Will soon be absent,
An ugly exterior
To match
What had been
Flooding her insides.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
I am Strong
Darkness can consume me
Life can be overwhelming
The mind can feel suffocating
I am strong
I crawl out of bed
I shower and dress
I eat my breakfast
I sit on the couch
I am strong
The day progresses
Tiredness overcomes
Exercise clears the mind
Study occupies my thoughts
I am strong
I go home
I cook
I listen and talk
I get ready for bed
I am strong
Another day has finished
I got up
I accomplished
I am strong
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 9:50 AM UTC
To even commence to define how profoundly I fell in love with you, I would need the capacity of a thousand-page manuscript written in the most romantic idiom.
Each, and every retention of us is stowed into the back of my conscious, and concealed deep into my heart.
Every beautiful memory plays through my head like soft music.
I would say my heart is immovable. There are days that I try to sojourn the thoughts of you, but its intolerable for me to do so.
I am so engulfed in your perfection. I do not think there has been a single day that you have escaped my thoughts.
I can feel your presence with me if I ponder our memories deeply enough. Your presence weighs heavily in my heart. It is as if part of your soul occupies its crevasses, and fills my cracks.
Your eyes are echoes of a hundred distant galaxies no man has ever revealed. Vast windows that reflect the constellations.
My heart is certain the universe resides in them.
As I begin to study your face, I feel like nothing but love can exist.
Your porcelain perfection never ceases to weaken me.
You weaken me with love, trust, and desire. Like the finest specimen created by the hands of Gods.
As I anticipate the connotation of love, the implication is “you”.
Even if the fire for what you feel for me dies, I do not reason the passion I have for you will ever dim.
I do not begin to recollect if I had ever felt this susceptible.
I let this passion be valued like the rarest stone.
I would give up the entire world if it meant I could have you in my life endlessly.
Your happiness is of grave importance to me, when I study your smile, I can overlook the darkness of this decaying reality.
Every heartbeat of time my mouth declares three unpretentious words.
“I love you”.
I say it like an invocation.
Not one moment did my tongue express profanity against these golden words of poetry.
I love you. “ I Love You” . And solitarily just you.
I wallow in my own sorrows at the thought of the culmination, when we shall one day part at death's hand.
For I deeply distinguish that you love me equally, and this brings vast pleasure to my temperament.
I sense security in your encirclement, your heart is my home.
My heart qualms of my fragile weakness that I consume when I dream of you.
You make me susceptible to the sickness of love.
If love was a poem, you would be the title.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
"Dear Rolf Harrer,
I am a person you don't know. A man you've never met...But you are someone who occupies my mind...and my heart...in this distant land where I've gone. If you can imagine a hidden place, tucked safely away from the world...concealed by walls of high, snow-capped mountains...a place rich with all the strange beauty of your night-time dreams...Then you know where I am."
"In the country where I'm travelling - Tibet - people believe if they walk long distances to holy places...it purifies the bad deeds they've committed...They believe the more difficult the journey, the greater the depth of purification."
"...In this place where time stands still, it seems that everything is moving..including me. I can't say I know where I'm going. Nor whether my bad deeds can be purified...there are so many things I've done which I regret. But when I come to a full stop, I hope you will understand that the distance between us is not as great as it seems...
With deep affection,
your father...
Heinrich Harrer."
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 2:30 AM UTC
Heartstone is a reflection in music on a ‘lost’ poem. The poem described in its two short verses a summer’s day, a landscape, a fossil found and placed in the palm of a child’s hand. The poem inspired a seven-movement work for wind, brass and percussion with solo piano. Here is its poetic programme note.
Chert
The piano draws an arc of rhythm
rising then falling.
Above
two choirs of wind and brass
exclaim, fanfare, mark out
shorter, determined
gestures of sound.
The procession, almost a march,
becomes a dance.
Alone
Two choirs of wind and brass
become four couples
whose music weaves
from complexity a simplicity:
Chromatic to Pentatonic
twelve becoming five.
Prase
Four stopped horns,
five extended tonalities.
Together they wander
a maze of Pentatonic paths;
alone, and in pairs, as a quartet
they discover within
a measured harmonic rhythm.
Tension: resolution
. . . and surrounding
their every move
the piano
insists an obligato,
a continuum of phrases,
absorbing into itself
the warp and weft of horn tone.
Sard
Oscillating
in perpetual motion
the full ensemble
occupies a frame
of time and space.
Flutes, reeds,
double-reeds
brass, piano,
percussion
mirror-fold on mirror-fold
layer upon layer
overlapping.
Yarns of threaded sound.
Tuff
Without a break
the mirrored oscillations
patter pentatonics
on tuned percussion
of marimba and vibraphone
whilst
a batterie of drums
lays down
shards of beaten rhythm
against this onward
folding of tonality change.
In the background
a choir of winds
flutes and single reeds
waymark this recursive journey
gathering together
cadential moments and the
necessary pause for breath.
Marl
Relentlessly, the motion is sustained,
piano-driven,
a syncopated continuo,
rhythm-sectioned
amidst layers of percussion.
Adding edge,
a choir of brass and double reeds
amplify the piano’s jagged rhythms
providing impetus for
phrases to become longer and longer,
ratching up the tension,
ever-denying closure
until the batterie
delivers
a conclusive flourish.
Paramoudra
Pulse-figures of winds.
Motific cells of brass.
Both
negotiate a stream of
fractal-shaped tonality
expanding: contracting.
A blossom of fanfares
folding into
pulsating layers
of tuned percussion,
flutes and reeds.
A dance-like episode
absorbs a chorale.
Four horns in close harmony
against the continuing dance.
A duet of differences
flows into a cascade of chords
in closed and open forms.
The piano supports
brass-flourishing figures
before a final stillness.
Heartstone
In gentle reflection
the solitary piano –
a figure in a landscape
of collapsed harmonic forms -
presents in slow procession
the essence of previous music.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
A blank space occupies my existence.
Sleeping alone again.
My hearts thermometer shattered.
I've caught a cold the day you left and I haven't gotten better.
Loneliness is a detriment to the cardiac.
A coffin without its corpse.
The hollowness of an empty hearse.
Both of us know that funerals don't work this way.
We belonged together
you said we'd never be alone again
you said we would never end
you said
you promised
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 5:20 AM UTC
*Movements become sensual while we dance
I am feeding my addiction again
Consistent eye contact creates a trance
Intoxicating escapes will begin
Our bodies act as if we are alone
My fingertips gently touching your cheek
Physical neediness is what I've shown
Sexua1 tension I actively seek
A continual hunger consumes me
I ache for clothing to cover the floor
Ice completes my gratification plea
As emotions are chosen to ignore
Ero+ic pleasure occupies my mind
Fighting the love my heart attempts to find*
© Christopher Chronister. All rights reserved.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
Eline Dandelion
My dandelion, everywhere in spring and summer days, you are present
Soft is your tender touch when I drag you close to me
Oh dandelion, your beautiful cotton hair, like the aroma of red roses in the air,
It enamours me when I breathe it in,
And the wind that carries its aroma waltzes with enchantment to the tune of Lara’s Farolito
Dandelion, you are the flower that is ever present
Your light and gentle body occupies the dreams of my arms, wishing to hold your delicate, light frame.
Your seeds of love have long ago landed on my mind,
And I have planted them, too, in my heart so that this heart only beat for you.
But these seed are like any other seeds.
The farther away you are, the less likely they will grow, and flowers wilt
The closer you are, the more beautiful the flowers become, bloom.
Eline Dandelion, of all the other flowers and even dandelions, you are my favorite dandelion.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
A synthetic thunderstorm envelops me
and I forget where my life is.
I forget about you and your fluent tongue
of disinterest, puppetry, and misinformation.
I forget the speakers and soundscapes;
wires and ties and strings attached,
the way I struggle to sleep alone,
but cannot share my life with anyone.
I forget the next payday, the next lay;
the need to borrow words and feelings
just to make sense of my own.
Distraction and hunger for nicotine
become near-echoes of a past life-
an umbilical bond to old decades
of habit and mistrust for the sober mind.
I forget the ash and ends I have left behind.
The ocean is close but occupies no space,
only the airwaves with a rhythmic breath
to still my own, reducing my identity
to fractals of self-interest and oneness.
I forget who I am amongst the writing desk,
The Book Of Longing, the cooling tea;
the stagnant water. I forget flesh desire,
violent *** and apologetic *******
I forget, for once, the need to live,
amongst all of this living.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
stand(ing) here alone in the dark
like a head of tack pirouetting away
to no music - only acrid scruple
of this being with and not being with,
one is always alone.
space occupies the potteries in
the garden as a steady arm of light
stills in its mouth, a flowering dark.
it is only 3 o'clock in the morning
and the heat clambers the wall of
the vacuously atrabilious moment
of just plainly existing. the slender
harlequin of moon, like an old lover
having its own way with me, a child's
yelp coming home — the hermetic
air crushing the light, slivering it
revealing all the ensconced phantasms
too commonplace like a fork in the road
that i know, or the wayward metropolitan
that teems with a concatenation of roads
and gutters bilious with the squall of day.
a figure moves entering a warm miasma,
receiving the star of aloneness,
vacillating between
place and placelessness
telling this originary of repossessing
the moon with a hand in my hand,
pressing a question of where
have you been all the raging while.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
This morning a great big pile of ******* occupies the road in front of your building,
Powdered wigs and hand grenades,
The remains of a slaughter the night before.
All the medicine, text books, car keys, credit cards, shoes, head phones, computer chips, DVDs, chairs and trucks.
A smoldering heap of help from friends in factories.
None of it had been spared during the death of civilization.
Still they pile it.
Your neighbors and parents and friends.
They’ve been convinced that these things are evil.
They will force solitude upon all of us.
They will make us vulnerable and frail as though naked in the night.
They will prove to us that we did not know what it was to be alone.
Standing atop the pile their god is yelling:
“We must sacrifice for the good of life!
We must destroy for the good of creation!
We create ignorance for the sake of realization!
We incite suffering for the good of happiness!.”
Left alone we must grovel at the foot of our fallen god,
Mourning a murdered child.
Crying out for fairness and LAW.
Systems and sciences.
All lay at the very center of the mound.
The head of a rotten body,
Decapitated without mercy by those who had been deceived by it.
Death and darkness come next,
Creeping as wolves do where we fear them most.
I can’t tell you what comes next,
But you must not trust those who began the revolution.
They have abandoned you to your own devices.
Left you naked in the shadow of the mound.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
Dagger buried in the depths of my heart,
pain seeping out of every crease causing of an eruption of tears.
Consistent manipulation into giving up my hopes,
A conning of my inner treasure.
Mend the broken pieces of my emotions,
the scattering of my feelings,
shredded apart because of a stolen hope.
A borrowed courage to believe that I could be loved.
The right to know that a heart was destined to belong with mines.
The privilege to smile without reason.
Pinpointing the flaws of my love,
questioning where does it become “too much”?
Torn apart from the inside,
a decaying courage to try,
denying myself of the experience to fall,
pain accumulating with every ignored cry,
every plead pushed to the side.
A vacant space now occupies the nucleus of my emotions.
They withered away with every disappointment and tear.
So everything within me dies,
(Oh, how bitter the feeling)
in hopes of a rebirth.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
Build.
I was told that woman are made to build.
But wait...
What if I told you that my gender identity was as messy as raindrops as they hit the ground?
What if the only thing I can build are stanzas in some wanna be poem.
Yes, I do have a ****** but I bind my ******* so tightly I cannot tell the difference between breathing,
And a panic attack.
I am not a woman.
I am not the type.
I am your type.
When I am asked what I would like to be when I grow up,
Isn't it sad that that the first thought that occupies my mind is,
"I want to be a man.."
My mother pushed out her precious baby girl and keep in mind I had a brother.
Have a brother.
*** and gender are two completely different things, darling.
When someone asks what I want to be when I get older,
I will say a carpenter.
Because at least then I can build myself to be a man.
From the ground up.
But for now I will have to settle for pecks made out of metaphors,
And the thought of a ***** as long as my lyrics.
Would you still love me if I was a man?
If not,
Then have fun choking on my poetry.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
Negligible morsel of biomass
my fat belly, formerly abs
insignificant yet it occupies me
hourly while bored or hungry.
Fat is what? a picture
of despair, giving up caring
or man out of balance, other
side of the world's starving
mass, case of the soul's malnutrition
industrial agriculture, television
supermarkets, vacations, hydrocarbons
and the grid. Electricity, urban
traffic jams, photons at final
rest. Sugars synthesized, abundant
plastics to carry them home in.
Into your house and into your mirror.
Memorizing the periodic table
and learning the calculus makes one
no thinner. Walking the mountain
in heat and cold and rain, alone
or in fire crews should inhibit.
And a healthy fear of death. A laugh
a day at *** and pain and fate
which renews the biomass I hate.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
Step into my universe
You'll see only words
In my mind, flurry of feathers
Hurricane of riled up birds.
They amass and circulate
Searching to break free
Storm of ink; doesn't abate
Bleed out for no one to see.
*Hidden inside my heart
Forbidden words I long to convey
Teach me how to start
With you I foist to play.*
Words veiled by silent secrecy,
Cloaked words I long to shout
Bordering the point of heresy
Tabooed words without doubt.
Almost an eternity I've whispered
With care and only hushed tones
Well kept secret undiscovered
Laying quiet under unturned stones.
Thought myself alone when I heard another
One that sings choral to my own
A mournful call that sang together
Grey melodies embodied in skin and bone.
*The cravings of my heart
Your words I wish to fill
In my head occupies the biggest part
Our declaration's the only seal.
A vow you and I made
A love we wish to last forever
Dismissing that opportunities evade
Who would need a supporting paper.
Hidden softness within me
Only you can tap and enjoy
The only one that holds the key
Heart and mind meet to employ.*
Our hearts, like kings, would've risen
Adorned and bejewelled on their crests
Let us sing in unrehearsed unison
Crowned words we've locked in our chests.
IamMsIves
rhymesmith
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
Like some wind, she roams freely
Polishes dusty stones, among which I'm truly
A free bird, wanders in the vast blue sky
"She will halt eventually", it seems a lie
Like Enshrined Enchantress Now All
An admirer of beauty, and indeed a beauty herself
Infatuation, eventually develops
Those beautiful eyes and the irregular smile
Occupies my imagination, every once in a while
Love Eternal Enroute November Amazon
Words were never, and won't ever be enough
Soon the weather will come, one that of sneeze and sniff
Though seemed, it wasn't so
The love was, is, and will always be true
Life Endures Empowered Nota-Bene All
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
There's a secret chamber, indestructible matter. Matter can exist in no more stable state than this small chamber is in. The chamber occupies very little space in the center of the earth. The chamber contains two dimensional information. This information describes everything that ever happened on earth for the archives. The octopuses recorded everything. They perceived everything. If an octopus managed to wrap it's tentacles around your head, you'd understand. It would tell you that everything has been worth it. You'd understand that you must live beautifully for the sake of the swirling two-dimensional archive at the center of the earth.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
I'm Jealous.
I'm jealous of everyone that gets to lay their eyes on you
I'm jealous of everyone who occupies your time
I'm jealous of every girl that's ever been seen with you
I'm jealous of every pair of lips that have touched yours
I'm jealous of every hand that's been intertwined with yours
Im jealous of every body that's been pressed against you
I'm jealous of how the stars get to be with the moon
And I'm jealous that it cant be me and you
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 11:23 PM UTC
Fred occupies his chair, innocently enough.
Occupying his time by
Solving the crossword puzzle, racking his brain
for the answers.
So all of the letters fit together.
So every space is filled. The beauty of solved Enigmas.
Ten across. Opposite of faithfulness.
The fire consumes the logs. Contained Chaos.
The room is illuminated in frantic light
Emanating from the fireplace.
Flames prevented from yielding to their Natural
Yearning to Disseminate to whatever matter
Will accept them. Fred sits on his chair,
Innocently enough,
But if you look in those
Eyes of his, you will witness the Beauty of
Pain, la Douleur exquise d'amour.
Loving Someone he will, invariably, love and forgive.
A woman
Whose love has changed patterns. Changed
Directions. Altered. There is a string
That hitches his heart to that of his infidel.
His wife. He feels foreign blood impairing
Them. He knows her. Without her telling
Him anything, he knows the Lies in those
Eyes of her. Confirming his knowledge.
Ten across. Infidelity. Means unfaithful.
She walked in moments ago, sat on the
Usual chair in front of him. Fred’s
Heart aches now with the immensity of the
Heartache within his wife.
He feels her heart has been broken
By the same man who usurped her from
Him every Thursday. She would return
[not quite yet]
Home on those days, Disjointed, Distracted. He
Knew this was what Falling in
Love looked like. But today, his wife's
Heart feels different. Her Lover is
Absent from their blood. Fred no
Longer is
Obligated to pump the blood of his
Wife’s flame throughout his own body.
and yet, he feels sorry for her.
feels her suffering.
feels her pain more than his own.
He watches her face, the Sorrow in
Her eyes drinks the flames of the
Fire. Fred can tell she wishes she were
In the flames. Better yet, the
Blaze itself, free from her despondency,
The places her mind must be traveling to.
Fred is fully aware that she is contemplating
Unloading her triste to him. Not for
His own Benefit, to be Honest with him.
Only to assuage her Guilt, to
empty her conscience of
Bad Blood.
She is a sinner. She will sin
Again. No doubt about that. But.
His Infidel.
He cannot stand to see her...
His love...his life...
If someone is spread out before you
Seeking to surrender to Death,
You do not Simply let them die.
Especially if they share half your blood.
Especially if your Happiness is
Contingent upon their survival.
Fred’s wife has a ghostly look on her
Face and he cannot help but save her from
Her caustic thoughts, from the
Consuming pain in her very
Core.
and so he guides
her back to him.
just her wide eyes.
he knows all.
And He forgives her.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
i.
What occupies thy soul and being? Worldly knowledge, book's, gold, material thing's; Diamond's, jewelry, ring's, automobile's, weapon's that **** Poison's that we put into ourn spiritual bodies.
ii.
Where is thy heart? Into plastic, stuck in a casket, pulling apart?
Art thou striving to a life of just surviving, or actually living life;
What cometh first? God, family, friend's, or earthly trend's?
iii.
Whom doth thou serve? The thought's of the devil? The grave and the shovel? Art thou on another level? Or dying to get rich; Living as a slave? Choked in a cave? Giving all, as all the lord gaveth thee.
iv.
What doth thou fearest? Mankind? With bomb's that shineth, and gun's to smoketh? Or thy creator whom hold's the key to life and death, art thou like all the rest laying thy treasure on men's step's? Or in Jehovah's kingdom? The great architect's ringing the doorbell at thy being; ding **** Ding **** Ring. Ring!!!!
Wilt thou let him in?
Or serve the world and men?
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
The moment it occurs to mind that something has gone wrong it disturbs the mind
Disturbance, then becomes a part routine
A disturbed mind feels insecured and fearsome about the future.
Unpredictable are the ways of life when disturbance occupies a definite place in life
Since long time disturbance has always remained a part of life at one moment of time or another.
Whether you agree or accept
Deny or disagree
One thing remains for sure
At some point in time everyone’s life has been through turbulent waters
Childhood, youth, middle age, old age, whatever may be your age group?
At some point in time the reason for feeling insecured in the present is because of a disturbance from past, which is not only recognized, but also occupies a place in the present.
It can be anything
It can be all
Disturbance can be a part of everyday life
Disturbance can be related to a particular moment in time
Still with everything that is being said and all that is being done
One thing remains for sure
Disturbance occupies a definite place in everyone’s life.
It's not as to whether you handle a situation effectively or tackle a problem
When it comes to disturbance of mind it's always better to use presence of mind
A volatile situation if it goes from bad to worse it will not only spoil the present, but also ruin the future
Be not only practical, but also confident
Make up your mind
Handle the frequent changes in the present with regards to what else and what more is possible
Presence of mind will help to control the situation, if used positively
Also otherwise, apart from the disturbance make up your mind to adjust the present with regards to the uncertain future.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC