"palpate" poems
She rises above Monamoy Point
on her wake—a Tenebrae of carbon
Then bolts back
careening cross blue-black—
through her lucent clouds of hair
from which on radii spray a diaspora of stars
Mistress of Metallurgy
tempered, tampering
Darkness forged to alloy with light
Men have always wondered...
how anything could be so round?
To arouse a sullen tide
her fingers palpate night-water’s lead
tingling light of limbs so spread
to her lover!
Close him in—
a pewter path of trembling touches
that ends in the small of her back
Men so wooed, still shudder
“How anything so tender...?”
could expose such stone!
She eclipses the sun!
She commands the sky!
...to hone his steel on that!
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC
MEMORIES OF SAND
I gave up sweeping that year
Like a penance
As sand permeated
Everything in my condo
Clung to my scalp and feet
Blew in with the fog and landed
In my tub, between my sheets, the sink, the carpet
Gritted between my teeth in the early hours
When i would reach for her still
Before the memory would detonate around me that she didn't come.
I would follow you anywhere.
Morphed into
I can't.
I hate those dagger give-up words.
Unlike the sand
I reviled in coaxing the beach closer still
And sand blurred the boundaries of my life
Inside. Outside.
Past. Present.
Old. New.
I could pull the blanket of crashing waves around me in hypnotizing hues
Breathe in the turquoise or gray or navy blue
Of the mecurial moods of the sea.
Each morning ritual of coffee and perching 8 foot tall on the sea wall studying the swells and tides
I could palpate the energy of my spirit rising around the waves
Curling and mixing as
Aqua-purple-red dragonflies hovered at my veranda hibiscus that murmers truths
I do no want to hear.
And in all that aloneness settled a great quiet still emptiness.
Because I couldn't cry I'd go diving in the persistent waves of salt and kelp.
The cold violated my eardrums and for a moment I'd go spinning-disoriented and weightless-suspended
Surrender without air as the Pacific held me buyouant
Only surfacing to breathe like a Baptism. I was ok being alone.
And sometimes I wasn't.
As the sand exfoliated my old self I'd grasp hold of the new wonders of phosphorescent tide under a harvest moon
And the fading memory of her would rise like a helium balloon I held down for 2 hrs and 4 weeks at Surfers Point in Ventura
Then let her go into the abyss of acceptance
Like granting permission to the invading sand
Gathering like whispers
In disappearing corners of her absence
And leaned into the redefinition of myself:
Barefoot. Sandy. Expectant.
The memory of sand.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
respond
find these bones
immerse them in saline lymph, tidal bay
grow sinew, venous pathways
overflow
hear turtle dolphin whale
entrain common pulsing
palpate boundaries
reshape
broadcast one secret vast owning smile
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
I've always itched
For perfect mahogany
Chimera doubles.
Cavorting into her,
Psychologies
Fullest emptiness.
Drastic is the
...Vow...
One which
Most perceive.
I let it
Palpate
My sheathing...
And my entrails
Lay open...
As she played cello.
With intestines of mine,
Her smile planted
In mist.
Painted on sawmill
Hinges...
It began.
To sieve serrating
..Arms...
Back to my tissues
Within.
My bones; refused
Seeping aqueducts.
Only to quail from sin.
We wetted; our contour
Tongues on....
O-negative streams.
So animalistic,
I dwindled upon
Her lancet...
And we let our
Collage begin.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
two lovers run blind
through the meadows in the sun
milkweed and clover
breathing fast and just for fun
still it’s cold inside the thoughts
which palpate for tragedy
so we'll speak of heaven in human form
beneath the willow's wishing tree
tell everyone how it hurt
lover, it’s the only way
make sure they know its soft-
the wound you bare for me
i’ll tell them all you tried to swim
but pointed fingers turn to fists for you
in an ocean full of mutiny
the bad man beats the
weak mans blues
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
you are so ****** in the head.
they say "crazy can't see crazy"
but, baby, i looked you dead in the eyes,
and man, someone stirred your brain with a fork.
cerebellum penetrated by tines.
amygdala spooned into their mouths like lukewarm soup.
sliced a knife straight through your hypothalamus.
left the rest to swirl around in that thick skull of yours.
you're used goods, they told me.
you passed your expiration date.
a little too ripe around the edges.
i could see that.
you asked people to palpate your skin,
like checking cantaloupe.
you spit out your seeds in between
inhaling smoke and ******* down liquor.
she warned me that you were a wild one.
rebellion and fierce independence.
all lions and tigers and bears,
sutured together with wolfish teeth
and hyena laughter.
forever breaking out of cages
and biting the hands that fed you.
now if only you could see it too.
or if only i'd saw it earlier.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
Can you smell the decaf
in coffee breath
or palpate the aesthetic in
clothes bought
secondhand
the former amidst
those groaning to work
praying to caffeine gods
to jolt nerves into existence
the latter walking through shopping malls
spying the guise on mannequins
without frays and tears
mocking the Dickensian reflection.
Is the placebo
the one without the caffeine rush
and the credit card debt
or is it the one
who believes it will all
make them happier in
the end.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 1:40 AM UTC
That slight glimpse
enough to palpate hardly
That few words
enough to make the eyes smiling.
Happy Eid Mubarak
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
A staff of a million skeletons will attend to you today.
Should you become unwell.
The walking dead will sort you out upon these festive days.
Hark,
Listen hard.
You can hear their bony feet clacking on the ward floors.
No ears to hold their scopes, nor neck to dangle tubes upon.
Missing eyes in hollow socket space.
Surgery out of the question.
Without eyes much too dangerous to mention.
No visual assessments.
Palpate your belly.
Icy fingers scratch.
Always have cold hands.
Write their ward reports in blood.
That which once was yours.
They keep it in a cookie jar.
Fed with anti-coagulants.
Last time you were admitted.
Stashed away for the ill to use exclusively on Christmas day.
The nurses are worn out.
Fingers worn down to the bone.
Listen once again as all those patients moan.
A cold bed bath.
The nurses hands are sorely chilled.
Had no time to eat today.
Only one or two around.
That's all the staff they found.
The angels became bones.
No time for their breaks.
While festive moments are magic.
Only get ill if you must.
Won't be very long before the staff turn into dust!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
Forever waiting for my decrepit friend
with my heart nailing my spine to the earth.
I need this Cimmerian Shade to remind me
that this isn't how things determinedly end.
...and I read the news and still feel uncomfortably serene,
despite the dead heroes and all the entitled people.
There's no luck anymore, just a fistful of my abysmal choices,
and I'm kidding myself if I think I haven't always been the antagonist of this epic journey.
...and all I challenge you is to come over and waste some life with me
and to blindfold me from your behavior like a child that's convinced of unicorns.
...and my cheeks smolder with my incinerating charcoal soul.
I suffer as I admit my desires and my charcoal soul will continue blistering until its substance is melted and twisted like wax.
...and I was captured in a landslide that only I can palpate,
curious as why nothing has seen me being removed ever so slowly,
like it's my undying fate.
I'm summoning everybody I know and everybody I don't,
to the races to see how fast I can run with my wounded spirit.
Place your bets.
Beat the odds.
Get lucky
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
We begin to touch from fingertips to flesh, that’s how we introduce ourselves. We’re naturally compelled to to feel each other’s energy.
My fingertips are encoded with my identity. They are imprinted with twist and turns, a blueprint of my chemistry.
They extend beyond my reach. Grasping at life, taking in everything it returns. They may be burned while touching the flame or met with warm hands just the same.
My fingertips dance gracefully over goose-bumps and soft skin. They feel the rhythm of deep breaths and skipped heart beats that begin to beat again.
They palpate rough stones in cool river beds. They caress raw edges of ancient arrowheads.
My fingertips have healed broken hearts and past regrets. They mend sore feet and weak spines. They feel for the lone tear drops that are intertwined with high fives and laugh lines.
Like branches seeking light they reach out for love. Past tangible offerings seeking all the things that can’t be touched.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
Do you sit in the corner,
and gaze around in greyness?
Does this universe too
smother your breaths?
Does pain palpate your wounds?
Do you yell over your own wrecks?
Are you as empty as I am?
Dear life, are you too lifeless?
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 8:30 AM UTC
*I palpate with words
As often
As with my hands.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC