"parceled" poems
When I enter,
the black holes of myself,
they are located,
transcribed upon the
blackboards of our
unified bodies,
the magnification of energy
transversed,
principles demonstrated
by the unconcluding
conclusion of the expansion of
creation,
the rebirthing of one universe
never ending
When I enter a woman,
the discovery sought,
the definitional needed,
the proofs equational,
the factors constant,
not the variable
truths,
the demonstrations positive,
the constants of the universe,
combinational, all within,
a single point glistening
to gentle comfort this
knowledge of my wasting,
the foresight of my limitations
from the day of birth
my matter,
matters,
my energy
neither destroyed or created,
illimitable,
my decline inevitable
and yet!
cannot alter my atomic structure.
my future guaranteed,
my inner light,
traveling so fast,
it has yet
to arrive
When I enter a woman,
the laws of physics
become special theories
of relativity,
we are motion in time,
force and energy
nucleotides rawest refined,
elemental and particle nuclear,
packets of light
exclaimed
When I enter a woman,
organic, chemistry,
interdisciplinary
my body and its life force
shaped as
electric current transceivers
crossing galaxies,
there can be no deceivers,
there but and only
the birthing of heat,
a byproduct of
interjection, conjunction
creation of creativity
<>
she is my proof
long after the
log normal of my nerves,
now parceled to the
invisible of an oscillating
log natural,
fertilizes the sea grasses
that so intoxicate,
flying, carried,
by the invisiblity of the winds,
all-where I have chosen
as my shifting shape,
when this container
leaks and crack'd,
in sentry reentry orbit,
to
the nearest garbage strewn
construction-dead
lot
When I enter a woman,
physics far beyond
the commonplace,
physical transition
to knowledge
of life ever after
death and fear are
time sensitized
passing notions,
crushed by the
consolation of physics,
the eternality
of a time
once begun,
cannot end,
and therefore
this,
my one theory of everything,
the God
I worship,
of course,
he is invisible!
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
C'mon out to the rattled caves
the deep-sea malaise
rested in the grey metamorphs
of an ancient coastal chain
Where Sisyphean slips of tectonic rifts
pull the molding clay
like play-dough
and old rock that turns anew
churned into
great catacomb stele
Babylonian towers far away
from the great
Mesopotamic
interstate
Surrounded by the immumerous trees
the military sharpness of their pine
quills writing their mark in the dirt
for a hundred turns or so
only to be rearranged
into the great intercontinental soil
Truly
multisolipsistual
And on the aggregate
held open the mists
of the vast expanse of ocean
beyond L.A
and stole the fruits of the tiny parceled condominium rainwater
from distance far away
angry men shouting--
"Give us back our life blood, GOD **** YOU!"
Filling the tanks of their fleshomobiles
running around and sweating it out
trading it for cloth and wiping their brow on
brown shirts
perturbed and disobeyed
But that great man with the chin muscatche
brought the rough riders out of their dome
into the frontier, riding trains
Off they go!
Seeking paradise in the sands
and the trees
and the coastal breeze
dreaming
of a world owned and seen
by the world
by man
and by all these things
It would be grand
But that rock has been seen before
in Luarentian islands long ago
or perhaps a great FUJI-SAN of the west coast
worshiped by critters and dinosaurs
You are late to the game, sweet dreamers, you!
These monuments give to honor due
not you,
no sir did you build these things?
did you mold these things
with the patience of a father
with the consequentiality
of the womb
and a motherly affection
for all things true?
the gift is for you,
remember your father's gifts
sweet princes of the earth
because they will outlive you.
And I walk along the stream
stepping upon these little bits of Yosemite
Pulverized mountain rocks
Renal Stones of the diseased
to which the water flushed out deeply
and cured the grey things from all that left them
displeased
hoping for more than just selfies
and sticking it to god's face
laughing at half-dome
climbing it and getting the better of ourselves
Believing we have achieved bliss
When in reality,
there is nothing to this which we can reach.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
We were drinking coffee when
depression showed up at the door of the home we built, pounding.
Eviction notice in hand,
your soul parceled out into donation bins.
Foreclosure sign,
caution tape around the chest that I slept on for a year.
I sit out in the sun
to bleach the tan line from my ring finger.
I hold cold cups and shake strangers’ hands
to erase the mould of your grasp from mine.
I want to sear off my palms.
I miss even those nights when you looked at my fire and laughed.
So I make you coffee (but I know I make it wrong);
your ghost in this house still criticizes.
I made you coffee every day because it was all I could do;
my only way of getting into you, a vector.
As the hot brew flowed past your heart, I watched,
like a child at Christmas, hoping you’d feel my love.
Hoping the glaze would clear up from your eyes.
I only wish this were a bond that stayed,
that stayed when your mind put plugs in your ears:
when I screamed and screamed that I loved you,
that I’d rock every little thing you regret to sleep.
I went to the doctor about this dizziness.
He checked my ears, he asked why my eyes were red.
This vertigo--a hurricane made by the page turning in my life.
I am a bag in your wind.
The day you left I wrote you a recipe for how you like your coffee,
because you don’t know, but I have it memorized.
My handwriting changes halfway down the page, as I change,
as you drive farther and farther away.
Our love is a child I’ve carried,
now I’m bent over, sick.
Loss took your place in our home,
but it’s unsteady on its feet;
I have to walk it from room to room.
My name has been yours, possessive.
And although these days I correct myself and say ‘I’ during speech,
My thoughts are still ‘we.’
I still think about your lungs when I cough.
So I still make us coffee every day (but I know I make it wrong).
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 7:26 AM UTC
This sickened day.
Burrowing —
Further into shadow,
Further into regret.
A minus
Struck against my worth.
These sins —
These worthless aspects
Born into flesh.
Parceled to beyond.
Away.
Away.
You are all strangers
Blurry ghosts in the streets.
Was everything.
too much
to ask?
Who cares about the love?
Who cares about the tender words?
It was a lifetime ago.
I'm pointed to oblivion
without
return.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
*ants crawl on
slowly*
1.
left eye is hopping fast for days now
and time's but a fair damsel
of delightful illusion
how she taunts and teases you
into sweet oblivion
of wickedly sensual basking
she drugs you with deep charisma
and struts at the doorway of your senses
she clutches onto the tracks in your mind
and claws deep into your ragged psyche
that same old song playing
over and over...
........over
2.
see right through train's chassis
rail sleepers spin vigorously backward
in such frightful haste
to get nowhere
no-one knows the real speed of time
out there.....
but for mere mortals
it's leniently paced in adagio
and parceled in mellowed excruciation
as ants walk serene
alongside the tracks
3.
creep into chaotic patterns
fall into hell
through a secret back door
even satan knows not of
as perched as he is
on his oh-so lofty pile of ordure
his blind heart
sees not
the strobed tracks
of your visiting soul
4.
take a syncopated shot up the arm
from the foul fang of a kind sinner
while saints bathe in fat glory
elsewhere
when you look again
you lie alone in a corner room
broken
yet untethered
tracks to heaven so obscured
by
your paradoxical attempts at levity
on the twisted playground of life's malady
5.
how badly you tripped
so many **** times
you ....got in the way
of your
own
remise
each time you fell
you looked UP
expecting help
when all the while
the answers lay
at your feet:
[your own mistakes are authentic and real;
you try to fox-tread out
but trying to turn your back on a *****
called destiny - equals catastrophe personified
oh, she WILL beckon you back
with her crooked finger
most kindly
to ensure no overdue lessons wait too long.....]
*the ants crawl on
so
slowly*
S T, Wed 10 July 2013
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
~for yocum~
<>
the quality of commitment is not
restrained by quantity, nor by size,
impressed by nylon sheerest volume,
avoirdupois grams, Imperial weight,
steeled feathers, immeasurable, one ton
tips no true scale into red lined sincerity
the necessary respectful silences it requires,
the social nearness of geo-distancing,
all need prodigal acceptance,
like a long lost son, welcomed without questioning
we flawed, banded by many weaknesses, poorly confessed,
yet, no excuses tendered, to it, long ago surrendered,
but understand this, constancy is not judged
by the frequency of our waves, but by the fervor of an
undertow of unwavering constancy
one that unceasingly rages, beneath superficial, steady waves,
and through the thickened, roughed old skin separating atmospheres,
I have grasped your heartened essence man,
found its depths, blessed it with words, you’ve never fathomed
surely you will growl at this, claiming obfuscation,
excuses not in your vocabulary, nor should it be,
though you require the steady reassurance of frequent brevity
so and yet, but and still,
I deny your claims, what you think, incorrect,
cause I know my heart, and well it kens what lays in thine,
what’s in yours is in mine, deep planted, a full nut grove flowering,
your complaints, mine as well, all part parceled, with grace accepted
for what is friendship but the path
through parted seas, joining two borders,
the best part of that is the landed connectivity,
leading to where we two ends,
meet in laughing two-gether
old fools, younger-then-than-now,
committed, grumpy men.
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 2:02 PM UTC
Butterfly globe make light in a passion pit.
My beach house is surreal, is a high water mark,
is the heart of all the radio left in this world.
But I am here writing technical reports
about environmental beasts in Massachusetts,
in New York in Connecticut where I think
people stuff air, drive slow and waste everything.
I can tell by the aerial maps that geography is
tethered by our parceled teeth of desire.
In the office I whisper, love is urban
a little too loud but no one decides to hear
and so I scribble it on the FOIL and send it
to municipalities in search of property records
in search of environmental concerns,
old pre-industrial gas stations with nameless owners.
I like to zoom in and out real neurotic
When I should be looking for the Site,
with the – Conditionally Exempt Small Quantity Generator.
Instead, I’d like to live between every green space on GoogleEarth,
an ubiquitous witch fevering undulating land,
thighs straddling the seasons between documentation and myth.
Release. Repeat the Response Action Outcome.
Instead, I envy the road – all wide open
yawn stripe and ticking yellow. I’d write,
"Tank Status: Removed," in purple chalk across
the brick and vinyl siding of all the buildings on Columbus Avenue.
This morning I am impossible.
This morning I believe I am Earth and I can’t say no
to the height of caffeine in subterranean climates
and the reflection my mouth makes swallowing navy blue,
waves like falsity, waves like any nation flag
under screen. I often think an office is not a space,
there would be less sighing, there would be love in action.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
Tiny little parcel
All wrapped up and waiting to be
Undone.
Sitting quietly
Under the shade of
Resentful
Ambiguity.
Cautious scarred and wry
(smiling)
insecurity
See me sitting calmly
assembled
All parceled up and wanting
Waiting
To be unpicked
Carefully
Hand stitched
Calling softly (upon deaf ears)
To be untied
To see what lies
Beneath each fettered
Layer.
Role player
This small and softly spoken
Box
Of being
Seeing nothing
Feeling everything
With wary
(doleful)
Soulful eyes.
(closed)
Dreaming of being
(open)
I am token
Bundle
******
a pile of sticks
untamed.
Paused upon the ground
unsound
Aspiring to to be burned
In order to
(feel)
spurned.
This collated stack
Of feelings lost to the numb of
Being wrapped up and tied to the self.
A book full of stories
Unnamed.
Pages upon pages
Loose words
Collected
Piled and falling
Upon a dusty
Neglected shelf
Too much of the self
Not enough of the other.
Resting.
Worn out
Dog eared
Belayed by fear.
Waiting
Wasting
Hasting
to be undone.
To be unknotted
Frayed
Displayed
Vast volume
Unspoken betray.
Hold fast
This minute
Package
Lying restless
At your feet.
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 4:07 PM UTC
~for old, recovered, & new
tunes ‘n friends~
Lord I’m one…
<>
the lovely old tune ease on in,
infiltrating, harmonizing, my soul with
just-the-ice
of another
glorious
sunrise,
inching over the North Fork
soon enough, the body~mind continuum,
will ask me to slide~glide,
move over, make room
for a new tune,
here, asking you to call me,
if you need a friend, find place,
a chair & navy cushion,
to We observe as
one
mine own carnival of animals,
do their morning exercise,
jumping from here to crazy, squirrel~crazy,
the flitting flighty birds, back and frothy forthing,
pointless lyrically zooming from tree to tree,
their AM calisthenics
an ancient crooner sings of knowledge
of how lonely life can be, and I soft retort,
this morning forbids lonely, come to me,
you my dear ones,
who welcome me into your hearts…
kiss my words
with affection, stating
everything will bring a chain love,
a tear of joy,
& everything is and will be alright
yes there is something happening over here,
so when you ask,
what’s it all about Natty,
my reply is easy,
how sweet it is
to be with
you,
my words unrehearsed,
and I brim with
anticipation of Us together,
sipping our coffees,
giving Our silence to be
part & parceled out to the
superior quietude of our surroundings, where
the sounds, well,
they infiltrate our conjoined beings,
I think~sing-enjoy deeply,
that old tune
“Lord I’m One”
800am
Mon Aug 12
2024
by the Sound…
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 8:32 AM UTC
She stood there quivering,
Then about to speak the unspeakable,
Unbinding her tongue she opened her mouth
With a few words and a quaint sob escaping her mouth
Stood there blinking
Not knowing what to speak pain unfurling her heart
She looked at his eyes directly but could not even sound her pain
In anger he broke the silence and without any thought
He pulled out his knife and there she stood with her eyes filled with tears
Trying to speak what she couldn’t express
With her tongue out she uttered o’er there… and stopped
Lost in anger he cut off her tongue
Without being able to utter she stood unspeakable
For ever hidden
Behind the wound she hid her pain
The culprit walked free
He did not know that behind her pain
Was a greater wound than just this wounded tongue
Her eyes pleading to the cruelty of human heart
She held her heart and head high
Lost in thoughts to tell him of her story
She started writing her diary
Often up from her bed late at night
She dotted many a line
Words filled day by day
Lost in pain and writing
She finally grew out of it
Learned that her body is just a sheath
Beneath its layers lies a deeper soul
Untouched and full of promise
Weeks passed by and months followed
And she was fully ready
To tell her story of pain
Nobody was interested
But she parceled her diary to him
He had missed her a lot
And he knew it was his loss
Then this new turning
Surprised he stood in silence
He had her gift
Unbinding he was so eager
To reach for its content
To his surprise it was her diary.
Leafing through the pages
A thousand words buzzed his head
Not knowing what to do
His hands started shivering
And the last page turned open
I was ***** and the man is o’er there
It echoed: oe’r there, oe’r there
Realizing his mistake he cried out his heart aloud
He had wounded her double
Knowing now why it was unspeakable
How hard it was to speak
He begged her forgiveness
With a smile on her lips and warmth in her heart
‘Unspeakable’ she stood watching him.
-------------
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 4:35 AM UTC
Souls sold for
Antiquated crude
As bitter enemies crossed over
Frozen tundra and vast deserts to duel
Quietly does the Dark Wraith of death
Sweep across the blood soaked terrain
And the Angel of Mercy does the like
To ease our fallen soldiers' pains
America's nefarious war in Iraq has been for naught
Many young lives were
Recklessly packaged for this reckoning
Packaged, parceled, and bought
I've often wondered
If the dead would
Protest against the government's lies
If they could
So many lives extinguished on both sides
They breathe no more
Doomed to the cold cauldrons of their eternal sepulchers
By the wicked Gods of war
* Reprinted from 'Exegesis a Decade of Poetry by Mekael'
© July 14, 2009 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
Bring it in, this little shaking plight.
I'll own it, gladly.
Lay it down on these linen sheets,
It is this linen I shall wrap us in,
Forever.
Bring it near, this quaking fever.
I'll own it gladly.
I hear its little hum,
With it I'll strike in harmony,
Forever.
Bring it here, this hoarse, crackled voice.
I'll eat it gladly.
I taste your breath,
And swallow your parceled words.
I'll steal your tongue,
And covet your tender insides.
I'll weep,
I'll weep with your precious, precious, yearning,
Forever,
Gladly.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
(For my old mate Kevin Blackburn)
Bentonite is magic
When mixed in slurry form,
And injected into apertures
Where earth worms are the norm.
The slurry forms a barrier
Which holds the concrete, wet,
Quite apart from earthen surfaces
To give exactly what you get.
YOU GET NO CONTAMINATION
YOU GET CONCRETE DRYING CLEAN
YOU GET SMOOTH GREYISH SURFACES
WHICH COULD BE PARCELED TO THE QUEEN!
So when constructing tunnels
Or massive footings bare
Or reinforced deep piling
Which extends way down to there,
You MUST pour in the Bentonite
In slippery, slurry form
To keep the concrete looking
Sparkling clean, as is the norm.
Then....
YOU GET NO CONTAMINATION
YOU GET CONCRETE NICE AND CLEAN
YOU GET BEAUTIFUL GREY SURFACES
SHINING BRIGHTLY FOR THE QUEEN!
Marshalg
Lurking near the Bentonite tanks
Victoria Park Tunnel
15 June 2011
Jun 14, 2011
Jun 14, 2011 at 9:14 PM UTC
last night
dreams of neatly packaged anxiety
neatly parceled into my worst fears
planted themselves, grew their roots during my sleep.
i dreamt of irreparable scarring
a face no one could love
the pity of strangers
grief painted across my face in streaks of angry red
dry skin
red like your mother's old tea kettle
crackling like newsprint on a windy day
when you feel as if you are fighting a losing battle
with your own flesh
there is only so much war to be waged
face defeat.
skin will never be her flawless porcelain
will burn as deeply as your shame.
your teeth slightly crooked
sugarfree gum packed into a hesitant casing
leaning as if trying to escape the only mouth they will ever know
in an age of daylily smiles
women sculpted by their own reassurance
will you ever see my smile beyond all that i am not?
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
~~~
"Fact about me: You design me"
line from a poem published here on Nov. 30, 2013
part I of a trilogy
nml
~~~
6:33am
9 minutes left
in the AM hour of my tribulation,
the re-design time,
redoing my outer shell
legs pounding,
towel sodden soggy,
soon return to home
do my morning ablutions
followed by a frosty walk
to the multiple screens
for trading things
makeover, do-over,
but you can only easy
shed and cleanse
exterior surfaces,
shape and appearance,
the inside stuff,
that's the gut wrencher
don't be so hard on yourself
kid!
nah ain't gonna
kid
myself
too old, too much a wise guy
to show much forgiveness to self,
of untruly yours,
whose design was only 50% mine
someone is dying,^
my cocktail of
words and emotions
more muddled than my
usual abnormal,
while sweating off
the golden baddies
to the golden oldies
so where exactly is the
truth burden?^^
somewhere between sad
and a curt "no cares"
my physical reformation,
is part and parceled,
of my regeneration,
the one who gave me
the desire to die before my time,
is dead before her time,
and I don't know the clear water truth
of my variable emotions
design me?
she is deigning to
design me still
with her untimely death
so I cycle even harder
to release the anxiety of
mis-everything
regretting what was lost,
now missed,
that too was, and is,
part of my design,
part of
burden of truths
that design who we
were, are, and yet
may be
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
~for old, recovered, & new
tunes ‘n friends~
Lord I’m one…
<>
the lovely old tune ease on in,
infiltrating, harmonizing, my soul with
just-the-ice
of another
glorious
sunrise,
inching over the North Fork
soon enough, the body~mind continuum,
will ask me to slide~glide,
move over, make room
for a new tune,
here, asking you to call me,
if you need a friend, find place,
a chair & navy cushion,
to We observe as
one
mine own carnival of animals,
do their morning exercise,
jumping from here to crazy, squirrel~crazy,
the flitting flighty birds, back and frothy forthing,
pointless lyrically zooming from tree to tree,
their AM calisthenics
an ancient crooner sings of knowledge
of how lonely life can be, and I soft retort,
this morning forbids lonely, come to me,
you my dear ones,
who welcome me into your hearts…
kiss my words
with affection, stating
everything will bring a chained love,
linked by tears of pearl drop-down,
a necklace of joy,
& everything is and will be alright
yes there is something happening over here,
so when you ask,
what’s it all about Natty,
my reply is easy,
how sweet it is
to be with
you,
my words unrehearsed,
and I brim with
anticipation of Us together,
sipping our coffees,
giving Our silence to be
part & parceled out to the
superior quietude of our surroundings, where
the sounds, well,
they infiltrate our conjoined beings,
I think~sing-enjoy deeply,
that old tune
“Lord I’m One”
800am
Mon Aug 12
2024
by the Sound…
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 4:28 PM UTC
I saw two grown men cry this week.
heaving their bodies, weighted with wails
my father with guilt burrowed in his gut
live streams his tears asking anyone for
answers to fix his sick son
my lover wishing to be shattered into dust,
logging each passing thought in emails
parceled with regret
I carry them;
I bundle and swaddle and embrace
I light three matches for each of us,
the flame kissing my index finger
we are one
in the ember I hear
we have taken only one family vacation
I wanted to cut off my finger and send it to you
you promised to protect me
my father is martyred
my love is sleepless
these are my men
and although this week I have had
black thread weaved underneath my skin
and I have carved out my name in my stomach
with worry
and I have been swallowed whole by the memory of
my favourite small town in Long Island
he is black
he is in a drought
he is marred too
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
I parceled out my affection
in tiny little bits
and though the rate at which I gave,
was surely not the rate at which you wanted to take
your hands stayed waiting,
for my lonely contributions
and you gathered them together
and took them to a quiet place
where they could come to know each other,
as I have come to know you, my love
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 9:46 AM UTC
You are the child I that I call mine,
The child that I birthed into this place.
You have brought me joy,
And an opportunity for growth.
Your open heart, and loving soul
Has opened me to the understanding
That I cannot know all of you
For you are all things to me.
When I feel the gentle rain
I feel your gentle love.
The sound of water, the smell of the sea,
The breeze on my face all remind me of you.
When I stand on a mountain
I feel your support.
When I look at the stars
I see your shining light.
You never comprise yourself or judge another,
You never complain but in your quiet way,
You smile and laugh, even though others would cry.
You always have a kind and loving word for everyone.
You remind me that life
Cannot be parceled into tangible form.
You remind me to be open hearted
And that Love is forever
You remind me, that without you,
I would not be the me that I am.
And through you my horizons
Have encompassed the planet.
You remind me of hope for a better future
.You are the light of my soul,
The joy in my heart
And the promise of a better world.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
That child of my youth
Lies now in her bed
As she always did
Covers pulled up to keep her warm
But she is thin and frail
As she was as a young girl
The safety of the bed though
Evades her
As it always did
The things underneath
Still haunt her
And have become real
Those shadowed horrors from below
Have come to claim her
Tubes are snaked like vines
Around her
Invading her
Covering her like an ancient ruin
Finding every crevice to crawl into
A young woman
Now old
The road maps on her skin
Traced not by time and experience
But by tragedy and chance,
Cruel blows that glanced
From her guarding arms
She will never know laugh lines
Burned into her skin by a million smiles
Those smiles will never come
They will only be bitter sweet ones
smiled by us
As we talk about old times
Laughing into the night
With worn grins
And Tired eyes
And the lines will be etched
Into our faces instead
What we measure in decades
She measures out in minutes
Hours are years
And days stretch into decades
Every moment is now measured into a cup
Metered and parceled
On a glowing monitor
The poor girl who never had a chance
Still doesn’t
And never will
It is such a shame
She is such as a sweet girl
And she has such soft hands
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
To my loves each and every one
You sweet ghosts of potential
Diaphanous specters haunting me
With what could and will never be
I do not lust for thee
Shame on me how I lie so easily
But I am learning to lose that part
To scrape that side of my heart clean
Till desire is just a passing thing
Just a mid-summer night’s dream
That only belongs to my memory
To you all who inspired said passion
I am grateful not hateful nor jealous
Of what I will never have or touch
For now the idea of love is enough
To secure my solitude with poetic platitudes
The attitudes I give latitude to reign
And not be ashamed is a full blooming pain
Parceled out with partial bouts of pleasure
You frequent my fantastic dreams ***
Coming and going as you please
Please do not ignore or forget me
I promise that I understand
We are just woman and man
As friends
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
engaged in
sippin’
it’s a delicacy
among all the
actions we fool
humans partake
sippin’ is of a kind,
a slower breathing,
a finery of human,
tiny steps taken,
gifting balance,
perspective
one sense
at a time
sorta a purification,
a priest anointing,
oil on a king’s head,
droplet by drop,
for that is what it makes,
takes, to be royal, patient,
wisdom of consideration
my love is royal,
parceled out like
broad wide~wet~
white wake, witnessed,
verified bu synchronized
fly~sized human eyes,
tiny impartial arbiters of
finery, the lace hand~
sewn into the delicate
fabrics of our world,
skin of our lives
sipping’
is the pace
full of grace envy,
but forget to emulate
rushing to join the
waiting frustration
of endless traffic to
meetings that blab
blah blah blah, ah,
wasting brain cells
turn to my woman,
big grin, worn in a
slow borning smile,
she
says what? as if
I’m keeping a great secret,
an angonizing revealtion for
when I slow breathe out,
in drops deliberate,
giving a pledge,
a phraseology,
I~Love~You
but taking
maybe so long
an extended ten!
whole seconds, which
to her is an eternity, earning/deserving
a punch to whichever of my arms
be nearest to her body’s
heart
while I slow laugh,
sippin’ great pleasure
from a well and proper
brimming cup of joyous,
write a small sip tribute
of an another
only love poem
Sep 24, 2024
Sep 24, 2024 at 9:21 AM UTC
How many squares on the checker board , one against one comes with an allowance
letting another progress so to see the weakness make a play but when will they pay
Color not as important as numbers ,actions still being based on reactions, secretly basking on their incompetence
Progression can be placid or briskly making its way to persevere, paving a hidden path seen as the winning way
seeing just squares on a board rectangles have four sides ,then why not four players
Red and Black are known as blood and death, is an unknown hidden mire behind the supposedly simple game
Check and balances is often a tale of life, opposing sides as part of strife ,are we to be patrons or purveyors
Positive motions moving forward often with hidden emotions ,outside actions can not interfere others can make a counterclaim
Passively we can make allow a process, shifting a game without showing shame, while the partner pays the penance
Premeditation using a shadowy mindset is now an advantage, parceled out as actions instead of knee **** reactions
Cresting high creating confusion can create new abilities rather than the perceived disabilities when making a play against tenants
Small disks now taking on a new role with different risks ,stacking for strength ,focusing while also shifting still hiding our passions
Piece to piece ,place to place, face to face, laid out on the table ready to begin realizing only one will be left to guard the stable
flip of a coin to decide the beginner, but many processes will be engaged ,passing on ,leaning back before we decide a true winner
Mid game break or mid life crisis ,the surrounding hushes or whispers happen making an unknown mark yet to have a true label
Payed with the subconscious and some sweat ,hopefully no act has made something possible so we're not seen a just a beginner R.C.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
I got the nice guy rage
Anger that stirs
Beneath the pages
Past the posts I pasted
Parceled out in controlled fashion
Because my passion
Stems from the pain of the world
Floods and fallen stars
Broken expectations
Failure to pierce the infinite void
Of human ignorance
It is unhealthy
A weakness
A fear
That even if it is justified
I may find the same monster
Lurking inside my mind
That plagued my matriarch
The rage that darkened her heart
And contorted her face
As she lashed out at me
So with every available icebox
I freeze and lock
Those dangerous emotions
Till I am numb
Allowing only a fraction
Of said passion to ever surface
In my writings
Now I am afraid
That I locked to much away
Disconnected the locks and lost the keys
So I can never get back to the real me
All because I am afraid of the anger
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
“Why aren’t you in a relationship?”,
“But you’re 21 right?” “Don’t you feel lonely?”
Questions asked and left unanswered,
by my raised eye brows and loud silence.
While some queries need to be answered in words,
some need to be handled with elegance.
I didn’t know there was an age limit,
to find someone and fall in love.
I sure as hell am not expecting the perfect guy,
to be wrapped and parceled by God above.
(I am an atheist, I did that for the rhyme.)
I have a different definition of ‘lonely’,
if it means to others the absence of a companion.
I have learned to find my other half inside myself,
who had been long dead since oblivion.
I am not sorry because I don’t have a plus one,
really, I can have myself and still have all the fun.
They can make all the jokes they want,
about singleton and ************
but I’d really rather have myself,
than be unprepared for emotional devastation.
I never saw a relationship as a bond between people,
to fill in the empty time, to ask for validation.
The moment I give my deep analysis about this bond,
I have to declare I am alright and I am asked for clarification.
So yes, I am single and jubilant,
having all the fun I can, in life.
Age doesn’t give way to relationships and marriage,
I can be just fine not being someone’s girlfriend and wife.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC