"pensively" poems
Out here in the fields of the distance
whither the wind blows the silence further afield;
roughhewn footprints show a windswept pathway
from whence feral feet lightly trod
Only the passing whispers chase after the gypsy wind:
that the silence be in quire, placed aloft like a sigh,
pealing through the gentle sway of sweet grass' hush
There are no walls need echo an evanescent wind-song
as each breath of earthen psalm vanishes
lilting into the crystalline quietude colour;
The callused patience still held in these hands
is frayed and tattered, but hope heals stronger
than a ream of paper wings to fly away
And I'm mindful I'm not alone again, lost in
a lingering silent storm — pensively listening —
enraptured aneath all the big skies hold
Jesse Stillwater
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
*in the midst of an emerald slumbering forest
laced with pungent scents of jaded wood
a burgundy blushed tail
of a chestnut hued fox
scurries as copper sunbeams part the day
a hospital lumes starkly nearby
its aura exudes hints of melancholy
commingled with faint impressions
of halcyon futures
not yet lived
at neighboring dartmouth
a student sprinting to class
drops his crimson colored backpack
the prospect of cancer
far from his budding consciousness
my beloved sits patiently
pondering pensively
his last chemo treatment
elusion of death
not far from his mind
i feign to fend off future catastrophes
watching letters scramble across my screen
earnestly writing
in a desperate attempt
to be with him forevermore
an aquamarine hummingbird drenched in tranquility
senses the inverse
its amber tipped wings stand seemingly stationary
while it steals a quick glance through the window
curious at chemical infusions meant to heal
my beloved walks out
of the austere building
with rose colored glasses i feel
that we’ll whirl on the tips of gilded stardust
dancing with another chance to fly
©2016janetaylor
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:19 AM UTC
Sapphire drops of moonlight bounced off her umbrella and a cool, smoky mist escaped her crimson lips every once and so often.There she stood alone, on a loud, bright and miserable winters’ night. Pensively gazing over the glistening city streets before her.
Echoes of light gleamed from the windows of bars and cafes. Reflections of lover’s kisses melted in a cold November rain. Live music, laughter, conversation! O what a cheerful sight is the city at night, for all but one this evening.
Such striking acts of delight and love did nothing but depress her.
This loner longs to stand with the pack and live her life, instead of merely existing. She is the Steppenwolf of her time. Unwanted and alone. And much like the original Steppenwolf, she gives and cares for others very much like family. Alas, despite her best efforts, she could never fit in.
And perhaps, never will.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
I'm glad he left me
in a Window by the Sea
See I had forgotten
to Be
Truer to Myself than he.
And now, drowning in misery,
I never seem to feel happy.
So it's a relief to stare pensively
Through this Window by the Sea,
and observe how mesmerizing
and brighter my reflection is,
Without He who stood beside Me.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
Sitting on an ancient bench
In the doleful forgotten world.
Some cratures pensively rush by
No words no sole glimpse
Do they even know
Where they are
Or where they go?
I am being in the moment
Hearing the nature's whisper
It's a blessing moment for all
But those hasty creatures
Just slow for a moment
And turn your ears to this call
You live in a forgotten world
If you forget what is around you
And you didn't even know
Why you only just pass through?
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
2.6k
I poured out every thought upon the page,
Filling it up with all the rage and anger,
That you have instilled inside me.
My pen literally quivered,
As I held it in my sweaty hand,
Yet the words flowed swiftly,
As venomous as any snake,
And almost as deadly.
As I poured the last of the wine into my glass,
I reviewed my handiwork.
Three pages of anger.
Three pages of hurt.
An expression of all you’ve done to me,
As best as I possibly could.
I carefully folded the letter,
And stuffed it in the envelope.
And with quivering pen,
I wrote out your address.
It was late, and I’d post it in the morning.
I went off to bed that night.
The next day I spent quietly around the house.
It was cold outside,
And it was warm by the fire.
In the afternoon,
I opened another bottle of wine.
I sat pensively for some time,
Just watching the flames dance
Upon the logs in the fireplace.
Amidst the crackling of the timbers,
I picked up the envelope.
I stare down at your name upon it.
I take another sip of wine,
And remove the letter.
As I begin to read it again,
I am reminded of everything you’ve ever done.
All the hurt you’ve caused,
To myself and my family,
Comes back again over three pages.
My blood starts to boil again,
And my palms start to sweat.
There is a damp thumbprint on the page,
And the edges of the letter are damp and frayed,
From holding it tightly in my hands.
I lean back in my chair.
I know I am not ready to forgive.
I don’t know that I ever will be.
And God knows I will never forget.
In fact, I hope you rot in Hell,
And if I could deliver you there myself,
Lord knows, I would.
But, I can never stoop to your level.
I can never stoop to your level.
I sit for some time just watching the fire.
In a while, I pick up the letter,
And walk over to the fireplace.
I toss it upon the flames.
I sit back down and sip my wine.
And as I watch the letter burn,
The sparks crackling,
And the black soot fall upon the logs,
I know I can never stoop to your level,
But, there’s a part of me that says to myself,
“God, I wish that letter were you.”
11-07-11.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 1:41 AM UTC
Dancing on the edge of the horizon
A sea breeze looks for love
You watch pensively,
A paintbrush in your hand
Your feet soaking in painted waters
And you,
Encapsulated by the freedom of the wind,
That you have only seen in your dreams,
you fall in love with life all over again
Dec 30, 2020
Dec 30, 2020 at 6:17 PM UTC
SHY one, Shy one,
Shy one of my heart,
She moves in the firelight
pensively apart.
She carries in the dishes,
And lays them in a row.
To an isle in the water
With her would I go.
With catries in the candles,
And lights the curtained room,
Shy in the doorway
And shy in the gloom;
And shy as a rabbit,
Helpful and shy.
To an isle in the water
With her would I fly.
2k
The windowsill frames
each passing morning
It speaks in a language
only stillness hears its say
Anchored to the wooden studs
of fortress walls
that bind solitude,
enduring all that
autumn's curtain call unveils
Distant towering evergreens
look back with taller eyes
than yesteryear
As these timeworn eyes
look beyond
and wonder why
they've not grown of age —
Time passes away
so quickly
while waiting
for season's change —
and I, wistfully dreaming
how the trees bear
the weight of the sky
Fog lays below
the fir boughs,
blanketing the drowsy
near valley fields
Where deep roots repose
in the clay of truth
that swaddles all
abiding mother earth
carves in stone —
A monument
to all forbearance,
just a mortal human
could never hold
Pensively envious
how long they hold
their eminence,
patiently suspended beneath
the nimbus rafters stay;
remaining transfixed
without a ray of sunlight
— searchingly leaning
into each fleeting moment
of unclouded sight
harlon rivers
Nov 5, 2019
Nov 5, 2019 at 1:11 PM UTC
Hello
It's nice to see you
Across the room with your chin on your hand
Quietly listening, pensively waiting
For the time to end
On my end no thought is given
Ok, Maybe a glance from time to time, I must admit
"What do you know about him?
He doesn't seem too bad."
Hello
Its nice to meet you
This time in a different way
I make jokes and laugh it off
But I'm starting to notice more and more often
That I'm asking questions and talking more than I'd like
Just so you can look up and see me
Just see me, that's all I want
I haven't been like this in over four years
I forgot how this felt
and why I waited so long to feel like this again
Hello
It's nice to speak to you
for the first time since I first saw you
I pick up my spilled bag early so I can run out with the bell
Through the hallway on the opposite of my next class
like I do everyday
And everyday I wonder if I should say something;
"Did we have any homework?"
And you would answer
But I say nothing
And I always wish I did
Hello
I'd like to tell you
So many things that I know I never will
I never thought I'd pray for small talk
Yet here I am being put on hold
One conversation, one laugh that I produced is all I want!
I just don't know how to get it
Hello
If it's okay with you
Let's go somewhere alone
and pretend to be people we're not
Hello hello
If she's the one for you
That's fine but let the verdict be close
Second place is fine
But I'd like to be in the running
Hello hello hello
The things I thought were true
Don't hold up like they used to
You don't have to play guitar
Your job doesn't have to be a dream
Everything new I learn is suddenly fine by me
Hello hello hello hello
I'd like to be to you
A classmate
A partner
A colleague
An old friend
If that's what you need me to be
Just please
Don't let me be a stranger
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 12:22 AM UTC
April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.
There rings a hammering all day,
And shingles lie about the doors;
In orchards near and far away
The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;
The men are merry at their chores,
And children earnest at their play.
The larger streams run still and deep,
Noisy and swift the small brooks run
Among the mullein stalks the sheep
Go up the hillside in the sun,
Pensively,—only you are gone,
You that alone I cared to keep.
1.5k
#*The Violin’s azure strings wept softly,
from inside of a mind made cell;
musical echoes lamenting,
a poignant abyss too vast to fill
each and all silenced reverie,
leaving the philosopher’s stone
unthrown
Blue guitar minor chord changes,
bent notes phrasing sharps and flats;
memories ― gently weeping confirmation
as a repressed flow of soul
pensively leaks out
The spirit's currents eddy
suffused within written verve;
silently purging the soul's fountains ―
musical rivulets swell
quietly overflowing
an alchemist’s soul unfurled*...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC
*Walking meekly in the shadows, avoiding nakedness,
this vestibule of self-preserving isolation, my 'padded cell',
has become my buffer against the raging tide of life.
This makeshift home has no place for exaggerated emotions.
Nothing comes in and nothing goes out; always the safest option
for the perfect existence. The gatekeeper controls all activity.
Shock, pain and denial brought me to this desolate place,
watching myself, the outsider looking in, as my soul was *****
abuse was the joker who played a hand in this game of cards.
How easy it's been to sit back and pretend to myself and
the world that I'm satisfied with all that life is offering.
who was I trying to convince? No I.
So many times I wished I could undo the done, turning back time
to where earthly utopia was intact, escaping this cage,
running carefree like an innocent child on a first new adventure
The hurt child lays dormant, but her will does not die,
she beckons and teases me to test my toes in the strong
currents of life's raging tides, seeking out its throng.
She reminds me of a halcyon era of innocence,
before laughter and confidence eluded me.
A time when I played, thinking only of the day.
Friendship, acceptance and self discovery have healed me.
Trusting my inner child, I gently turn the key, unlocking, tentatively.
I feel alive, seeing the light so bright and inviting.
Choosing freedom, pensively, I take one last look at my dwelling place
giving thanks for the sanctuary she offered me,
taking my first baby steps back into society.
Carried on the swirls of the tide to wherever they take me,
I am now Mistress of my own destiny.
Rebirth*
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
*Time...a puzzle
to realists and surrealists alike
Time...a puzzle
of grand pieces
obvious if obtuse
obtrusive and obstructive
laboriously laid to waste
constructing a picture of existence
solid yet stolid
Time...a puzzle
of fine pieces
subtle if sharp
spacious and serene
pensively placed at random
culminating in a mosaic of life
fragmented yet feeling
Time...a puzzle of pieces
contained within a box
...or...
in a different dimension altogether...*
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
I
Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos
Lived on the top of the wall,
For twenty years, a month and a day,
Till their hair had grown all pearly gray,
And their teeth began to fall.
They never were ill, or at all dejected,
By all admired, and by some respected,
Till Mrs. Discobbolos said,
'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
'It has just come into my head,
'We have no more room at all--
'Darling Mr. Discobbolos
II
'Look at our six fine boys!
'And our six sweet girls so fair!
'Upon this wall they have all been born,
'And not one of the twelve has happened to fall
'Through my maternal care!
'Surely they should not pass their lives
'Without any chance of husbands or wives!'
And Mrs. Discobbolos said,
'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
'Did it never come into your head
'That our lives must be lived elsewhere,
'Dearest Mr. Discobbolos?
III
'They have never been at a ball,
'Nor have ever seen a bazaar!
'Nor have heard folks say in a tone all hearty
"What loves of girls (at a garden party)
Those Misses Discobbolos are!"
'Morning and night it drives me wild
'To think of the fate of each darling child!'
But Mr. Discobbolos said,
'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
'What has come to your fiddledum head!
'What a runcible goose you are!
'Octopod Mrs. Discobbolos!'
IV
Suddenly Mr. Discobbolos
Slid from the top of the wall;
And beneath it he dug a dreadful trench,
And fille it with dynamite, gunpowder gench,
And aloud he began to call--
'Let the wild bee sing,
'And the blue bird hum!
'For the end of our lives has certainly come!'
And Mrs. Discobbolos said,
'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
'We shall presently all be dead,
'On this ancient runcible wall,
'Terrible Mr. Discobbolos!'
V
Pensively, Mr. Discobbolos
Sat with his back to the wall;
He lighted a match, and fired the train,
And the mortified mountain echoed again
To the sound of an awful fall!
And all the Discobbolos family flew
In thousands of bits to the sky so blue,
And no one was left to have said,
'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
'Has it come into anyone's head
'That the end has happened to all
'Of the whole of the Clan Discobbolos?'
1.2k
She was always the other woman, flowers in her hair, cascading down her back
freckles covering, porcelain skin, cupids bow, painted dark red, hair strawberry blonde
vintage fashion of Henry a la Pensée, envelope chemise, peignoir, blue iris mink fur
shoulders forward, rain splintering, bare legs, André Perugia shoe, one lost amidst the cobbles
favourite novel in arm, to read, as she contemplates her choice, Gertrude Stein; Fernhurst
oh how can one author write ones heart so articulately she thought so pensively, the other women
spring blossom blown away as a puff of pink smoke, a thief in the night, racing past the library
the winding stair case, the oh so fabulous and opulent parties, laughter and cocktails
the tower in sight, a beating of an empty heart, lovers lost, a baby once nurtured
taken, those back street black market abortion clinics, she'd never recovered
she shivered, the time was now, black streaks of mascara, tragedy, loss, pain
the tower was in reach, she gazed upwards, it was near to midnight,
perfect, she thought, the exact time she lost her sister off this same tower,
both plunging to their deaths, love broken, hearts kidnapped nowhere in sight
the game was about to begin, her happiness quashed, every hour, the motions run
dreaming of the afterlife, sedated by drink, she waited it out, effortlessly thinking,
what now,
with a kick of the last shoe, a stumble to the edge, she fell, like a graced angel in flight
devoured by the night.
© Sia Jane
--
“I too am convinced that life is dark, and at the same time I love life.”
Simone de Beauvoir
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
Underneath the pecan tree is where I'll be,
Waiting for you to come back to me
Until then the roots will cradle me tenderly
And I will bide my time patiently
The branches will envelope me as I dream of you pensively
The leaves will talk to me as I think of you ardently
The tree engulfs me the more you're not a part of me,
And I allow it
If you don't come the tree and I will become one
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
Ruby lips etched sharply
Against a gauzy memory
Pensively floating on the hope
Of a love long lost.
She resides in a murky present
Time out of place
Creating a romance of a silky past
Delicately draped on her soft shoulders.
Locked in a whirlpool of faded emotions
She yearns for substance that is both
Supportive and translucent
Unsatisfied but not hopeless
Resting upon her reverie
Evening slips into night
Dreams envelop her.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
No one knows me, and I mean that wholeheartedly.
Any clue you think I let slip was thought about carefully.
Any sigh or smile was planned out perfectly.
My curt replies written out pensively.
My attitude delivered deliberately.
My laughs emitted purposely.
Any sign of being intrigued thought about timely.
The bounce in my step choreographed repetitively.
Any cry made Oscar-ly.
Any sign of hopelessness shown thoughtfully.
Whether my skies are gray or blue,
You only connect the dots I give you.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
You’re aged thirty-two with your own bottomless bank account.
A pocket full of cash that’s digging a deep immeasurable pit into your pocket.
Spending ridiculous amounts on ridiculous things, no matter if it costs over a million.
You’re aged thirty-two with your own supercharged automobile.
Fresh new stainless steel alloys and rubber tires to burn at the turn of the diamond studded steering wheel.
Chasing the marks on the road as you drive off into your own endless oblivion.
You’re aged thirty-two with your own house in New York.
The doors of which let hundreds of guests pass through night after night into the never-ending carnivals rides of Coney Island.
But when they leave you standing alone on your peer, pensively pondering your past,
Reaching out for her green light across the misty filled lake.
Trying to work out how to bring her back, but only this time making it last.
She’s just across on the other side of the bay,
With no idea that the hole in her back is being burned by the fires of your eyes.
As you stand disguised staring into her yellow solar flare hair in the morning sunrise.
You’re aged thirty-two with an unfilled heart.
Longing for the girl that you should have never left in the start.
But she’s with someone new and she’s probably forgotten all about that year she spent with you.
You're just the distant memory reaching across the bay,
The one that the whisperers say was a lonely millionaire aged only thirty-two.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
A legion of children enveloped us that day, /
Their presence transparent beneath rays of sun baptismal. /
As the chirp of laughter infiltrated the air, /
There enclaved in their omnipresent mist, /
Passion blossomed in this juvenescent heart. /
Gleaming these eyes sauntered your luminescent skin, /
Pining for that rapture that lay betwixt your arms. /
Although roving within for clarity in words, /
This burgeoning vessel trembled in loss, /
For fugitive they stood in my subconscious. /
Yearning for more than the caress of your voice, /
Its musicality enough to serenade for all time, /
And the flawless rhythm of this heartbeat /
Whispered intently of something divine /
For this keepsake of yours -is immortal.- /
Even now nostalgia cleaves as an arrow, /
-Piercing to the soul- /
And it screams to be nurtured. /
Blooming in reminiscence I conjure dreams immemorial, /
Returning to that hallowed sanctuary. /
Your countenance is a distant glint, now untraceable; /
Marred by elapsed time, that insidious decay. /
My agony has become a vast sea, /
Besieged by the maelstrom of lament /
For my undying piety is all that remains./
A language too grand to be deciphered /
By such an infantile mind, /
Yet now I pensively ponder, "Will you ever return?" /
I would relinquish my soul to gaze once more /
Upon your grace my Materialista. /
Life has become a heavy haze, /
Occupied by a discordant melisma of pain. /
And this memento -without you- is my torture stake, /
For the moment we held hands has bound me forevermore; /
And I stand here everlastingly, yearning for your arms. /
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
*in hyper-tensive past-tenses of aggression
gargantuan fences and elephants pensively
define the inequality of mind
killer whales
impale the snails
upon knives that shine with yesterday's
newest movies
new longings for leggings
more guns for the incessant
humdrum
of drums and drones
beaten down to the bone
and then boiled and burned
the broth is thick as slime
a liquid sludge you could never dine upon
unless your next wish was death
and in case her face
made you pace the halls
her breath made you face
the waterfalls of the spirit
under this scenario
we danced a living image
hurried and hunted
just as the mountains crumbled
we got ******
and stunted our growth
as furry souls with feline dreams
deliver their music
in their coats
under their armor
their is a charmer
who sings all manners of worlds into being
forming a third unity
another understanding
is standing under
her dress
he caressed her thigh and lifted
her alibis to the ski
in her eyes are comets
just passing by
in her mouth the sun
heads towards the south and orbits
her heart a thousand times
i have called you before
and no-one answered the door
i have walked your gardens
with seeds falling from my beard
cut the pieces out of leftover pockets
and raced for the fields
that allow for our rockets
to attack the moon*
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 10:51 PM UTC