"perennially" poems
With mechanical portals known to be doors
That either lead to different worlds or take you home,
These cabled vehicles like tunnels on wheels fastened on a railroad track
Stretch to both ends of the universe under a single route.
And as you get in for closure,
You put your trust on the obscure.
Just say the magic words;
It will take you anywhere you wish to be.
Even though magic always comes with a price,
The only cost are countable units of your time
And also a few dimes,
In return for the travel of your life.
Across the carpeted walkway of reaching out,
Through the glass windows of visible silver lining,
Behind the blank and arid faces that lure the soul to sink in deep wonder,
The lights and skyscrapers, and mist silhouetting the scenery,
All appear in bokeh, all blend in your eyes;
Your eyes that glow brighter than fire on ice.
The coldness lashing perennially on your skin
And shaking your bones to its final breakage,
Couldn't beat the absolute zero amity between these strangers.
But your fascination has enough radiation
To melt the tip of the iceberg
And shine over what's behind their opaque walls.
Settled on the plastic seats that serve as time machines,
They nestle between unfamiliar bodies;
Static, in a state of inertia.
Blocking out force, resisting change;
Like cars stuck on parking mode,
Couldn't bring themselves to unload.
Grasping on loose handles
With a grip more secure than seat-belts,
Some tend to pull away despite of the constant push.
Like engines on reverse, they take time to backtrack.
For all we know, for every action,
Is an equal and opposite reaction.
The brakes hit; there goes a screeching sound.
But when it comes to a break, we don't really hang back
Or fall to a complete stop;
We only slide forward.
For we must keep moving ahead,
In order to keep our balance.
The portals once again unlock to let you out to the open galaxy
And let in another for the same adventure.
You've reached the end of the trip,
But not the end of the road; nor the destination.
For the journey is infinite; you know you are going to ride again and again,
Until you've run out of wishes of where you want to be where.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
Life is a continuous matter of common observation. It enables us to realize, that each one of us, is a vivid and complex mortal living an epic story. One that carries on and on invisibly around you, like an anthill sprawling deep underground with several elaborate passageways to thousands of lives that you won’t have the chance to know.
As time passes us by, we can’t help the rushing flow of frightening responsibilities coming through our way. As a result, we tend to focus more on these perennially problematic things, instead of looking at the bigger picture, which hinders us from exploring the beautifully intricate world we live in. However, as human beings, even if we choose to neglect these duties and just start enjoying the moments we have to explore this diverse environment, we’d always be afraid of what’s going to happen next, or the consequences of our actions to the unknown future. It can’t be helped, as we are all fear mongering creatures, crippled by uncertainties that may never happen and not even affect us at all.
Despite our poor condition as temporary mortals in this world, we must always keep in mind that we exist in this universe to see our world unfold on its own beyond our imagination. To be risky enough to find our own adventure to keep us sane from the struggles we face in life, to see beyond barriers that others find to be a simple dead end, to draw things you love close to empower you to do the best of what you can with your abilities, and to find your true purpose in this life to be able to feel alive with zeal and vigor. That, to me, that is the true meaning and quintessence of life.
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
Won't you shotgun blast me to the face?
Though do tell, don't I make you celestial?
-It's my specialty,
Spectacularly, I see you dancing in the clouds
Spectrally resembling and unsettling
An unfurling semblance of reality
Breathe in me, Goddess of my dreamscape
Eclipsing my fate and alleviating waking life
Admirably divine,
A collision of concupiscent melodies
As we perennially intertwine among stars
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
A soft, pink, closed bud
She lay in my palm,
Her untouched, unexplored,
Sparkling pristine charm
Made me desirous of uncovering
The little secrets her innocent depths held,
Though surely there wouldn't be too many,
She was but a little flowerlet.
So, slowly and gently I
Let my fingers unfold
The sheets of her petals hiding
Her stories untold,
I drove into her likes and dislikes,
Her passions, her fears,
I thought that was all but I
Was guided again, into another layer.
A little darker than before, with
Melancholic tales, guilts and regrets,
Punctuated by naughty quirks and unique mirth,
******* me deeper into her nest,
Her nest so ruffled, how she hid it
Within her kempt exterior,
Each depth bizzarely twisting
Into yet another dazzling sphere.
I lost myself inside of her then,
And continue to be, perennially-
Amazed, astonished, perplexed, dazed
At the extravagant flower she turned out to be.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
you row, row, your wooden boat,
rough, sturdy, hardy, made for wear and strain
you yourself
gathered, determined, as tough as nails
as uncouth as your boat
how long have you rowed?
How much is time, what is space and distance
as the ship behind you is never reached
for it forever recedes, as you row, row
and perennially speed the prow
towards
Towards what?
Towards that
Which forever recedes, as you row, row
You row, row, the wooden boat
And all time and effort, all will and motion
is but oil and canvas
A picture, an impression, an illusion
A verisimilitude
of what?
Capturing what?
To embrace what?
That which eludes
Past time, past space, past mind and body
you row, row, your wooden boat
rough, sturdy, hardy, made for wear and strain
you yourself
gathered, determined, as tough as nails
as uncouth as your boat
how long have you rowed?
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC
two yellow butterflies
in the sun, entwined,
apart, chasing, diverging,
hovering hypnotic
over the first summer
bloom of the trees,
the wonder that is
travel, paving thy
own path in the air
stream, yet finding
each other,
perennially...
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
Hard frost and treacherous footing.
Nobody wanting to admit
that the new year
tastes an awful lot
like the old year.
None of our heroes
have been supernaturally resurrected.
There's the same
rank toxicity to our fears.
The jaunty carnival of ****** and maiming
continues unabated.
Death remains as senseless.
The corridors of power
are still slippery with slug trails and viscera,
and all the janitors have been
indefinitely furloughed.
It's cold, and
the bus is late again.
Still we persist in believing that
today will be different to yesterday,
that all those wrongs will be righted,
that the proper order - as we each individually, as
thin-skinned gods of our own personal
nuclear universes, perceive it -
will be perennially restored,
the buses will all
run on time,
and no one good
will ever die again.
But the truth is, this year
tastes an awful lot like
the old year.
I could be wrong, I guess.
Maybe everything will
turn out
fine.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 4:25 AM UTC
"Why"
is an agave plant
raising its many hands
towards sky,
shaking in urgency,
as if demanding an immediate answer.
This "why"
I note,
it keeps asking perennially;
in tequila haze, I guess
that the spirit of that "why"
is that keeps me high
though the agave mysteriously seems pained!
"Why?"
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 9:23 AM UTC
Snapdragons are one of those
flowers that wilt in springtime, not
because there is
anything wrong, it's just
that their season is over.
I wonder whether
snapdragons ever fall
in love with the hawthorns,
though I really shouldn't
have to.
I know all too well the
feeling of having to love
someone perennially as
you both alternate dying,
for lack of rain,
for want of sun.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
Can we jam, brothers and sisters?
Dare we meet at the impalpable chat room
that exists beyond our third heaven?
Dare we to speak in tongues and timbres,
our skin taut across hollow shells,
our veins strung across cadaverous bodies?
I'll grab my drumsticks if you grab the guitars,
and there's somebody on the bongos
slappin' the skins with zealous fervor--
where my tambourine girls at?
Don't worry, I haven't forgotten our forlorn hero
sitting behind the keyboards--
Tickle me those ivories with pious hands and aching fingers,
shake em down sweet Jerry Lee!
And so we begin--
I lay down the drum beat that bops heads and scatters feet,
and the bassman always on top of things
slaps and slides and skips and sizzles
hot diggity dog!
I hear that sweet guitar scream and moan,
praying for death under hazy lights
and we all coast with eyes rolled back into our skulls
and torpid lips drooped open over slack jaws.
Not a word is said from a human voice,
we speak through hands and feet,
basking in colors eking from every kick drum stomp
and the desperate wail bleeding from amplifiers.
Feedback sings and screams, fighting the silence we taunt
and hold at bay.
Around every corner the colors trail
coursing through our vesselious bodies
propelled along the dizzying venture.
We somehow spot every pothole and take detours,
embarking down backroads and backalleys--
We can turn the wheel,
but don't think for a moment we know where it's going.
And the mirror's have all vanished,
we know not from where we came.
Someone shouts from the discovery
as we exit a phrase to enter serendipity,
toying with destiny, clay in our hands,
stretching out the ****** perennially--
We laugh as the gods try to remind us we are Man.
And the screams and the moans
sensing the ****** is getting close
so there's a crescendo I ramp up the tempo
ahhhhhhhHHHhhhHhHhHhHHHHHhhhETERNITY IS NOW AND WE HOLD THE KEY TO HEAVENS GATES AND TIME STANDS STILL AT HIGH NOON IN THE TOWN'S SQUARE WHERE TRIGGER FINGERS TREMOR AND WE SPEAK TO GOD ON HIS PRIVATE CHANNEL COMING THROUGH WORN SPEAKERS CELESTIAL CREATURES IT WOULD BE SACRILEGE IF WE WEREN'T SUDDENLY SO HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY
So I say again, brothers and sisters,
can we jam?
SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?
SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?
So I say again,
brothers and sisters,
can we jam?
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
“Honey you got yellow pollen all over your nose!”
exclaimed the cashier at Walmart hurrying to hand me a tissue.
I had stopped to ask her if 4 O’Clocks did well here in florida.
“Oh-h-h” I giggled, “that’s from sniffing the Easter lilies.”
Lately, I have been trying to figure out how to
to add more fragrance to our southern garden.
There is plenty of color, the hibiscus has donned her frilly, coquettish
tangerine and red petticoats
The double begonias are showing off gorgeous salmon pink bonnets
much to the chagrin of their ******** clad penta sisters in
neighboring ceramic pots
Cape May daisies twirling dozens of yellow parasols
caper coyly across the lush terrain
and the newly planted milkweeds hold the promise
of glorious monarch butterflies alighting
on their burgeoning buds
For me the paradise of having a garden
right outside my door is a blessing of
huge proportions
a native New Yorker, I clearly remember
gazing out my window only to be greeted
by another building blocking any scrap of
green or organic color the cluttered urban landscape
had to offer
Thanking the sales lady I dashed off to Lowes
and found a jewel hiding amongst the rows
of spring plants and avid garden shoppers
Star of Tuscany a rose-like jasmine with a
perfume scent only angels could have designed
Whisking her away along with the enchanting
confederate jasmine I hurried home to plant
and welcome our sweet new companions
Later that evening while
swinging in the jhoola at Easter sunset
scarlet, gold and purple hues
cast a glow of hope over the garden of eden
Mother Nature renews herself perennially
shedding all that is not needed or useful
she leaves the sepulcher behind
wrapped in the throes and ecstasy of eternal love
she gives birth to eternal life
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
***This tradition seems lurking
as the real Theory of Everything..
It is a pull toward recognition of
the real Self which we all are..
This sacred Tradition
places our Self and our
seeming self-separation..ego
in a perennial dance
which has always been so..
This is the Illumination within
which all of our religions their
temporary patterns express..
Science has neglected
this Formula until it was found
that an Observer has been hiding
and must be revealed
for further advance..
We seem to be on the threshold
of a startling discovery:
Our Self is Everything
the real TOE for which
we have perennially
been seeking...***
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
the pigeon has not
just lain two eggs,
it has lain the
promise of flight,
pairs will take off,
float and land
with adroit skill,
feverishly mate
to fast-flapping
feathers, curve
an avian circle...
now if I may ask,
as the human
on whose area
you roost,
prospective
mother, what
exactly are
you doing
about hygiene?
like when will the
next pigeon
generation be
toilet-trained?
after all cats
dig a hole and
cover afterwards
so you see -
ablution evolution
is certainly possible
in the creature world
I have no other
complaints,
winged sister,
you take
little space,
may your
children prosper
we are sorry
for the trees ,
by the way
for our species,
frequently intimidated,
perennially afraid,
build fortresses
of dismay, that you
have to conjure
your nests on them
I do hope your kids,
god willing, when
time ripens, built
their nests on
branches, lay their
eggs on huge trees,
take flying classes
off stout branches...
by the way,
don't spread
the word to the
rest of your kin,
that our balcony
is the nesting kind
you see we humans
are still animal,
still territorial,
once is fine, but
another time,
we are not
so jovial...
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
Out of the bedroom window I looked
At the story seamed like paint splatters before me
Squandered in Monday grays and heavy lidded beams,
Skinny trees half pirouetting with the Northern master ,
Wet linens like rainbow dilettantes in their nylon pole slumber beds,
The wide sheet that overlooks all now turns in orange luster
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I see, I see)
An electric post stands above the swampy rice fields
A modern mammoth, the millennial miser
Perched in its lumpy wires birds mirrored each other like a pair of stilts
Whispering like Romans in spite of a forgone Caesar (political and free)
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I see, I see)
The night creeps like the batting crickets in the yard
Harmonizing in crooked ears a silly little hum
What I had heard when I was ten, as how everything had
Become known strangers scraping at the back of my pendulum
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I see, I see)
Out of the bedroom window I looked
At the story seamed like tell tale signs before me
The spit on a once young fool's clarity
Sealed in tight frames perennially set in a single motion
The old withering passenger squirms in his dinghy
Tides of chaos hooding that rage against the universal engine
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I'll see, I'll see)
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
But for some cruel jest are not we all perennially ailing…
Are not our lives just pictures passing by?
We, blindfold, in their wake are trailing,
Are hardly ourselves… And at the best of times
We solely hope yet for another handout
At someone’s twisted mercy and before
We ever realise it’s us we cede so freely
It’s far too late… We sob and try no more.
Shall not we fight, defiant, our doubts and envy?
Shall not we hold the fastest to our dreams?
And from our deepest selves shall not we draw our powers
When all is lost and there’s no life within?
It’s down to us to down the cup we’re given.
There is no shame in failing. All we can
Is to keep going on, perennially ailing,
However cruel and short our span.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 9:07 PM UTC
i) i write about 'love', 'romance' and 'intimacy'
like the bounce of pebbles on a train track
so perennially, so frivolously, so rashly
yet the only sentiment i am truly riveted by
is the hollow static of 'desire' -- one that
washes off with the grime from your body
at the end of a high
ii) everything is transient
iii) and so i think i am
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
You woo me deep
into the ecstasy of your pristine chasteness...
where dry leaves of Aspen and Beech and Birch
sussurate to the music of a lazy breeze,
where Hummingbirds
**** in frenzy
nectar from the orange glees
of the flame-of-the-forest trees,
where Hawthorns
lure the breeze
to weave its vibrance
in their domes of green glory,
where shrunken streams
bask in their white pebbly flourish.
Like an enchantress,
you lure me to the depth of your
rapturous bliss!
To say farewell, my heart pains.
I leave a beat of my heart
to ramble with the roving breeze
perennially in your alluring meadows!
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 5:58 AM UTC
Once dubbed 'number two,' a label, a haunting echo, a constant reminder,
From a third year’s Scrabble match that left me second best, the genesis of a nickname I hated.
The bitter taste of second place, a memory stark,
A reminder of striving, of yearning, yet falling short.
Averse to the shadow of 'not quite,' 'almost there, but...'
It's funny how being second haunted me,
Always striving to escape my past and secrets.
I've hidden the truth about my family,
A split that's more than what the world knows, I’ve always been ‘the secret child’
A narrative whispered, diluted, for ears unacquainted.
Universe never seize to mock me with it.
Contemplating the roads I could have paved better,
Guarding what was precious, fortifying with fervor,
I’m here , pondering the 'what ifs' and 'maybes,'
A lament for the present, with heavy eyes and teary-eyes. Regrets linger for not trying harder.
Three years invested, hopes were shattered,
I don't blame you for trying to rebuild, giving it another try.
Instead, I blame fate, the ‘Universe’ A relentless orchestrator, marking me perennially 'two,'
Even when love briefly eased the burden.
Now, in the quiet of night, in sorrow's embrace I write,
Words once sweet now tinged with pain,.
I've been through a rollercoaster of emotions,
For days now, you’ve witnessed my descent and ascent, I blamed you, I tried being strong, became a wreck, got drunk to prove a point, isolated , sought validation from internet, found myself overwhelmed by the attention and tried to convince everyone ‘I’m fine’, I felt numb.
Right now I’m just a shattered soul seeking solace in poetry’s embrace.
Every emotion, a verse, every thought, a line inscribed, writing seems to be my only solace.
To the boy I loved and wanted to give it all to, I’m thinking of you and I just want you to always be happy, being second doesn’t mean I can’t still be your number one cheerleader.
We always thought alike and wanted the same things; I do not wish to hate you as you don’t want it too.
I want to keep you as much as you want to do with me ,
Let's move past this, erase the awkwardness,
Let not animosity tarnish what affection once graced,
I hope we can salvage our friendship soon.
Dec 21, 2023
Dec 21, 2023 at 2:00 PM UTC
Hold my pulse,
Oh my Sweetie,
Feel my heart homely,
Keep yours too firmly.
Let us toss our love,
one to one,
over the net,
under the net,
off the net,
or no net,
foul or fall, not to fail
to dwell, deal and delve
in bits of bouts.
gravitate mutually,
gyrate gradually,
private cordially,
permeate perennially.
Heavens may break,
Let not our hearts!
Our times may crack
Let not our minds!
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
Blacker than the kohl of her eyeliner is the state of her soul
She lives in that darkness perennially but it's getting old
She’s tired of carrying the weight of her world but not done fighting
Trying with the strength of five thousand mother *******
Trying, fighting, carrying what was given to her by DNfuckingA
She pleads for succor,
But always;
“There’s a void that the boys can’t fill, the tipping of the bottle or the popping of the pill”
And she’s feeling the urge to regurgitate the bile created by swallowing one too many tears over a few too many years
Some nights when she lets the salt roll, functioning gets too hard to breathe...
She knows that “loving somebody won’t make them love you” but she loves away
Works towards the proverbial brighter day, struggles for the right words to say:
“I’d let you be my everything”
She knows she should be her own One and Only
If only the mirror didn’t leave her so lonely
But she’s a plain girl who knows too much cowardice and not enough self-respect
If you saw her you might detect some self-neglect
Or not
But you can bet she’ll lift others like gods
She’ll believe in the few and far between against significant odds,
Pray for strength, guidance and grace,
Keep trying, fighting, carrying hope for something to fill that empty space
And above all (if you let her)
She’ll love you better than you’ve ever known
But first her little figure will have to spurn itself until it learns what she truly needs
Videlicet, to love the garden of herself beyond its copious weeds
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 11:48 AM UTC
From my thoughts to my lips and in my veins,
I am sickly besotted with you. Without you
I’m in pain. I crave for you from dawn to dusk,
Finding relief only in my slumbers, when I dream
Of others, not of you.
For you don’t pertain to my hours of darkness,
There are limits to what you can give. When you sleep
With me I don’t, I fidget and tremble, toss and turn
In bed as you flow right through me provoking shivers.
I hence lie without you, longing to awake.
When I do rise to the morning beams penetrating
My windows overpoweringly, my mind gallops towards
You commanding my feet to follow, my eyes to find you.
You are there. You are always there. Faithfully waiting
For me where I left you.
Your loyalty besieges me and I surrender to the smell
Of your strong black hot body, yearning for you taste,
Gulping your exotic essence to the last drop, smoking
Cigarettes before, during and after our ritual ***********
I say I love you, they are worried I’m addicted to you.
The last time we accidentally drifted apart I was afraid.
Four days without you drove me insane, perennially drenched
In a cold sweat, devastated by stomach cramps and panic
Attacks, feeling ill beyond remedy. The doctor sentenced
I was suffering from withdrawal symptoms and I had to be
Strong. I ignored him and came running back to you
Promising I would never live you again, toying with
Your powdery texture slipping through my fingers,
Inebriated by your vapours as your liquid substance
Produces that oh-so-familiar gurgling noise.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 4:06 AM UTC
Nights when the Sun bereaves
The moon in between the graveyardshifts
He is boundless enlightening her
While her baits are never unleashed
Moon,"A Midas touch,
Burns who touches him as me.
He's the Anno Domini worshipped,
While I'm a mere eclipse.
Perennially furious,
I stare at him."
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 7:53 AM UTC
This is to divert the current feeling to that which chases the wind-blown dandelions. This is something which reminds you that the world lives in uncolorful things, too.
This is not to write and be Pablo Neruda. This is not to love and be Romeo. Or Juliet.
This is to be like something that perennially changes.
This is to divert and re-divert. Be displaced or disengaged.
This is to end a line in a way it should not be ~ like a hanging phrase that really isn't.
Yes, this is.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC
It's strange to think of you
with a straight-haired girl
as if my curls were unique
between your fingers, but
I still do not know how to
deal with these thoughts,
these scenarios I find in
every photo, wouldn't
you be happier with
a girl with birds on
her back like the
ones on your
wrist?
I'm terrified
that my beliefs are
walls to keep people
out, because people have
always been better off with-
out me, finding new pieces
of themselves in others who
share the same scars, I have
not learned to live with the
fact that my God scares
people away and while
they pacify my needs
with words, with
promises I know
I should not
believe I
believe
but their vows
are temporary, and
fleeting, it is my own
fault. I continue to suppose
that everyone will be happier
in the [ ] of someone
like me, who stays tethered
to the one thing I know to
be perennially safe.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
Psalmist of refuge and timelapse,
Can thou stop the ticking tumultuous hand?
Insidious to dietie's
You've come short of hypothetical stand!!
Provisions make space for new coming shouters,
For lovers and doubters of Napoleon like complex!!!
Wherein grievers grieve,
Where gravestones are scene,
Thy gowned mate gets half their respect!!!!
A selah for every area skipped young founding Father!!!
Can thou brand thine own?
No more broken homes to match beautiful daughters to their monsters!!!
Polaroid imagery seiging the bathing rooms of suited men's palaces,
All chalices tipped,
Finalized,
None more chapping to cocoa tasting lips!!!
Engine made supreme star beings,
Control the blood and flesh,
So what good's left ?
Thou faithful of sighted pics!!!
Art thou choked to thy hold?
Simmered to thy own ***** stated bliss!!!
Hath thou blossomed continually?
Perennially you topple towers of watchers view!!!
Release thy stamen among the grass,
For love is renewed!!!!
Times not through,
Thy hedging was meant to last!!!
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC