"outpourings" poems
RIVERS MAKES ME QUIVER
Youthful mind left wandering just feeling the wetness from yards into the curbs
Ripples running curbside over toes, forming those first streams for a meandering mind
Clouds collecting power,mists collecting,forming Drop by drop rains flowing into their reserves
High mountain lakes reflecting their passion, partitioned by beavers to make their own pond
Broken into brooks flowing faster downward into streams,cool and clear their taste like sweet liqueurs
Beauty not confined to a torrent but gifted with greenery and wildlife ,flowers that make the forests more confident
Trickles forming into cascades downward making outpourings & overflows waterfalls forced through the fissures
Gravity needs spaces we watch as it heightens then widens,making it's way through the continent quickly becoming most prominent
Admire her beauty but reap her rewards,wet bounty to feed the fields, food for fishes ,generations receive her treasures
Canoeists,kayakers or legendary steamboat captains are fond of their flowing, boys wondering where she will go ,knowing our tears of joy will flow to the sea should be our greatest compliment. R.C.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 9:19 AM UTC
In Parsley, a Levantine munificence accreted together in Tabbouleh,
herbage that covers fractured bedrock in a poultice of healing.
Secreted within, lie igneous outpourings of bloodied tomatoes,
those solid affections that had welled through an ocean floor
as Neptune quelled Gaia's contractions, her waters seeking to burst
beneath the wrinkled surface of a salty sea. She, an underbelly of sky,
pregnant in the overwhelm of magma, sweating out her heart in fire,
muted like a moon of Neptune, in his retrograde soliloquies, yet mirroring
hers in icy resurfacings of skin. The God of the Sea, boils an amnion
to hazy mists, how deep will his trident plunge to dislodge those Trojan ships
of deceptions ? Yet, Triton blows a conch for Gaia, not for man's duelling
and his warring tribes. He soothes her feverish gnashing of thighs
labouring continents. Some fires burn in water, like desultory heartbeats
moving the pace of rocks through the ocean floor, spiriting away
to stranger places still, marking maps of memories in the beauty of
a stillborn magma. The limestone they say is no blood relation to such
alien fructification, those oceanic intruders, bleeding still, spilling
secrets in reds and purples. The acid tears spilled in lemons merely
neutralised in syllables, sedimented to a community of limestone,
that possess no archaic remnants reminiscing through dead bones,
an age of glory. Now beauty lies in herbage over once raucous magma
and traces of a salty sea, freshness of life trailing her veins, in fragrance of Parsley
Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 7:15 AM UTC
Gaia sighed. Not a sigh like lovers sigh looking deeply into each other's eyes. This was a sigh of resignation. In all her long life, there had never been a time she felt as unheeded as now.
Yes, there had been a time once, a time of oneness when all her multitudinous inhabitants had coexisted, when species knew their place in the chain of life and cycled through their existence, not always at peace but with respect for one another: the lion hunted the swift gazelle which in turn fed on the fruits of the trees, parasitic birds and insects grazed upon her and they in turn were the prey of others. ‘Yes,’ Gaia thought, ‘there was a time.’
She sighed again. She remembered when humans first came to prominence in the twilight of her existence. To them, she was the Great Mother, the Creator of life. Was it not she who bore all her inhabitants and was it not to her that they all returned to continue the cycle?
Gaia felt old now, old and forgotten. That respect, that devotion was all gone now. She felt the hurt as the careful balance she had sought to maintain was eroded, not by wind and elements, but by the ravages of humans.
‘They have overstepped their bounds,’ she mused. ‘They must be taught a lesson.’
She pondered on that thought for a moment and for a moment felt a surge of effervescent warmth flow through her form. But grim reality broke through her musings and she shuddered at the horror of the reality. Her memories were dim and misty now. She could remember her birth but only just. How she had taken form from the cosmic flotsam and jetsam all those countless aeons ago. She remembered the youthful exuberance she exhibited then and she smiled in embarrassed recollection. No life could have survived upon her surface then for she was wild and wilful, hot and inhospitable, prone to savage outpourings. But she grew, she gained the experience of time passing, and slowly, slowly, her voluble exterior became calm and gradually her form was blanketed in a kindly cloak of life-sustaining gases. The soup of her oceans spawned and multiplied a myriad of lives and forms and she thought of how many she had seen come and go.
The present again broke through her meditation of what has gone before. Now she was approaching the nighttime of her existence and, like the old elephant, one of her favourite inhabitants, she knew her time was near. She had tried so hard to adapt, to compromise but, like a cancer, the human scourge had spread beyond all control. Oh yes, there had been a few voices raised in concern and some, she knew, spoke with all the sincerity she knew the species was capable of. But, those voices went unheeded, listened to by a few but ignored by the many. Gaia was tired. She hurt. Sol bore down on her savagely, relentlessly and she felt her protective shroud growing weaker and weaker as every moment passed. It was now, the time had come...
© David Simons 2001 (revised 2016)
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
Words, once obedient servants
Now claim suzerainty over ideas.
The age of meaningful verse has yielded
To gobbledygook.
Poetry, a grey mist half-understood
Through which I stumble blindly,
A mirage I chase through the sands...
The wells of creativity run dry.
Neither outpourings of emotion nor tender murmurs;
Mere craftsmanship remains.
Lines dolled up in ****** baubles
Literary ****** soliciting passing readers,
Fireflies, impotent
In the face of the darkness within.
The autumn harvest of verbosity is ripe
For the scythe of the Grim Reaper
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
Skinned knee, tree-barked knuckles,
fights in the long grass pal.
Friends so long that we've our own,
private language
(which renders these public outpourings
largely irrelevant)
and can go years, now,
with no contact
yet never really be apart.
Last Christmas we hooked up,
marvelled at the passing of time,
and you recalled that the last time we met
I gave you a book of my poems.
"Did you read them?" I asked,
and brilliantly, unembarrassed,
you replied:
"No. I looked at the first one,
saw that it went over the page,
thought: 'Oh, that's long -
I'll read that later,'
but I never did."
And we laughed uproariously
as I seldom do with anyone else.
But I know
that long after every other copy
has been thumbed ragged,
misplaced,
passed on
and lost
your copy will remain
pristine and safe
on your shelf
Because although you have
no more interest in poetry now
than either of us did at the age of eleven,
you'll look after it
because your pal wrote it.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 3:58 AM UTC
Just like the right double-A battery,
This will reign forever.
Rain in peace and joy and love,
Meeting the eternal flames of Passion halfway down the sky.
Not steam! But Lo!
Outpourings of infinite rainbows!
Glory B of heaven’s earth,
Met here in promised land.
1 must be careful, however,
Not to cut oneself on the sharp G
Of the Liberty Bell. Go!
Homestead upon the river Styx,
Immortalized with diamonds and mirrors,
Refracting about the smokeless fires,
Casting colours in all directions!
Y the English spelling, you ask?
Why, Americans are ever so silly,
Forgetting the seven colours!
Trying to make them 6.
‘Twill never do.
There must be at least 7, the magickal number
To make up the grand 8.
aleph-acher-aleph
Until there is only Everything Left.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
I'm pressed and stressed, my
Heart
Pounds, echoes across the far-flung corners of the world
Where you stole away my heart, then
Dashed it against the ice of your own,
Beyond hope of recognition. I wish there was a chance
That a small fragment of me still clings to your cuff,
that you might still carry a part of me with you.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
I don't know you very well,
I don't know what you've been through.
I can't feel your pain with you--
But I can read it.
I read it in the outpourings of your soul,
The tough-as-nails fuck-you facade (that's cracking) …
And I read your hurt, your heartbreak,
Your longing for something greater
Than what you have.
And I feel my own pain.
So let us hide behind a wall
Of kitty cat masks and cheshire smiles.
You can cry on my shoulder and I
Can hold you and tell you it'll be okay,
Someday.
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 12:54 AM UTC
I remember dad lying
in a hospital bed breathing,
but not much more than that.
Hours were spent watching assistants
come and go.
Televisions droned through the hallway
from other rooms,
echoing through my head
like an old movie playing at
4 a.m.
after pulling a drunk.
Rousing moans from dad
punctuate the tedium.
Sweat pools under my thighs
from the high-quality,
leatherette upholstered chairs
that only one hundred thousand dollars
of medical care could provide
in a hospital room.
Mornings
brought the same parade of people
pressing and probing dad.
Occasional visits from the resident physician
yielded timeless comments like,
“we just want him to be comfortable,”
and my personal favorite,
“have you been here all night?”
Stupid question.
After all the “outpourings” of concern
from friends and relatives
(who I haven’t seen nor heard
from since the dirt was shoveled over his casket),
their visits can only be topped
by the Sunday-after-church-crowd,
who desired only to brand dad
with their version of beliefs -
God bless them.
As they were leaving,
I could most certainly detect the pride
they felt in themselves
for their courageous visit to the dying.
And then came death.
And here I am at 4 a.m.
in the morning two years later,
listening to a two-bit movie drone on the TV,
wondering if dad listened to the
Sunday-after-church-crowd.
© 2010 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:27 PM UTC
To hear the child,
through outpourings
of tears, is to hear
a child in need.
To help the lost,
to search within
themselves, is to help
them to succeed.
To recognise sadness,
concealed in brave
composure, is to know
how far we fall.
To sense one’s love,
through layers of
deep emotion, is to
know, love conquers all.
To believe in oneself,
despite latent natural
desires, is to accept
the Karma inside.
To rise above mortality,
slipping free of safe
shores, is to sail on
the spiritual tide.
To forgive the listener,
who cannot hear the
word, is to mourn one
who’ll never be free.
To touch one’s heart,
so breathing life into
life, is to reveal
what it is, just to be.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 2:08 PM UTC
walking home
through the autumn leaves
discarded
i can't help but feel
they represent
all the thoughts
all the feelings
all the emotions
i have ever felt
that have been cast aside
forced aside
discarded
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Were I a man less fortunate
If I could not my words express
Would I not humbly shun the light
And all my boundless thoughts compress.
My heart is full and begs release
Outpourings flow from deep within
And words flood out and take their form
Of love and pain, and life and sin.
To sit and wait these countless times
Considering this or that to say
Thoughts writ in beguiling form
Thus written they then speed on their way.
Characters flit betwixt mine eyes
So fast sometimes I cannot catch
Letters caught in melee furious
I place them here or there to match.
When all these letters are thus laid down
In words to make some form or sense
Then read by ones’ discerning eye
With open mind and no pretence.
Who reads these words I cannot know
But surely if when read they think
That thoughts they have become theirs now
Thus quill or pen make seamless link.
©Joe Wilson – to express oneself...2014
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 7:02 AM UTC
Awesome,
Breaking,
Crashing,
Deafening,
Engulfing,
Flood,
Galloping Horses,
Insanely Jettisoning,
Killer Landslide,
Maniacally Nebulous Outpourings,
Perceptively Quizzical Rhetoric,
Slumbering Truth Under Veils,
Willfully Xenomorphic Yokeless Zen
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
And the young schmuck said,
How’s about a nice
Pretty photograph,
Girls, something to show
The folks back home, you
In your beautiful
Bathing costumes, so
Young and so well wrapped
Up there? Sure, Betsy
Said, why not, though don’t
Think my daddy’d be
Too pleased about me
In this here costume.
You looked at the schmuck
And tried hard not to
Imagine the dark
Working of his brain,
What images lay
There, what ******
Thoughts swirled around there
Like black oil in a
Sump. Sally looked just
Away from him, looked
Further up the beach
Or maybe the sea
Or sky, anywhere
But the young guy with
The camera, her
Being the quiet
Type and shy. But you
Knew his type, they were
Like haemorrhoids: a
Huge pain in the ****
Always there with the
Words, the wise cracks, with
Their slimy sayings;
But you knew all they
Ever wanted from girls,
Beyond the mouthy
Outpourings, was you
In the bed or some
Secret place and to
Be undressed and to
Copulate with, to
Have their way; but not
With you; you knew the
Goings on, you knew
Which way those kind of
Things ended and you
Knew that even though
Betsy gave him the
Smile and ease, she’d not
Settle for such a
Creep with his false smile,
Wheedling words or
Bright eyed stare. So he
Took his photograph
And you were captured
There on the beach in
New Orleans amongst
The other young folk,
Beneath a sky of
Blue, in your bathing
Costumes, beautiful
And youthful in the
Year of our sweet Lord,
1922.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
I've just reached 10,000 page views. A small milestone, granted. Nonetheless, it is a welcoming reassurance that my work has not fallen on deaf ears, and a warm encouragement to continue onward. I offer you a bounty of my unyielding gratitude, for not only your support, but also for the luminous community you have all created here and allowed me to be a part of. This place is truly a wonder. It's a rarity that I don't find my self astonished and surprised multiple times per day by some of the outpourings of unbridled creativity that turn up in my feed.
With that, I thank you once more, and bid you adieu.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 4:36 AM UTC
Response to a very general demand
Compact is compatible
Seldom if ever, used
Fall below the general standard set.
Now the night is over
Very real enrichment
Outpourings of the hearts of the people
Give Expression to
New expression in,
Inner life,
In such large measure.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
sometimes seen hunting
for metal fibres to coil
around glass
hair streaked with henna
hair and hands hardened by
concrete
something elemental about him
that flowed into the artisan
outpourings scattered around.
it was as if the shards with metal
sinews were progenitors . Tiny
capsules from which he came.
how he cradled them
gave that the air.
sure they were on show but, priced not to sell
on show but never untouched
a show
that drew in ******* He worked with rejects.
Affinity perhaps. He surely had nothing
for the **** that was drifting toward him.
Hard faced and beaten; wandering the market
bored of themselves . Hating money moving
without them.
One gestured at broken glass caged in wire.
A whimsy for a small hand.
Waving paper money as an offer. The elements
of him did not move. The flash of blade insisted
Rising. Blade dancing the market hushed.
Maker stood and slowly lifted his shirt.
In the dusty brown of dirt he glared pale.
The blade to the noise of the bearers
procession menaces his face until
light catches the copper sutures
stitching flesh to bone
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 8:46 AM UTC
How to belong
Amongst other peoples
Happiness?
How to listen
To outpourings of love
And sit comfortably
Oneself
How to restrain
Confusing tears
In times
Of celebration?
How to
Find one’s own space
In the midst of others spaces?
How to find comfort
Alone with oneself
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
A glorious sight befell my eyes
A pristine untouched bearer of supplies
Made of wood, of steel, or anything buildable
The Table
Possessing an essence unlike anything else
Hearkening to an unalterable purpose and tableness
Providing unending sustenance on a platform that's stable
The Table
Though the lingering presence in this perceptual world is illusory
The unchanging, uncleft presence is perfection conceptually
Artisanal glyphs adorn its sides unmatchable
The Table
While strife and pandemonium reign in this material domain
There remains a bastion of stability man cannot attain
Indeed, this mystical countenance attains a fable
The Table
Weathered and wizened through inummerable epochs
Joyous outpourings bestow praise not enough
Remaining of unmatchable nature even with the made-in-China label
The Table
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 1:05 PM UTC
Writing poetry is dead easy if you have two precious documents before your very eyes. The two documents in question are The Divine Comedy; by some 13th century Italian bloke called Dante Aligheri, and any copy of the Iliad that’s lying about the joint. You will also need a full-length mirror, a tin of Brasso and an English/Italian dictionary. When you have assembled this lot you can commence discovering whether or not you are a Dante, or just chancing your luck as a wannabe Homer
Having assembled all the necessary paraphernalia, you can begin your quest to become a poet, or discover that you are just another lost soul who wants to copyright spelling mistakes and grammatical errors in order to make a fortune from the literary outpourings of desperate to be Dantes everywhere. (Think about it, that’s not as dumb as it sounds nor is it as dumb as you will be if you attempt it.) That’s your first lesson in Danteness and Homericness. Writing literature is a paradoxical experience, and never a contradiction. So, you may have to shove Hegel out the window and line the floor of your pet hamster’s cage with the complete works of Marx.
Now you are approaching the very personal and very revealing bit of this exercise to discover whether you are a potential Dante or not. But, as always, there’s a but: before that, you may wish to check out a few historical precedents. Check out Chaucer Shakespreare. Milton, Pope. Shelley and Keats, and after the death of the Good Lord Byron, you might want to move abroad to Ireland and The USA, to get the best out of literature by having a glance at Yeats, Hopkins, Whitman and Emerson. Then there are a couple of Russian poets: Akhmatova and Ratushinskaya . Africa has the Nobel Laureate Soyinka, who shouldn’t be missed. Rabindrinath Tagore is beyond words and there is a Chinese poet named Wei Bo who is also a sublime read. World literature is like world music, a surprise around every corner-
Now this is the wonderful part of your poetic odyssey. At this point you get to look in the mirror, a lot. But first a word of caution: mirrors can be very strange, if not downright frightening things to see yourself reflected in. Put on your bravest countenance and look straight into the glacial glossy glare, and tell yourself you’re not scared of a piece of silver painted glassery that looks back at you every time you glance at it.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC