"overspills" poems
Introduction
There they stood; keeping silent company.
Yet of His face, wept searing electricity.
To the lovers of life
Here they stand, keeping silent company.
No utterance dealt; yet clear in both their minds
A single, brilliant truth:
He longs for her with a savage delight.
And it cries from every fibre, exalting!
It is in the bearing of his eye;
Rifling through her tender flesh
In search of what he knows, from voices ages old, is there:
That her heart will beat for no other as it beats for him right now;
That in this moment, their Souls are bared
To each other’s glares- naked, and blemished, and cowering-
Yet his eyes remain fixed and sure:
And for this, she loves him.
For they have seen each other for the First of Times,
Truly! And as with many the Ancient Laws unfurled,
They stand aware, in lack of ever being taught,
Aware with every atom, every straining tendon tight
That their time's so very short.
And so they drink… wordless
To each other, to their youth, and to their bodies
Shining like never before in the noonday air
Garbed in cloth that snaps and furls around their waists.
They imbibe with electric eyes,
Eyes that are new born to this world of light
And come out screaming, living, and sensitive
For lack of ever being touched.
They revel in their new-found joy;
Pouring from Her figure,
Of Her sleek, supple waist and the arch of her back,
Bristling with delight,
Of His strong hands and easy smile,
That spoke of laughter scattered
Across countless campfires of summers past.
Their light does burn intense as any fire,
And when their brimming anticipation
Overspills its crimson chalice
The silence shall SHATTER.
To find peace again in each other's arms.
Fumbling in sweet darkness-
Of heavy lids, of earthy flesh,
With lips embraced...
In ravenous finality.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
Nothing could explain this sight,
Overspills of different light,
Reaching out for miles around,
Transmitting light without a sound,
Heavy thoughts fill my mind,
Explanations I cannot find,
Rolling over the clear night sky,
Northern lights pass me by,
Languishing in this beauty alone,
Isolated and away from home,
Green and silent creeping by,
Hovering so lonely, I sit and sigh,
Thinking to myself what beautiful sights,
Sights I remember, oh northern lights.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
Arrested development,
life on hold.
Investment deterioration...
High Street trade goes cold.
Can we have our ball back mister?
Progress halted;
ambitions run dry.
Ineptitude personified
So up goes the cry…
Can we turn the clock back?
Lorry parks overrun,
trucking overspills,
paperwork’s not valid mate,
shortage at the tills.
Unemployment running rife... go on...
Can’t we just have another run at life?
Too many negatives
converging all at once.
Should’ve delayed departure
Covid, Brexit… Extend the talks!
Ineptitude • Handbrake turn before the exit?
No! This is like a yellow box so no!
Do not enter unless your exit’s clear!
Can we have our ball back mister?
Can we turn the clock back?
Can we have another run at life?
Too late goes up the cry… you’re disaffected.
Should’ve been better informed
by the people at the sharp end;
the people at the top…
Ever felt dejected... 1- 2 - 3 - 4...
take it from the top! No!
Can we have our ball back mister?
Can we turn the clock back?
Can we have another run at life?
Sorry say the throng…
we didn’t really mean them
to get it THIS bleeding wrong!
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 9:23 AM UTC
Echoes of the water hymn
meander on empty boulevards -
I trod this sunken labyrinth on the sea.
I watch silk-clad cherubim
standing near the milky shards
as they join a haunted melody.
The girl sculpts lamenting statuettes
on the sunlit crown.
Countless hours within the tower
nesting angels in her lillywhite gown.
Ghosts of a shipwreck
pour into the starboard garden
and I paint their tears like pieces of an ocean.
They wander on the fore-deck
and sing as the eggshells harden.
I see to the dawn, filled with strange emotion.
She swims in the moonlight
as her body stills.
A winged flight in the fading night
while the chalice of golden wine overspills.
Mar 13, 2023
Mar 13, 2023 at 3:23 PM UTC
before i even write the title,
i set it to draft
selected as unworthy before it's born
i tell myself i might not want to write about writing
because of something someone said sometime
about mistakes
then if i remember right
i edit my memory:
after editing this poem
i am seeing clearly:
a censored Mnemosyne
raging from her shaded, titanic head
music may be involved.
or film,
or living well
or finding myself unable to speak out against bigotry
or those who'd impose their choice on another's body
the chills.
inseparable sensate emotions.
often they spread over the left side of my back, neck and head
.usually they feel good.
i think they may always feel good
like tears
and the urge to sing alone
or the sharp yearning:
i must tell this someone something soon
like
'the ocean overspills imaginal seas
and yet is less than what i want it to mean'
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 4:49 AM UTC
I am not
a
lone, nor am I a beta, I am a me,
objectively
I could be you, they're coming to take me away,
who could it have been,
tomorrow, came and went, neither you nor me,
you were real, and there, you saw, they took
my mother away,
oh,
it was a time, it was a time, lotta shotgun weddin'
ended with the non ****** bride,
having prescriptions from four doctors, god knows, how many refills each
oh, we had our times of drunk, just
drinkin' not drunk thinkin'
you know, when you let go, oh,
Amelia, I think
sing Let it go, let it go, segue to George
blissed on the way it all came down,
went down, coulda been up, woulda
but
I never knew
what I was doing, oh, ** ** ** you know,
nobody
really, once done, the experience, Job,
and all the spinoffs,
messages with morals seeking worth,
hey, what's this {Your Hate Here} scalp worth?
NOT EVERYONE LIVES LIKE YOU,
Dad,
me, the dad object, seen as any role
that Bill Murray could play, my role,
my children agree, but I know why,
Shadow Lands after Ground Hog Day,
we walked out and said, as we had said
earlier that sunny southern cal -coastal urban
early Nineties, ah,
let's go watch a movie... and it was Shadowlands next.
C.S. Lewis in love,
and now// Pine Valley. Rich in ancient lore,
and more,
I have made amends for my overspills, believe me,
please
believe me, I could not dream this alone,
oh, but I
did, I was just, a kid, I never knew nobody knew, but me.
Barry Rudd.
He is fiction. Bill Murray, maybe, we-- say too soon to call.
Sep 3, 2022
Sep 3, 2022 at 12:35 AM UTC
My garden's full of daffodils.
Each border is a-groan with them.
And so are all my windowsills!
This sea of yellow flows and spills
Around, about each stalk and stem.
My garden's full of daffodils
Up to their ears in yellow frills!
The garden's quite an anadem.
And so are all my windowsills!
Not narcissi! No! Nor jonquils!
Or flower as dignified as them
My gardens full of daffodils
Each tidy border overspills
Blazing with ochre meristem
And so are all my windowsills!
The twentieth vase this arm full fills
I shall not plant this bulb again!
Mat garden's full of daffodils
And so are all my windowsills!
Lal Lewis (c) 2000
Mar 4, 2025
Mar 4, 2025 at 8:15 AM UTC
Misspent youth or age with grace
fates just land upon our lap
try to breathe and save face
or simply take another nap
time consuming, hard and fast
slowly feeling, blindly moving
as the first stone has been cast
rippled skin no longer smoothing
age defying are we lying
can we really last that long
or are we all just slowly dying
losing heart and inner song
tales of year's long gone by
each unique and often warming
I cannot question what or why
just enjoy each day's new dawning
soak up learning, sharing caring
love and laughter cures your ills
if you can be bold be daring
heartfelt love that overspills
look up and forward or reminisce
dream of treasure pure as gold
living life is a lingering kiss
embrace the beauty of getting old
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 10:23 AM UTC
I
Vast hollow scraped
from land by the
slow cadence of some
retreating glacier.
Melt from high flows
larvic to fill the void.
Quiet invasion of
waters forming
stone quarrying
rivers until,
overfilled the
crystal clears
Overspills and
streams to ocean
lapping at milk-
white cliffs,
hungry as cats.
II
Quiet invasion
walking on
continental drift
Wattle and daub
blue-dyed men
lakeside.
III
Hush now the
quiet priest
hands out leaf
to cover the fig
fruit of fecundity
IV
Without sound
quiet bands move
always move and
increase until
Around the fire in
moonlit waters shown
the tom toms open
relentless beat
V
Too late
too late the quiet
invaders imitate
and mock
Then ****
Nations at war
within
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 5:06 AM UTC
I am crumbled like a paper with inadequate poetry and disowned words.
I am the bad poetry that you hear from an amateur. The one that lacks litery expertise. The one that doesn’t know enough metaphors. The one that fails to rhyme. The one with broken lines. The one that swallows millions stories into a line. The one that need more expertise to be understood than to express. The one that overspills yet fits into mouth just fine. The one you wouldn’t understand. Ever. The one I couldn’t explain to you. Never. The one you would probably hear and dislike at once.
The one that you would hate.
I am that peotry.
That is short of a melody.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
Red wine seals the cracks ,
opens the door
levels the field
good smoke brings the growling to an end
canned potato chips nourish the body
and the young soul
lipstick smeared cigarette butts ,
slim fast cans , powder cut on an
album sleeve , counting this ,
counting that
someones ***** , his majesties
**** toy
a 45 record skipping
a lizards tongue shoved into his mouth
probing , violating , poisoning
white wine fills the moat
overspills , rushes into the basement ,
flushing the vermin from nooks and
crannies
nostrils packed with feces
ignored , ridiculed , used ... This butterfly amongst the ravens
This polliwog mingling with the frogs
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 10:25 PM UTC