"overarching" poems
Ice cream is sweet and quite the treat
A savory delight I crave at night
At almost any time and any where,
it is worth to desert for this dessert.
Some keep it vanilla while others want a twist.
Sometimes it's good to mix or other wise switch.
Maybe you're ***** can't resist other flavored dishes?
What if you were denied it or could no longer find it?
*** how I'd crave its taste, but at least I'd lose weight.
Other substitutes are lame and aren't quite the same.
Regardless, I would survive and still be able to thrive.
Why is *** so different?
It's a biological need you'll probably say,
so you, can't compare the two.
I disagree completely.
Though we'd all prefer not to be lacking,
it's not as if we'd die for wanting.
Additionally, people have lived ascetically
and have been perfectly fulfilled and happy.
Those kinds of people aren't born that way,
but rather we are conditioned to be *** crazy.
We are made to feel as if
we are measured by who or how many we've been with.
It is validation we truly desire
and to know we always matter.
And though *** is one of life's greatest gifts,
it does not give your life an overarching bliss.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
The wind roars —
then stills to listen
to the spoken grandeur
from the soul of the
angry autumn sky
Its quickly moving grandeur
moving way beyond
a trailing moment's wake
Change often goes voiceless —
the autumn wind
needs not consent
to bare the trees;
disguising all symmetry
of yesterdays fleeting glance
Overarching that which
can no longer be
as it once was —
A bitter cold gust preys
on this aging bark
stirring to the roots
of my soul
Will true nature’s
powerful essence
ever reshape the scars
these wind-whipped
human feather's
mask ?
The wind roars —
then stills to listen ,...
and I wonder why
I can’t be the change
I see
Stillwater in the wind
Jesse Stillwater ... November 2nd, 2018
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC
It takes me back
It pulls me close
To itself, I cannot leave
ln my dreams
While I dose
The summer scent of mango tree
I remember well
When we were young
My friend and I hung on its arms,
Cuddling the leaves.
Now remain
Just memories, echoes of a simpler past
The flowers promised
June was close
Summer's sins would be redeemed
By the childhood paradise
Salted raw mango slice
Overarching newborn smiles
Yellow sun on green leaves
Greenish-yellow chrysoberyl
Oasis of the summertime
I remember picking them up
From the rooftop of boyhood-life
Our winged friends came, bees, monkeys too
Attempting another bite
Fond, fond memories
Mother used to cut and bring us mangoes
While I tasted the golden slice
My granny told me stories of
The tree, it stood there when they built this house
When she was eight or nine
This fruit, this taste
Connects this land
Magnifera indica
The secular deity of the mango nation
You cannot begin to understand
The gift of Indian summer
My childhood wrapped in emerald leaves
The whiff, the scent, I transcend
Time;go to an age when all was well
Or at the least, to me it seemed
As I'm taking a bite of this season's last mango
As the golden drops stick to my pubescent stache
I remember a conversation I had
The mango tree
It talked to me
No, I'm not crazy
It was the mango tree
Little things in life
Leave something
Oh!so many memories
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 5:35 PM UTC
A strange kind of intrusive ambiance; voices in several languages, forced laughter, technological functioning; human activity intermarried with machines. The volume rising perfectly in sync with my cortisol levels, I interrogate my past for signs of the path that led me here; it remains blurred. I did not dream of working in customer service; but here I am regardless, moments of my life that I will never ponder again; a cascade of the present moment repeating as long as my employment contract exists. An event-less horizon, memories are stillborn here and true ingenuity stifled. There is much and nothing that has led me here. It is hard not to feel like a horse bred for performance in this place; everything is monitored, quantified, reviewed and collaborated. Performance reports produced with the fervor of medieval scholars translating the bible. I look to the sky, what else is there to do; only to see smoke alarms and aesthetically neutral lighting arrangements. There is art work on the walls, but is generic, created to defy analysis. The colouring of the walls is chosen to exude a neutral sort of trendiness; on brand for the overarching corporate image.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC
I write this opening line
Such that you will understand the overarching theme
I am disorganized
I am rattling around in a cage within myself
And I don’t want to come out
Listen to the way I communicate
I have fleeting visions
By the time I finish this thought
There is a new beginning
Washing away everything there was before
It is a constant river of thoughts and thoughts about thoughts
That think themselves about themselves
Down the water toward the ocean
Thoughts can only be thoughts
I am rambling you are listening
Take notice of me
Watch me try and traverse this vast stream of consciousness
I cannot reach the shore and if I did it would be disastrous
Got it?
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
she wanted my soul
so I cut off a finger,
noting that this little pinky offering,
came from the same hand,
who, who went to the market
to buy her a love poem
all her own, because,
it was from the self same hand
that wrote:
*who, can cut a soul into pieces,
no one!
so one will still ask you,
who!
who will love you
in whole poems,
that are both past and future tensed
composite composted,
from words overly overused,
but still foolishly feeling brand new
when referencing you,
so you can believe with new fool-thinking,
this is your sole composition*
she wanted my heart,
applauded her determination,
gave her one eye to see me instead better,
so the visions she essays, to write,
like when I sit down to write
of women I’ve loved but!
they do not come from my heart pieces,
but from inside insight from of parts
that are blind to everything
but raucous untamable invisible desire
she asked me for all the world’s wisdom,
while standing on one legging,
I simply said, here I am,
telling you I’ll love you the way you requested,
if only to be loved in return
so with one eye and one leg,
you will observe, two is not more
than the sum of the parts of one love,
as I count to ten on my nine fingers
fingers that wrote of love not enough,
no matter how many he gave up
she wanted my brainiac left hemisphere,
said, sure,
the left side of me is where the baby poems
are created, and then angel-released when ready,
when needed, now that I
see you’re needy for pieces,
but still mistaken that pieces can be reconstructed into
a whole with spit and spirit
and an overarching imagination -
no!
the whole comes from only a holy place extracted
from the hole-in-one that is my entirety
give me then your utter essence,
the place of you
I, only I know exists, must exist,
but cannot touch to see
where you keep it hidden
from all the women who love you,
better than you even love yourself
if you want that, then collect it,
for it exists and lives on
in every woman that asked for nothing,
but was rewarded with more
than a thousand poems,
stored in stars, for her,
to be creamed and cleansed,
when she plucked them
from the night in the galaxy where exist
love poems, only
to she-one shone-shine
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 1:48 PM UTC
If the Tiber floods and the Nile fails to
If the overflowing mouth of Tamesis runs dry
If the weeping willow withers as the blackthorn breaks
And the regal golden eagle fails to climb in the sky
If the dried-up land yields a drought so parching
That the overarching urge is to drink yourself drowed
If the Dead Sea waters lose their saline flotation
And the carrion-grabbing vultures wheel in from miles around
Then Gethsemane's gates will crack open just a little
And the flowers of the garden will give off a sour scent
As their brazen roots recall the night when they were fed with blood
Dripping softly on the hallowed ground of dying man's lament
If the water rises slowly and yet still without abating
If it swallows up the chariots of sun and man and steed
If the kings step out and stumble to the grave, their destination
Will be broken, bold and cheerless: will be harrowing indeed.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
sometimes falling for someone is like sky-diving,
and sometimes it’s like jumping off golden gate bridge.
sometimes falling for someone is like sky-diving without a parachute
and still expecting to land on your feet,
sometimes falling for someone is like jumping off the golden gate bridge
and wishing you could climb back up in the split second
before you hit the ground.
see, you and me, we’re a little like my teeth;
all the things i let get just a bit crooked
because i didn't try hard enough to keep them in place.
i think there's a metaphor somewhere in there.
i think there's a metaphor in everything if i look hard enough.
but the thing is, life isn't poetry.
it doesn't always have an overarching meaning and message.
and not everything makes sense in stanzas if you unscramble it.
so i think the biggest lie i’ve ever heard about love
is that it sets you free.
but in the same breath our heartbeats sync up
like all those people who made love look so easy, so simple.
you are a home i don't know how to find my way back to,
and i know you can’t make rest-stops into safe havens
and i know if you’re going to try to make homes out of people
then you can’t be surprised when your house falls apart
and you have to move away.
but you, you were good at making hotels feel like homes.
you were good at making things
like open roads and bedsheets and stolen moments
feel like they belonged to us.
like that twin bed and the two of us
with our feet are tangled and our wires are crossed.
we were always spilling over the edges.
you never fit into any part of my life, but you still squeezed.
and not in a bad way, maybe more of a i'm mad at you
for finding all this extra space in me
i never knew was there until you
and then having the nerve to leave it empty.
so i guess i don't really miss people, i just miss the spaces
they leave behind.
the cracks in my pavement.
and god, what a dangerous thing to think
that someone else can make you whole.
and god, what a dangerous thing to think
that someone else can save you from yourself.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
I'm not BABE
or ********
or PRINCESS
I'm not the names you throw at me from your car window
I'm not HONEY
or SWEETIE
or LOOK AT ME WHEN IM TALKING TO YOU *****
Harassment. A 10 letter word with thousands of synonyms
each one like a knife to my skin
each one a scar I can point to and show
"this is where I stopped trusting"
and
"this is when I started running"
Never was I prepared for a life where Im told to be timid
To shrink myself down
To be humble so that men aren't threatened
To never speak my mind and to laugh at everything he says
To always carry my keys in my hand like they are a weapon
To never show my skin and that its my fault if I'm taken advantage of because "boys will be boys"
We live in a world where the female body is fetishized
Where women are seen as "liars" if they wear makeup and "lazy" when they don't
Where girls in school are being removed from class because their tank top straps aren't three fingers wide as if making sure that men are comfortable is more important than an education.
The overarching misogyny that plagues women everyday
That makes them see themselves as the "second class *** will always be apparent
Unless we make a change.
So no
I will not SMILE
or BE NICE
I will tear
And destroy
And break
And smash
I will fight.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
There isn't much sky
in this pallid, stale cocoon
no greens nor greys, no electric branches
searing fragile, barren walls.
But the heady, sagging scent of moisture
suggests a storm--
yes, there was once me:
a turbid bloom, an opportunist
exhausting avidity in one overarching spill.
As I rolled through your gutters,
flippant and bleeding into everything,
you rose with the dryness of the day
and spoke of your immurement,
the feebleness of my mold and mildew.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
— for Victoria
Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre. So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
Now in this season
It smells like sweet honey nectar,
Thick, warm pollen that heavies the air, that
Overarching succulent sweetness I can
Never find. I'm nearly
Dreaming in the midst of day,
Lack of sleep sharpens this
Feeling of loss that doesn't coincide with
The growth around me - My mind
Is falling back a quarter year, another,
Chilled over somehow in direct sunlight -
My hunger could be assayed with
Those honeyed towers somewhere blooming, but
I've not been told where to find them -
Stumbling along with aching limbs and
Exhausted heart, forced anxious smile,
Can't seem to find these supposed fruits
That hang down at reach, give way to new days -
Just quiet, vacant preludes
Along all these miles of solitude.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
dreamt in strange shifting blocks, interwoven and with startled faces, sentencings spoken wordless. woke up to the blurry thought:
sometimes in talk, i am confronted with ideas that in no way reconcile with my own structures. in response, i often choose to not say anything, or let it uncomfortably sit in my gut. in cases where the opposing point won't be heard, i suppose this is alright. but, when my own rooted beliefs are challenged in a valid manner, it is more akin to the silence of shame than of dignification. is this symbolic of the internalisation of a more sound philosophy, or inability to process it against the grain of my own?
avoiding argumentation where it is of little purpose is one of my prime conversational aspects, and in an overarching paradigm avoiding unnecessary speech in general. but what internally portrays as tact can come off as indignant coolness, or bitter indifference. so, do i continue to speak in only the meaningful outer lashes, or let down the floodgates to some degree?
human interaction doesn't need necessitate grave importance at all junctions, and sometimes the most comforting talk can be of nothings (which i still find myself often party to, despite my self-portrait of filtered short-spokenness).
how do i open myself more to accepting or understanding when points are more sensible than my own, and integrating them into my consciousness? for, surely, if i disavow myself from giving up dated sentiments, i shall truly stagnate.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
Ample armpit hair whipping in the wind.
We were forced to deify ourselves vicariously through stems of trees, millions of years old, hugging the moss.
Sick of piles of coins in innumerable quantities.
Sick of contrived smiles
Sick of listening to convoluted phrases shrouded in rhetoric from quivering lips, drooling with neediness and existential despair.
Sick of you.
Sick to our very core
The torch burns.
The chorus churns:
Awakening, awakening, awakening.
Embrace, embrace, embrace the embryonic ember.
No neon lights, no abstractions, no overarching laws.
We are the Pagan Icons
And we do
what we must.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
— for Victoria
Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre. So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
Way before people in human form,
we existed as air and light.
Lavender lights in the northern regions
called to each other, and we responded freely.
Sound sounded differently then, reaching
inside our airy souls, overarching temporal existence.
Dancing through infinite space, leaping beyond knowing,
we became pure unfettered feeling.
Come across the threshold of light, riding on your smile.
All that was then, is still our ancient home.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
The touch of your palms sends slithering snakes down my vertebrae,
Your eyes locked onto mine – I get so carried away…
Nerve endings are exploding,
Stress unloading…
And words escape your lips that can stop the clocks from ticking,
The earth from rotating,
My lustful heart from palpitating,
Like sweet music to my ears, to my brain,
Oh I'm going insane…
It's the urge I'd rather not contain,
Let my nails break the skin on your back,
Scratching up and down your spine,
No holding back
No time to rewind.
Cheeks are numb,
Toes curl under,
Check my vitals and prove to me that this is no dream,
Because I swear that this feels like thunder.
So hold me forever hostage in this storm,
As you shake and provoke the demons from within,
Burning, churning, and rattling inside my chest,
These entities do not sleep, they do not rest,
They won't cease unless released,
Unless they see the light of day.
And If I were to pry my ribcage open,
They'd catapult into the overarching sky,
Where the sun glows like a stained glass angel
Dangling from the sun god's very own fingertips.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
VIII
Glassy smooth
a mirror-sea
reflects a turbulent
cloudscape blending
white into grey
today far distant
the sea joins the sky
the sky absorbs the sea
into the one
the other disappears
and little movement
at the water’s edge . . .
the tide-uncovered land
lies exposed to harden
in the still air
IX
Despite the profusion
the messiness of it all
and with disorder everywhere
there is a precise vocabulary
for the nature and experience
of the coastal strip
the area caught between
land and sea.
Rocks littered
Sand pitted and patterned
Sea sounding breaking pulling-back
Sky an overarching complement to it all
and the necessary story of coming
and the ‘just being here’
and this path to the sea shore
strewn so with anticipation
with forward-facing dreams almost
urgent imaginings as we let go
of the constraints of the squared space
the vertical architecture of daily life
X
See how those we love are transformed
when the sea is their only boundary
a figure stands before a sand bar
in a crescent of water left by the tide
an affecting geometry of solitude
another gathers her body in a crouch
to come close to a speckled play of tiny shells
fragments thrown together by the morning’s tide
The beach is such unconfining space
where movement demands no direction
XI
this attentive looking
at what lies at the feet
or not
choosing to pass by
the curiously-formed
or not
but there is a measuredness
of step an accompanying intent
with that always-confidence
there may be something
so single out what can be held
in the fingers what can lie
entire in the neutral space
of your collection’s row
then later
with the pencil’s mark
the brush’s touch
in line and shade
and the tricks of chiaroscuro
an image will be secured
in mind and muscles’ memory
you will have drawn this form
into knowledge
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
I grew from this earth,
green as a sprout,
to grow and grow and
touch the sky with
my puny shoulders.
I do as the Sun above
commands of me,
to keep stretching and
bending my spine,
arching my back to
its plans for
my overarching canopy.
They wish for me to
lie beneath them,
absorb their every
ray and word,
to believe fully and totally
in only them.
However,
these Suns do not shine
quite bright enough
and my nourishment
supplements itself.
I help myself to grow,
to bear the responsibility above
that I can never handle;
far too much to handle.
They don't know that
I am so tired,
so sick and weak
deep, deep, deep
down in my roots.
I haven't slept
in years,
years and years of
open eyed nights,
empty thoughts and
alternative music
to fuel and feed my
roots and trunk.
This could never suffice,
as only the Sun may
lift up the heavens,
may hold the sky aloft and
force the clouds to dance,
sending glittery raindrops
down towards me,
sweat running wet from
the pores of the wild
storm fronts.
I am too weak to handle
their high heeled kicking,
heavy foot stomping,
black cloud romping around;
I'm too far down,
down, down on the ground,
covered by dirt and
having only grown
a quarterway up.
It won't work,
honestly;
I can't be who you
wanted.
After all,
such small shoulders
could never hold
such large sky.
Aug 12, 2011
Aug 12, 2011 at 12:06 AM UTC
I’m done with sitting around
waiting for life to guide me
through a meaningless existence
as if things just happen.
hoping for problems to work
themselves out, regressing
to the safety and comfort
of nothingness,
doing nothing,
being nothing,
options have plagued the world,
so vast and unattainable that you’re
overwhelmed by choice,
disadvantaged by practicality.
expectations appear formidable
until you realise that most
lead a nine to five life,
hypnotised by the norm,
the mundanity is too much.
how do you begin to transform
a life that is settled in its routine?
to chance and hope without a
tangible end goal
then one day you realise
your meaning in life.
individual,
unique,
so precious and perfect
you must savour it,
cherish it. delve into
the world of possibility.
not everything works out.
truly there is no overarching
meaning to existence
but when you find your own
as different and quirky as it may be,
embrace its madness and
then you will be free.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 8:02 AM UTC
A settled man with the heart of a vagabond
belonging to an artful brain and clumsy hands,
to eloquent thoughts and a stuttering mouth,
to an overarching desire to fly and touch the clouds
and an overwhelming fear of falling to the ground.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
The way you look
The way you look at me
The way you see
It is all so enticing
I keep repeating
Like it is some kind of puzzle piece
And I'm trying to find where it fits
I don't know
I'm stupid, I should be able to say what I know and what I want
Yet I can only repeat and rhyme
Calling it poetry, yet it is a sad excuse on all levels
I know not all thoughts are beautiful
Rather many are mundane
Yet that is hard to believe
When many of my thoughts consist of you
And therefore are inherently some of the most beautiful things to think
So I write poetry
Calling it romance
Love, the muse
Love the muse
You see repetition is my default
Systematically placing stress on one word then the other
Changing and transforming the overarching meaning
Your lips
Your lips on mine
These thoughts lie in the back of my thoughts
And are all I can think about
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
(*i couldn't say more than enough, or
much at all. i am uncertain but
only ever-so-slightly and, overarching
paradigm, i'm happier than ever, even
if i'm still sad.*) we play
party to endless routines. bite our
own tails with startling frequency.
shudder or spark. most often both,
but most often meaning little, for
meaning is intrinsic, only where you
implant it. in patient hunt for
our exterior products, we numbered
blades, outside; hovering above and
without fields. writing the same
light motifs as always. nothing looks
like stars except stars, or sand, or
freckles in your eyes. everything
shines a little dimmer. something
about the way our hands brush
through stems. directed motions.
observable quantities. sentences
underpinning lifetimes. how does
one figure their actions or inaction
as anything but universal? how
does one decompose their patterns,
already found irreducible? from
either side, movements are local.
we reside in pure neighbourhoods.
all existence outside is asleep.
the hallways contract. water runs
from & over our skin.
shivered
and, as basis,
discovered this
world is just as dizzy. just in
new increments. not eating for days
sends you sick. eating for days
does likewise. broken down or
breaking down, we idle and
sleep and sometimes hope for
coalescence (or, at least, as far
as i can find). but, meadows, too,
still sleep, forests still sleep. all
alive is this room, or shadow,
or minute discharge radius. so, if
you aren't here or closer, how can
anything matter? asleep & passing
through city-light. tender ghost.
sweet summary. some days, even
i am discontinuous, but only for
passing swathes. field underfoot
& distance now mean little more
than nothing, and little less than
everything. and, as dual, i
could hardly forget. scale &
continue in each second. it is
cold & getting colder, and i've
figured out how to miss you,
already.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC