"patterning" poems
many will know the beauty
of a butterfly's wing
and the delicate intricacy
of their decoration
those swathes of colour
meandering boldly in flight
a proclamation of
their presence
their providence
whose startling eyespots
can mimic the stolid gaze
of the stern and the alluring
observing in judgement
or perhaps in wonder
blinking only as they flutter
flattered disbelieving
yet there are reminders
in that Rorschach patterning
that those with ill intent
should observe
threats and
warnings overlooked
by those in admiration
of such beauty
where few will heed
that gossamer fragility
broken by any
not considerate enough
in their handling
Oct 2, 2023
Oct 2, 2023 at 9:51 AM UTC
Rays of white-golden light
Caress warmly naked skin
Observing in childlike wonderment
Incomprehensible communication
Between the tangible
And the abstract of
Sunlight painted patterning
Seeping through green foliage
Between nothingness and leaves
Soundless to the human ear
The dance of sunbeams
Yet music is all around
A gentle breeze is whispering
Stories through the trees
Rustling leaves, an eager response
Of unfathomable rhythms
And infinite keys
Creating perfect harmony
Light and sound in color
Immerse my beingness
Intoxicated by beauty in
Gratitude and joy with
Infinite love for
All-That-Is
The symphony of life
© Jasmine, Wadebridge, September 2010
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
*I've read two poems about kissing today
Something I read about each other day
I've read about insomnia and sad rhymes
I've heard the bell of memory ring to hard times
I've read about poems titled three and eleven
I've read about a child expected to be in heaven
I've probably read about Tenth Avenue North
I've read so much today, for all It's worth
I've read about the rain in Karachi, poetry and trance
I've read about fate, destiny, hard work and chance
I've read torture, sadness and heavy grief
And somewhere somehow It's all but relief
I've read about flies patterning samun's window pane
Soon as she opens, I've read about a poet's pain
I've read as far as the trending, "Drunk a few "
I've read so many and more are still on the cue
But I've realized in all of them there's this one thing
I've read without tiring because I've read me
Spread on the white pages of hallo poetry
I guess It's true what they say
About the poet being one thing as the poetry
Some are and some ain't okay*
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
my eyes are heady **** bloating
from within the sun
white embellishment lasers out
lending provision
setting life to the organic cog and clock
provoking muted growth to retch a bloom
leading
spending
seeding
my tread destroys nothing
each step frictionless
patterning little hovering eddies
a fraction above ground
minimal is my disruption
enough only to promote a deeper observation
tender fanning of the life that i am fawning over
how to feel this spritely at all times ? t'would be a spell
a fondled thing
it’s from our night of shared tether
our infection threw out an extra pleasurable souvenir
it carried its energy into the ensuing day
i am launched affection
beckoned into the true employment of my surroundings
carrying my socks and shoes in one hand
and my heart? it is a possession of the senses
i am truly led
i am emitting
Nov 4, 2022
Nov 4, 2022 at 9:44 PM UTC
It always starts
in the head
lay face down
on the bed
my cover pulled
over my head
dissecting myself
every mistake
Distrust runs riot
all ego led
patterning plans
my wings clipped;
they deem me
a flight risk
Self flagellation
my own whipping boy
mortifying flesh;
*Lord, forgive me
for my sins*
My body pays penance
mauled;
flesh laid bare
and, I trace with fingers
tram lines of forgiveness
Overly thinking,
all inside my mind
is unfocused
war zones of
clambering disasters
Guilt further fed;
satiated by stealing
my breaths
from cushions
that smoother
I can't breathe
There is a deep, resounding
stillness
a calm before the storm
inside & outside
landscapes swirl
as I,
fight to unpin
myself
from that to which
I'm so tightly woven.
© Sia Jane
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
I give thanks to those who caused me pain,
And shed the final blood hazed tear.
I speak of night and fallen cities,
Those ashen nightmares lull my sleep.
Why not destroy the ending hope?
Or ride the oceans parting wave?
Oh the sky holds many tinted hues,
Locked away in a dainty vial.
My drowning screams embraced you in rapture,
Sweet symphony to your yearning ears.
Even angels must bow down sometimes,
The moon and sun alike in difference.
I am the voice of untold tales,
I am the breath of an unborn child.
Recall the eyes set hard in stone,
And the hand-prints patterning my flesh.
My last breath captured in a net,
Sold for a delicate whisper.
Smoke caressed my weary eyes,
And flames kissed my slender figure.
Palm against palm we stand as equals,
As two weathered piano keys.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
i would love to
be able to identify
a bird from its call
or the shape of
wide-spread wings
as one flies overhead
in theory
it may seem impressive
but if i were to
successfully distinguish
a chiffchaff from
a willow warbler
based on the patterning
and colour of
its plumage
or the shape
and length of
its tail feathers
i struggle to think
of a single person
who would respond
with more than
an indifferent
mocking or
pandering "oh"
Apr 14, 2023
Apr 14, 2023 at 10:20 AM UTC
It’s just a dreamy day
The rain is patterning down
The clouds have spread
Their darkening face
All over this busy town
But I’m floating
Above the rooftops
I’m scarcely touching ground
Time passes so luxuriously
Whenever you’re around
*We met and we were young again
We touched and our souls smiled
We held each other closely
Then, we decided to live a while*
It all passes in the moment
Of being here with you
The setting is your presence
And the flame that burns anew
As we walk through
The darkened streets
I simply don’t see the grey
For the way that I am feeling now
Is brighter than any day
*We met and we were young again
We touched and our souls smiled
We held each other closely
Then, we decided to live a while*
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
you act as if my heart was made of red clay found in the ground
cutting pieces out
molding it to your satisfaction
scratching it and patterning it the way you feel it needs to be
and now you've left it dripping with blood
with battle wounds worse than ever
and you didn't even try to fix the damage you had done
you destroyed me beautifully
yet i feel so ugly.
come make a masterpiece out of me,
come make a masterpiece.
~t.s.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
V
morning
falling water
bench beside
red berries
green ferns
every which way
leaning waterward
crisp air still
morning
VI
mirror trees
sun hard
burning off the clouds
resting still
hanging upon hills
hiding mountains
above
in the blue
VII
the ring lies far out
in the light bright water
here sea exhausted stretches
into the tired land Rocks
variously coloured hold
patterning against the drift
and **** rank under the sun
(at Camusfearna)
VIII
hardly daring to describe this scene
of clouds resting as stilled waves
on a barely moving sea
the pen is afraid to mark
this wonder on the ****** page
IX
a lake of sea
taking its blueness
into the distant hills
to where watching
in the early morning
these hills became
a blue blur
cushioned by clouds
X
in the foreground
rocks reach out
prolonged under
water: a reef
small birds float
like toy boats
against the shore
lapping the pebbles
to and fro
the sea rules
shifts moves
in its blueness
against the sharp
clarity of land
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:59 AM UTC
For Jonathan on his 70th birthday
Even at 70
I can’t imagine
one stops wondering
at those wonders
surrounding
each day and hour
clearly etched
recorded
in the growth of trees
where future states
are no more certain
than an April wind.
No bad thing then
to review
his life and work
to question again
where we think we are
in this world’s plan.
A life lived
between experiment
and pain
He teaches us
still to look
and look again
at nature’s fragile
patterning
and its chaotic hand.
‘Oh the mystery of
what lies between the
body and the mind.'
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 5:54 AM UTC
How much time is 'enough time'?
Which answer is the correct one?
Is this lie more convincing,
Or is this truth the most deceiving?
Day One
Is what you know
Really what you believe,
Or do you feed your pain
With fabricated reality?
As though you set water on fire
Like a burning desire to scream,
Scream out to the stars
Patterning your structured time.
Day Fifteen
Is what you hear
Really what you listen,
Or do you ease your soul
With altered versions?
A bubble of Denial
Safeguarding broken hope,
Protecting the One Second
That lingers until today
Day Thirty
Is what you want
Really what you need,
Or do you earn smiles
With your own idea of ecstasy?
When truth catches up
And One Second is over;
You find reality pushing you
Far beyond horizons,
Into fantasy-
A land known as Freedom.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:11 AM UTC
Speckling drops, of bathwater- lovely evening rain.
Patter melodically against
my open window frame.
The water touches me not,
for my roof with gutters and onings.
But the dewy breeze saturates my room
like my face to an ocean breeze.
Mother Waters, send her daughters
to my window this spring night singing.
Distant puddle patterning ploops,
diameters mass expanses on the suburban streets.
The trees, the smile as they absorb the
moisture their brittle bones need.
Oh how I pitied the trees,
when the cold stripped and broke their branches
my heart grew sorrowful & weak.
The deserve to be enveloped, by this
unplanned storm.
All in the world, would agree when I say
that we are blessed
with this warm April rain
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
Do not write for me.
You- so perfect but humble.
a calico dress.
Your words patterning the hems,
sleeves, trying to match an ugly pair of shoes.
Do not write for me!
I am a waning moon,
against the
nuclear reactions of your words in
the sun. Shifting,
casually,
planets. Playing god to the
Egyptians, who also did not
write for me.
But did for you,
who lit their temples,
shone through their heiroglyphics.
Who adorned their pyramids in
crimson robes of sunset.
And I, but a stone in a pyramid
Plain, and beige at best.
I still light up and write this for you.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
You finally get to sit down
You sigh
“Another long day has passed”
You look around
Toys on the floor
Clothes everywhere
You slowly drift off into a deep sleep
The sound of your angels laughing fills your ears
Little voices whisper “Mommy”
You remember the day they were born
The first step
First word
Their footsteps patterning in the distance
The smell of breakfast wavers in the air
Both of your angels tap on your leg
“Happy mother’s day, mommy”
You open your eyes with a grin covering your face
“Thank you Jesus.”
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
It was the rain to which I'd been waiting;
A palid clamor in the dark
An incessant pitter-pattering
Patterning of life's blood
Awash in the swirling gusts of a storm
Booming with menacing roar
To announce its presence
The purpose of which is to restore
Natures balance
Not unlike the cacophony which breeds
A humble tune,
Tuned to the key terror and awe
As it inspires new life to grow
In place of the old kaleidoscope
That has, to this date,
Shielded my eyes
From the renaissance
Of a world
Trapped in drought
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 12:10 AM UTC
Under my wings (I think) I’m ticked by patterning sea salts.
A friend once told me that the crystals between whispered
Currents shifted and blazed the cracks of coral reefs
Were once bits of my father’s flesh, the old king of the sea.
I forget him sometimes, I was so young (and how young I still feel)
Harpooners search for me, but I lost pride the day I watched him slink
To the bottom of a different floor. Sand as his coffin.
I swim, splitting holy tides. These are the only places to
Find some sliver, a chance of a peaceful mind.
All things move apart in anticipation of my coming.
I glide and close my eyes and wish I could hide away from the stares.
It’s as if the pieces of the world can’t decide where they belong.
The krill still flop over broken bridges and hug my frigid chin.
I still weep.
So long I have lived without you, Father. So long without the twirls beneath
Strict and structured families of fist. I let those schools pass as they learn what I never will.
I’ve learned more about the wooden tables, carved by men without gills or scales.
The tables and chairs spread low across the floor
Dropped from shipwrecks my father caused so long ago
Tattered chips still float and other games that I don’t know.
The Queen of Hearts learned that she, too, loves to swim beside earth’s core.
Once I asked her of the crown adorning her head. She did not blink.
I wouldn’t know how to answer either, if she asked me how I became the King of the Sea.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
A girl stands on a beach
Watching the sun set
Tangerine-colored clouds on the horizon
The girl sits down in the sand
Feeling cold, wet pebbles beneath her fingers
And thinking
Of everything she'd ever thought, done, said
As gelid waves began to wash over her
Slowly, patterning
Not skipping a beat
Just like her heart
Now the moon shimmers
High in the sky
The girl lay down in the sand
As she took her last breath
A weight lifted off her shoulders
And she smiled.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Bellhaven a town of five
Grew in his love and potent flares
She shivered as she dove
Deep beneath his cumbersome faults
To the misty beaches in his eyes
They ran the grocers
Her love of loves
Carrying the parcels to waiting cars
Making bank trips on bicycle seats
******* all night under uncovered bulbs
Market lights on strings of electric
Pattern up the ceiling joists
She travels her journey
In whims of ecstasy
And sweeps the storeroom of tattered webs
Children join the dusty mop head
Ringing the sound of miniature him's
She and he's of minute proportions
Occupy the grocery carts, the
Two wheeled seats of financial ruin.
The market lights on strings of wire
Sputter with the fading current
He ***** the lips of his love of loves
And squirrels his toes behind her ankles
******* the night under unsheltered bulbs
They all are gone now in Bellhaven
The town of five is now beyond the five.
They all run around on seats of bicycles
Bank drafts and grocery carts
All gone to litter.
Her love of love gone down in a blizzard
Her children amassing out there by the highway
Her market light patterning the joists
As she dives deep beneath
The cumbersome faults.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
slight rain, you could say
drizzle, soft. a gentle day.
opening new ground. sand
underfoot reminds of
younger days. toast
also a comfort in
an age of other things.
pattern of tiny souls,
searching just for crumbs,
patterning a place to lodge
in life.
slight rain brought out
the coloured coats,
talk of tides and fortitudes.
opening new ground.
the church was closed.
sbm.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
Sunlight through windows
of the refectory
coloured glass
patterning
the wooden floor,
lux Dei
Dom Frederick said
and that book he wrote
I purchased
with a traveller's cheque
and an old monk
questioned it,
parlare con Dio
mio figlio
the Italian monk
said to me
as we sat
in the common room
after lunch,
kiss me here
she said
pointing with her
slim finger
and I did
salty tasting,
the peace of the church
unlike any other
the smell of incense
from Mass
and smell
of baked bread,
I feel that when
I am charitable
it is Jesus alone
who acts in me
Therese said
some place
Saint that is,
Jésus travaille
en nous
the French monk said
when I asked him
why he came,
take me
she said
I am so hot
with wanting,
there is nothing
absolutely
in our power
except our own thoughts
Gareth said
quoting Descartes
that time
in the cloister garth
after the office of None,
Hugh thin
and hawk-eyed
fingered where
I had dusted
looking for dust
and there was none,
mit Gott ich bin stark
the Austrian monk
told me as we sorted
books in the abbey library,
if I had done
as she said
I could have
sowed seeds forever
but I said no
and so never.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC