"oeuvre" poems
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
*that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows the when and why of differing
cuddling styles...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows when to leave a man alone
alone in his man-mourning time,
distance needed,
letting his ex-rage dissipate or
watching his red and blue football
redefine ignominy...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift,
she heartily agrees and is
reciprocity rewarded regularly
with hunk alerts of
"hey-check-him-out!"
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
a tigress in the bedroom
she asking, try this, I'll love it,
served with a desert demo of awkward afterward,
his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who doesn't abhor partner silences,
comforting they are, in their own ways,
lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and
sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who lets the man roar, top of voice,
when imprisoned in car,
his voice, un enfant terrible,
performs with Creedence Clearwater
a sing-a-long in traffic, asking
"Have you ever seen the rain"
while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt
Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E.
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
when it's pheromones alternative mode day,
he celebrates Carole King day,
she demonstrates her cuddling abilities,
par excellence, with kisses and tissues
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
a woman, plain confident in her abilities
no matter the situational status,
when confronted by
less-than-crazy-impetuous,
she smiling says "why not,"
when he proposes,
a movie and dinner in a fav haunt?
"plenty excellent enough" her answer,
spoke in a rising voice
full of unfeigned delight
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
accepting the unexpected airport embrace
on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays
with the aplomb of a well lived life's
long term sustainability perspective
when he kisses her hand for no reason,
while driving 75 miles per hour,
she only winces internally,
the other hand vise-grasping
the other door's handle,
who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie,
celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's
duality of strength and tenderness
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when on second date he proposes
a non-exclusive relationship,
confident enough to high-five respond,
and laugh about it,
seven years on
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when she reads it,
analyzing the oeuvre as
"too **** personal and
as usual
too **** long"*
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her
cuddling abilities
in everything...
even a little occasional criticism
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
i am much younger than i am
my hair is dark and thick
instead of pruned bald
i am lean and meek
feeling hollow
as if weightless
we are at an airport
with no memory of getting there
i had left my hotel room urgently
in a jacket that is not mine
i can't find my Swedish wife
whom i miss like a panicked child
and my Asian wife whom i've never never met before
and know all to well
is angry
and could care less if i got lost forever
i am going home to my parents house
i remember that they are dead
but we had just spoken
there will be soup and Hors d'oeuvre's
they wait for me
on my way
the streets and boulevards are unfamiliar
yet old hat
and no matter how long i walk
i can never find their house
located somewhere in Brooklyn
on Haze street in San Francisco
i have a business
and retain no idea of what i do
i left my cloths somewhere
and i don't know why
in a locality i cant remember
for a reason that doesn't exist
a beautiful woman smiles offers me ***
she is friends with a girlfriend whom i'm committed too
but do not know and never met
i want to cheat with her
but guilty kisses will ruin everything
so i turn away
murdering desire
in an already anchor-less miasma
i remember a past
my life a continuum
of disjointed vagaries
tears well up
i fear myself a figment
a bodiless revenant
stranded in a fog
sparkles and smoke
incandescence and shrouds
a dis-junctured soul
that clutches memories
like braids of dust
living in the eye of nothing
a labyrinth of shades
lighted by the sun of cognizance
a wretched phantom
transparent husk
living a dark fiction
my grave a womb
i am the dead living
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
Gathered pieces of a great puzzle ;
refreshed perspective like ocean riptides
foment at the confluence collecting dark rivers’ flow
Repurposing back-eddies ,
rejuvenation of stagnant brackish waters ,
inherent buried soul-shine purging
from the ancient core of earth mother
Light arising from the hidden depths
of inner stillness as if a refilling wellspring
burst forth , reawakening muted sighs unspoken
Forming poetic constellations of black and bright
to lighten afar the nebulous darkness ,
a sea of swirling ink transformed into poetry
A sage opus renewed
by the muse of a migrating flock ,
striving to discover new sacred grounds ;
yet there is an undeniable song sung
in the howling winds of change
An incitement from a higher dialect
that empowers a restoration of spirit
Oeuvre uplifted by rogue waves
of summoning winds ,
arousing that which time erases
A manifest renaissance
among the rousing nuances
of poetic continuum ,
judicious to rediscover
the enthralling vastitude
of every breaking wave
in a boundless sea of poesy
Where prevailing currents
stir oceans of verse eternal ;
provoking a verve revival ,
the magnitude of an unbroken circle ,
ocean swells merging singularity
with the omnipresent colour
of uncharted depths
As if thoughts are assuaged
by a union of intimately touching souls
with words of intangible spheres ,
sparking subtle shades of meaning
spanning poetic immortality
Transcending barriers of unexplored lexicon
to manifest the immensity,
enkindling rhapsody of hearts and minds
Deeply rooted soul replenishment
harvested from the tree of humankind ,
willingly sharing without regret nor intention ,
with deference to the soul of one-blood,
one-love enabling an enlightening
metamorphosis of the human journey ...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC
i seem to only see three constellations in the night
sky these days... the modo -
it be the sign of: the age of scorpio,
there's but the big & little dipper (respectively)
º
º
º
º
º
º
º
do these people really need to be spoon fed?
the smaller dipper is akin to the big
dipper, hence to write in the other
and last constellation (minus that odd rhombus
without a name) -
and believe me when i say: orthodox
astrology doesn't agree with me:
º
º
º
º
º
º º
i guess i managed to draw the right
schematic,
besides the point, there are but
three constellations in the night sky
around here, and one is a revisionist take
on the scorpio...
**** you hippies, and your age of aquarius,
this is what a scorpion looks like,
and nothing what you've indicated,
i'm starting to think that astrologists
did poorly in geometry class...
but i'll end it on a positive note...
*there is more dignity in being ascribed an
epitaph, than being given a "proper" burial...*
and by "proper" i mean: the leech family
members waiting for inheritance,
the sycophantic actors of attendance -
throw me into a mass grave, i don't mind
for a "proper" burial...
there is no dignity in whatever burial
ensues as many will do...
but allow man to transcend
the date of birth ** / yy / zz
and the date of death zz / yy / **
with an epitaph...
however "wise" the man was in life,
his dignity only arrives postmortem,
in the form of an epitaph...
but one epitaph overshadows a thousand
quotable mentions of the man, when alive,
but one epitaph of a david,
overcomes the oeuvre of maxims of a goliath.
whatever argument for light pollution exists,
even when in the scottish highlands
i didn't see any more stars...
there are only three constellations in play
on the night sky,
and one of them is the genuine scorpio
constellation,
with the orthodox constellation being
bogus, fake, unnecessary...
i, i've spotted the constellation of scorpio,
and i did so: with my naked eyes!
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
/ although i'd love to go back to the cinema of, bell, book & candle from the 1950s in early technicolour... can i? don't think so... trapped the rekindled narrative of myth... i wish i could, do the supra-capitalist, drunk at 5 in the afternoon, and still pulling the strings... early nostalgia of what was late nostalgia of what was 19th century german concerning ancient greece... i chose 17th century france... because? because... why could it ever be england as primo optio?! am i either that daft, or as much stiff for waiting for eddie zee theerd?! well? well done, you guessed my thinking: write a fictive narrative, it'll last longer, like a photograph.
immigrant song, led zeppelin -
probably the only grand theatre
plus,
of thor: rangarok;
i still don't know where those
M16s came from...
and?
given they used
a led zeppelin's song?
i honestly, don't want to know.
i was honestly going to favour
a black sabbath oeuvre,
using only solitude
by the witches' congregation
ask, aspect,
or subsequent, marketing ponce
scheme.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC
The time’s may have changed,
days aged our bodies
but you are still wholly
yourself, only more
magnanimously
magical, which says
something, because
your oeuvre was such
already.
An aged wine of light
shining like sacred
grapes made of quartz in
the field’s center.
I remember when
you guided me to
the fox. I can still
remember when you
were sprouting—
sacred knowledge to
me in the back of
the school bus. But now…
dots are connecting,
I’m remembering
my fire ether
name. Your knowledge had
pollinated me—
sure took time
to take root, and ferment,
but now it is
a very good year.
It’s time to uncork!
A party army
awaits, clad in such
an iridescent
armor armed only
with <3 - shaped fire
on torches, ready
to burn down rotten
rickety aged
bridges built of dead
green ink-stained wood, all
converging on a
barren cliff so we
may ignite skies and
shine in darkness.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
she huddles in
tormented pose
working like a fiend
on her oeuvre’s
final piece
the anatomical agony
of horizontal necks
the three shades
the souls of the ******
abandon all hope ye who enter this mind
the words run
in the shadow of her face
years and years
the pyre’s ash
tormented her features
until her skin turned
grey like the sky
abandon all hope ye who enter
she lost her mind
somewhere in the fire
abandon all hope
on that day
she cried for the sun
abandon
she huddles in
her loose skin
the oils of her flesh
embodying the paints
staining the woman
she once was
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
Let us not talk philosophy, drop it, Jeanne.
So many words, so much paper, who can stand it.
I told you the truth about my distancing myself.
I've stopped worrying about my misshapen life.
It was no better and no worse than the usual human tragedies.
For over thirty years we have been waging our dispute
As we do now, on the island under the skies of the tropics.
We flee a downpour, in an instant the bright sun again,
And I grow dumb, dazzled by the emerald essence of the leaves.
We submerge in foam at the line of the surf,
We swim far, to where the horizon is a tangle of banana bush,
With little windmills of palms.
And I am under accusation: That I am not up to my oeuvre,
That I do not demand enough from myself,
As I could have learned from Karl Jaspers,
That my scorn for the opinions of this age grows slack.
I roll on a wave and look at white clouds.
You are right, Jeanne, I don't know how to care about the salvation of my soul.
Some are called, others manage as well as they can.
I accept it, what has befallen me is just.
I don't pretend to the dignity of a wise old age.
Untranslatable into words, I chose my home in what is now,
In things of this world, which exist and, for that reason, delight us:
Nakedness of women on the beach, coppery cones of their *******
Hibiscus, alamanda, a red lily, devouring
With my eyes, lips, tongue, the guava juice, the juice of la prune de Cythère,
*** with ice and syrup, lianas-orchids
In a rain forest, where trees stand on the stilts of their roots.
Death, you say, mine and yours, closer and closer,
We suffered and this poor earth was not enough.
The purple-black earth of vegetable gardens
Will be here, either looked at or not.
The sea, as today, will breathe from its depths.
Growing small, I disappear in the immense, more and more free.
2.7k
. what's the difference between
thieves, and magicians?
not much...
both have quick hands...
and an awake,
yet asleep public communal
presence...
the thief has a public of
the victim,
and the c.c.t.v. "stage"...
the magician?
has a public of the crowd,
and the "dajjal" stage of
a camera replenishing
a concept of:
not enough public...
thieves and magicians are
bedfellows...
you allow one to flourish...
the antithesis will come
along, and in an indiscriminate
fashion...
allow the "magic" / "thieving"
to take place...
what is a magician,
a public figure... compared...
to a thief?
i can't see the difference...
the audience was fooled
by the magician...
the individual was fooled
by the thief...
are they... so much unlike
each other?
magicians can own
a theater stage...
thieves, sometimes... just sometimes...
own the, basic...
pointlessness of english
c.c.t.v. mechanics,
to make police officers make:
a follow-up investigation...
oh, but i have genius
interrogation practices...
no one wants to listen to...
like 10 hours straights of listening
to stefan molyneux...
or 48 hours, sleep deprived...
listening to BBC 24 hour news reels...
that **** could crack anyone...
what the americans did to the Iraqis?
last time i heard...
they blasted the slayer oeuvre
down headphones into their ears...
Americans... feeding conquered
Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre?
BRAVO! BRAVO! ENCORE!
and didn't the encore come?
******* retards...
crows feeding seagull chicks
with sinew and
regurgitated scavenger meat!
if only they played them some
Bach...
i'm pretty sure...
the Iraqis would still be left...
disorientated...
but the American army "interrogators"...
ha ha!
played them the slayer oeuvre!
WEE-TARDS!
anyone... and i mean anyone:
will relieve themselves as being
"tortured": doubly charged up,
and ready to ingest hyper-coffee
in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic
of ingesting amphetamines
(pervitin) -
night-raids... the londoonoirnischt
blitz, sloth krieg...
ya ya yawn...
urgh... burp...
and always... those poncy -
english, gay, aristocratic men...
and their... psychotropic women...
so what's the difference between
a common thief...
and a spectacle magician?
one "owns" cctv footage,
the other owns a stage...
yet both share a: quicksilver
take on, what cannot be
interpreted in either handwriting
or stenography...
hmm...
can't be sure whether
both could be considered legal.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC
Were we not once love stood in abbey shadow and sun,
were we not once lovers at the top of bowling alleys
holding, having fun?
As you showered, I
bathed in the oeuvre of your
aura opposite,
thought of
midnight scrambled eggs
then bed
and the coffee to keep it company.
It’s then we woke
to the Sunday cacophony of avocados on post,
head to the second supplement in
to learn of the best twelve coasts where good lovers go to live,
where good lovers go to hide and give,
where good love exists.
If only the car wasn’t broken:
second hand, forecourt pile of ****
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
I want to live in a protoplasmic land:
Where only earth's natural resources are availed...
but not any exploitable extraction from nature.
where the cacophonies of friction are unheard..
Where the toxic air doesn't seem to arouse from the rooms of renaissance,
Where the sky synergizes with the nature,
Where the oeuvre of the planet remains pristine,
Where the trees vacillate with the harmony of winds.
Where there exists no manufactured light....
But only the piercing rays of self-igniting sun to synthesize the earth with seemingly eonian brightness...
And on nocturnals,star and moon drives me,if moon masquerades,i.e.,
When the commixture of cirrocumulus clouds form an impenetrable layers of watery clouds,
let the thundering light texture me while its clustering clouds embracing me with its rapturous rain,
Let the nature do its own karma,
I am not here to meddle in nature's subtle poise,
but to infuse into it......
O'shiva pave me the unobscure and quintessential way for me to dissolve in to you,
Let me drop my essential earth and dissolve my sumptuous and non-matter soul in to everlasting you....
Let me hush in to those singular days and solitary sounds....
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
Took 287 South
to a Borders
Goin Outta
Biz Sale.
Books may be
anachronisms,
relics from
yesterdays
analog age,
but literacy's
bankruptcy
does have
advantages.
Take an
additional
30% off on
any orphans
pleading
release from
the discount
racks.
Snooping down
the literature isle
Samuel Beckett's
somber face
arrested my
roving
eyeballs.
A stern stare
printed across
5 spines of
his shrink
wrapped
oeuvre
commanded
my arm to rise
to liberate the
face from the
dismal shelf.
In mid flight
my reach
was hijacked
by a Kris
Kringley red
snow flaked
trim tome
standing
open face
next to
earnest
Beckett.
It was "The
Christmas
Sweater"
by NYT
Best Selling
Author, Glenn
Beck.
Clasping at Beck's
book, it inflicted
a nasty paper cut
to my ring finger.
My mind recoiled,
thinking, "serves
you right. Like
Martha, I shoulda
chosen the better
thing."
I'll never
make that mistake
again.
Borders Books
Riverdale
2/20/11
jbm
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
*throughout the day,
most oft at night,
start to say,
stop short,
painful for crying out loud thoughts,
shoutouts to any passing god
things that need to the air
be exposed,
but not to ears that
well, what could they say...
so stutter-stop
the bottling inside,
periodic fizz escaping,
and even poetry
cannot help
for it does over and over again,
end up as crumpled papers,
litter of the head,
halves, this's and that's,
even this one dies here and now*
~~~~~~~
irony delicious,
that litter sounds so literary,
so added débris,
lest my mangy constructions
manage to confuse you
the litter in question,
is your host's hors d'oeuvre
nibbles of works,
half-started, half-finished,
like rooms to let,
that come only half-furnished,
not a single morsel worthy
serving up,
all half-satisfactory
poems, of course...
the wrong write ***** clogged,
resting in peace,
Works In Progress (WIP)
unlike the poet,
who's just plain whipped
un-crumpled awaiting
an episodic finale,
if ever they should be televised,
they are needy for cumberbitches,
a birth or death certificate
sore lacking
pick up put down
new titles pop,
essays in need of love,
naught fruited, dead pits,
hanging on the tree till
gravity takes them prisoner
on and on for weeks
the side stitch does not
disappear, but does grow
aching familiar
perhaps the topic offends
you the most,
cloying, suffocating
self-pity
of your own hands
around your neck wrapped...
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
for me it's still the memory
of travelling on the no. 86 bus
to school, really
loving robert plant's song
darkness, darkness
and morning dew reading
voltaire - both songs from the
album dreamland -
a compensation for the last album
by led zeppelin having exhausted
their togetherness of stating something,
i don't know why i sided with
collecting the oeuvre of led zeppelin
and not black sabbath -
but still that bus journey that took
about an hour and two buses -
across cold crisp green belt, just sitting
there listening to music and reading
a book, while the same of rosa parks'
effort sat in the back (as usual) jabbering
like parrots and not stoic enough
to place all our supposed origins -
rosa parks, your effort became futile -
your kindred still preferred the back
of the bus, where they could get rowdy
with girls who'd not **** me, thanks,
i can't be bothered to live a white girl,
i'll stick to the art,
now i couldn't walk down a high street
eyeing shops' content holding her hand
without being too irritated and wishing
to run into a forest
and swim in fallen autumnal leaves
smelling the sweetness of death
where death sweet, the only sweetness
of death is among autumnal leaves fallen,
this strange Aphrodite, this
strange autumnal Aphrodite sea, this sea
of leaves, and i have, fallen into it
and swam in it in the brisk cool of night
when this sea is most porous to
secrete the perfume a dead body of a man
or fox could never do;
O the sweet scented dead sea of the
autumnal Aphrodite balding and shedding leaves,
to litter the forest floor, and me
slain in it nonetheless still living -
parisian perfumeries can hide and squalor in shame
compared to the odour of the autumnal Aphrodite sea
of dead leaves beneath the craniums of alveoli
sketches of the naked trees.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
To the Poets of Hello, Hello!*
We write, we share.
We hope there’s someone there
To read
Perhaps need
Poetry,
Precisely as we
Say it,
Hoping that they see it
As we do.
(They seldom do, but
It’s the memo
Of the heart,
Our smattering of art
That matters.)
Hello, Hello,
My fellow poets.
Ego-less
I come to you,
Admiring, commenting,
Caring for the things you dare to share.
Over simplified, naïve maybe,
Never diva we,
The weavers of profundity.
Hello, Hello to poets and to poetry,
Its crystal-gifted company
And you who take in what you see
Here.
To The Poets Of Hello, Hello! 7.4.2016
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin
*Hello Poetry; a site encouraging one and all to submit & share their oeuvre.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not
~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~
the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over
our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures,
***** has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences,
the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface.
Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents,
(who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck,
chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t,
unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere
few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom,
who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors.
thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say
the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which
of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can
leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously
white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey,
a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth.
Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed.
The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere,
so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis” which
Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents,
but easily could,
for who else writes
poems like this?
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 1:08 PM UTC
It dances in the darkened corners of galaxies,
sleeps amongst collections of brilliant stars.
Sways with the tug and push of merry tides
bringing sweet little shells for someone to find.
Ever patient awaiting its turn in the medleys of planets,
a persistent idea over the linear logic of time.
Its lashes are made of stardust and its aspirations bud with time,
it dreams of the waking world when all is still and silent,
stirs in ebony blankets,
willing the sunlight to dawn and sift to illuminate its opalescent
silhouette.
It skirts the boundaries of a seeking mind,
giving furtive glances of its outline
seducing a victim to fill in the lines.
A tool for an artists' oeuvre.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
Billie Holiday samples -
rich hors d'oeuvre's -
your brother ******* his
girlfriend, thing
your brothers ******* their girlfriend
things
and so magnets make me weak -
but not always -
the sleeper is a comfortable skin -
a flock of seagulls
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
For some, certain places
hold a rather mythic oeuvre
in our veins; they are seen as places of magic.
Maybe a cyclist couple
have spent most of their money
on traveling the world for their blog,
their last stop is New York City
so that they may get pictures of themselves
at places like The Brooklyn Bridge, Lady Liberty
& that megalithic skyline reaching the clouds.
Or maybe a foodie from Wisconsin
just wants to try Famous Ben's Pizza on the West Side
because its New York fuckin' New York pizza.
Maybe a doe-eyed screenwriter skips
his flat square suburban town
to sell his words and soul to the sprawling sunny L.A
where dreams are made in pixels.
Maybe some New Age beaded wrist to ankle lady
spent her life savings to jump over the ocean
to visit the ancient pyramids built for a purpose
yet fully known.
Maybe a bearded dude
visits Easter Island to try and understand
the complexities of his ancestors while
soaking in the rich vastness of nature around.
Maybe I used to see places this way. Probably...
But in these places people live!
It's not mythology to them.
Maybe every night a homeless man prays
& begs for food on the late night A-train in NYC.
Maybe a middle-aged fading blonde couple
spend their time in L.A at a health food store
to recoup the savings they lost joining a cult way back when.
Maybe a Swedish teen traverses the trash
and littered-burned streets of Giza everyday
on her way to work
hoping funny looks aren't shot her way
for the way she dresses
or shouted at by bearded Salafi men.
Maybe a rare species of bug is unknowingly stepped on
in Easter Island.
Today, i see magic in getting lost on the NYC subway.
I found magic mythology on the beaches of Dahab,
80 miles away from Cairo.
I see magic in the mythologies,
while others live it,
the daily grind.
It's all around if you know where to look.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
Je tremble des lèvres et des cils
Tout en moi se raidit, je bande
Je suis possédé
C'est Ma Phénicienne qui est à la manoeuvre
C'est ma diablesse qui se manifeste
C'est Jézabel, muse fatale, qui est à l'oeuvre
C'est l'esprit de Jézabel qui m'infeste.
Telle Anat, la Cananéenne, la Sanguine,
Ma prêtresse de Baal, ma Sidonienne
Se farde les paupières d'antimoine
Et se coiffe langoureusement postée à la fenêtre.
Ses yeux de gazelle me dictent les mots
D'une rare luxure
Que je dépèce comme une meute de chiennes lubriques
Ses lèvres entrouvertes dégoulinent
De mots adultères
Et la débauche s'empare de mon trône.
Et le désir me piétine de ses chevaux emballés.
Mais **** de m'apeurer à l 'approche du combat qui s'annonce
Je m'agenouille et je vénère ma guerrière,
Ma prophétesse, mon YHWH
Ma souveraine et seule voix sur terre
Vierge de toute armure ou parure,
Jézabel, mère d'Athalie,
Jézabel dont je suis l 'homme de paille,
Le prostitué rituel,
Le moine poète
Qu'elle a défenestré !
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:07 AM UTC
Note: this isn't my work, but a work of one of the poet named Haron River ( currently go by H A Rivers) in this site who is currently MIA! Time to time I would scour poet's work, and allow them to teach me with their wisdom with their penmanship. This was a poem Haron River gave me as a memento, but all his work is golden, and should be shared! Hopefully new comers would check his work out! Without any further ado, here it is!
Untitled
Refreshed perspective gathered words
Like the ocean riptide gather
The rivers' flow at the confluence
Repurposing back-eddies,
Rejuvenation of stagnant brackish waters
Inherent soul-shine purging
From ancient core of earth mother
Light arising from the depth of inner stillness
As if a refilling wellspring burst forth,
Reawaking sighs too deep for words
Forming poetic constellation
To lighten the nebulous darkness,
Like sea of ink transformed into poetry
A sage opus renewed
By the muse of a migrating flock
Striving to discover new sacred grounds
Yet there is an undeniable song sung
In the howling wind of change
An incitement from a higher dialect
That empowers a restoration of the spirit
Oeuvre uplifted by rogue waves of wind
Arousing that which time erases
A renaissance manifest
Among the rousing nuances
Of poetic continuum,
Provoking a verve revival
Judicious to discovery
The enthralling vastitude
Of every breaking wave
In a vast sea of poesy
Where prevailing currents
Stir oceans of verse eternal;
Provoking verve revival,
The magnitude of an unbroken circle,
Oceans swells merging oneness
With the omnipresent of color
Of uncharted depth
As if thoughts assuage
By the Union of distant touching souls,
Spark nuances spanning poetic realms,
Transcending barriers of unexplored lexicon
To manifest the immensity,
Enkindling rhapsody of hearts and minds
Deeply rooted soul replenishment
Harvested from the tree of humankind,
Willingly sharing without regret
Enabling a metamorphosis
Of the human journey
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
And yet she moves, silently,
spinning and swirling endlessly
revolving, around a rousing star,
elegant ballet stealing radiance
indulging in warmth, in glacial
space unfathomable sphere
of incandescence, fluid rubicund
lava leisurely turning into blue
water, mystifying evolution
randomly combining hydrogen
and oxygen elements to unfold,
a liquid carpet englobing
all, to the mercy of a pale
faced moon, meticulously keeping
a distance so perfect and rare
to bear, mutating molecules
spontaneously deciding to form
cells, eager to evolve slowly
birthing life in its depths, breathing
to ensure, generous exchange
a fair give and take, a cycle where
harmonic balance is
the orchestrated oeuvre
of an omnificent composer
inventing notes of gravity,
creating abstruse species
out of fantasy, only to craft
itself a witness, capable
of understanding the amazing
wonders it ceaselessly unfurls.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
*If I gave you my heart
Would you treat it as a priceless part?
Would you love me in return?
Or would you set it on fire and watch me burn?
Would you value and cherish?
As a pure thing without blemish?
Or you treat it as trite?
As though my love will never suffice?
Would you handle it with devotion and care?
Or rather like another 'chose sans valeur'?
(After all you always did prefer her,
From her fairer skin to her darker hair..)
If I gave you my heart
A beautiful 'oeuvre d'art'
An embodiment of my strengths, fears and aches,
A cradle of fortitude yet with a tendency to break
Would you allay all my fears?
Would you help seal the cracks?
Would you love me back?
Or would you just be another avenue of tears?*
#BlueRain
2016
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 3:59 AM UTC
This library is huge, I am amazed, by its oeuvre
at the far sight of the people of ancient, who put
it together,you are the book,timeless, I always longed
to read, all these days,but couldn't, even see you once,
but I couldn't give up my ceaseless search.
Now the quest is fulfilled, isn't it simply magic?
I open you, light a scented candle and start to read,
pages turn, time flies like seabirds, big hawks, with large wings
that seek lonely islands to roost and come back,
I lose count how many, many times!
this book is a master piece,I can't stop reading you,
but, don't want to finish it and feel lost in the wild, too
a dilemma yet to resolve, I don't know how!
One single star at the western sky sadly watch
sheds her light towards me and smile,
I was bleeding through my eyes, yet
I could recognize, it's you who keep awake
seeing me read your chronicles with contentment
all histories my dear, gallops towards just that,
one place; at that moment I become aware
I am alone in the huge library fallen apart
from the frame of time and revolves on it's own,
we are in a dream woven by a witch in a planet
far far away from earth, but you the star is timeless
though I am part of a dream that will end at will.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC