"perilously" poems
Her folly lies in her capacity to love dangerously,
For she loves in many faces, in many words and in many tongues.
She lives inside her love, mutating her heart ever so.
Relishing, perilously, in the daze of its endangerment.
And for the fragments of her heart she is so terribly loved in return.
But only for a moment.
For she holds too much insanity in her sorrowful bones.
It infests her blue veins and plays with her hair.
It kisses her in the darkness of hidden longing,
And traces her skin with wistful desire.
Her insanity holds her to the wall and caresses her neck.
Her insanity gives her a cigarette and watches her blue smoke dance with a smile in the early morning.
Her insanity laughs with her in a melancholy haze of youthful poverty.
Her insanity holds her in his arms.
Her insanity is inescapably wistful.
It finds her in the night,
In the secret carousels of woeful nostalgia.
Her insanity has destroyed her so, and has so wickedly masked it as bliss.
She is irrevocably doomed, for she will spend her days submerged in an ocean of faces;
Hoping, so beautifully desperately,
That she will find a piece of him inside them.
-
*"Can I stay here a little longer?
I'm so happy here."*
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
i look at all of these perilously perfect poems and i want to SCREAM
life, your life, mine is not a dream this is not a picturesque reality
please---can we try for a bit of authenticity? c'mon i mean
we all love roses and the sunset gleam but your life isn't
an oil painting (or a tv screen) so can somebody sit down
and write a few lines about the dull gray sky or how her eyes
looked less like a forest and more like a swamp (with flies)?
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
Like an explosion;
But in s l o w m o t i o n, a tidal wave crashes
This ironclad vessel beginning to thrash
Through the flashes of light though I see a brief passage
The corroded bolts past their toll
Give way exposing the hull
Capsizing the flood gates,
Negating promise of a safe harbor ashore
Amidst the panic and commotion
Together we sank, into the ocean;
*Sailing the high seas of impassion
I was impassive, &
Like an anchor*
Love plunged to unimaginable new fathoms
Dragging us down;
Perilously we claw hand over fist
The sorrows we drown
Adrift the turmoil and wreckage
Bubbles ascend toward the surface
(Spluttered echoes of our last choked hopes)
Water fills our lungs expunging the air
Fearing the end I daresay;
Babe take my breath away
Death is only the beginning
But I’m afraid of the forward path’s embrace
Dead ahead through the currents we tread
Shallow water blackout,
There's no turning back now,
Let's die as we lived
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
Hey there, you, driving the lawnmower,
sitting atop your shiny red toy--
state of the art, the best of the best
in lawn technology.
My meager fields are no longer in disarray
since you came around;
Tell me, Mr. Lawnmower,
Do the aspiring clovers and rogue dandelions irritate you?
Is their determination to survive a mere inconvenience,
Or is that the slight trickle of fear running down your back?
What about the bird's nest perched perilously in the gutter
and the rusted horseshoes nesting in my flower bed?
The disused swing set, now eroding in my backyard?
I rather like my own personal jungle!
Still, I suppose someone has to trim the branches
that hang over the power lines.
The poison ivy sneaking its way toward the roof
needs an occasional reminder
of the terms of our uneasy truce.
Perhaps I need you after all.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 5:27 PM UTC
Fog Happens
Yup. Not profound, even Jung, Kant and Freud,
wouldn’t deny their eyes, would no doubt disagree
with symbolic, philosophical implications, and the
head banging ramifications for the immediacy of
the spiritual impact while driving in this grey ****
Fog differs every time, and on an island, that’s for
**** sure. Today’s incarnation, the fog comes over
the water, but respects the man-made, timbered,
bulkhead, so the yard, with its circus of ravens, crows,
and other invisible birds, insects, rabbits, is visible,
but absent the inhabitants who are smarter-than-humans,
they remain aboded thinking, only stupid humans believe
they can navigate and forage, in a fog penetrating in air
that is 97% humidity and 100% peas soup thick skinned.
The time? Of course.
It’s 7:36 AM on the East Coast, and beyond the lawn lies a brackish bay that will lead you to the Atlantic and north to the Titanic, direction Newfoundland. Not enough info to geo tag me, but those who know me, knowledgeable in my early mornings scribblings, know my whereabouts, my telephone number. Do you?
Fog Happens to everyone and at random intervals, Nope. Not thinking of the brain clouds of ordinary Lethologica and Lethonomia. (Sunday lazy so just look it up and say out loud, gotta remember them words and laugh out loud cause you ain’t gotta a prayer.)
Fog Happens
in the heart, spreading north to the consciousness, and the lethargy of movement impeded by the lighthouse bells tolling “danger is about,” our light stolen, but you need to know, you’re perilously close to danger. Any action taken when heart-fogged can have awful consequences so stick close to bed, yank out your tablet, write a poem, listen to sad love songs on that Pandora Station, or send GIPHYs and emojis to your six year old granddaughter who is 108 miles to the west of where you both hide beneath coverlets, and laugh out loud with her like the bells chiming outside, and that helps move that heart~fog hanging low, out to sea.
YUP.
Fog Happens
Fog Passes
Jun 25, 2023
Jun 25, 2023 at 8:00 AM UTC
It’s a cold and moonless country night
He wanders alone, under dim starlight.
Squinting, he stalls, he trips and he falls,
Through fields of clovers, his fingertips crawl.
An extra leaf he seeks for her delight,
Long he’s walked, endless days and nights.
She watches him stumble from the stars above,
Twinkling, dazzling, burning, to help him along.
She sighs, she calls, over the horizon she sprawls,
Her silk-knit net to break his falls.
Yet he moves on, and on, singing unknown songs,
He read once in her fresh-press books, where he belongs.
Droopy-eyed he reaches a precipitous drop
Far below him, still waters shine, sprinkled with stars
Perilously poised, of this deceit he knows not
Caught in her silken weaves, he trips, dives,
Drips as a drop.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 2:08 AM UTC
the attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
poem
is a strange animal
with lines
monosyllabically
short
and then
perilously freakishly faulknerically
long
but not to worry
the trick is to ***** around
with the readers' heads a bit
let them wonder
what's going on
get them used to
obnoxious departures
sudden jolts
of expression
devious detours into
obscenity, indecency
these are the
tourette's moments
of a poet's creative life:
a move to keep those with the
attention span of an infant gnat
awake alive responsive
some may expect poetry
to take them down
safe bland routes:
a snowfall enhanced by red robins
perched on a rustic fence
a lake with canoeing lovers cooing
in a shimmering moment
heartfelt elegies
quaint quatrains
hip haikus
but can these images
really keep you entranced?
well, can they?
it isn't like i didn't warn you
or the horse you rode in on
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
Silence
Digging
The search for words
Leaves me empty and blister-handed
Despair and thought swirl in a voiceless dance
Between my ears and
Any will I've had to speak
Disappears where my breath meets my lips
Guttural instinct has me know
There are things that need to be said
Words to be exchanged
Explanations waiting
Perched
Perilously on the edge
Of solving all
And no going back
And yet
Silence. And everything is dead.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
From over the bridge
the sky curved into the river
and the winds from the distant hills
carved a smile on his face.
So here he was, at last, all by himself
played upon by a feeling
of being not shadowed anymore
but by the one his very own.
light as the bird, came to his mind,
and making sure no one was around,
he spoke aloud
I'm light as the bird.
Yet a shadow was preying upon him,
an unease, a discomfort, a disequilibrium,
as he heard within, his son saying,
*Baba, you need to take a break,
to be with yourself, to be away from us,
to soothe the frayed nerves..*
So I have been set free, he thought,
but are the birds really as free
as they appear to be?
So here he was, but his mind was drifting,
and he was calculating like a child.
*how many feet below is the river,
would the fall hurt, or would one have to wait,
for the impact with the rushing surface
before the final touch by the boulders?*
I shouldn't be perilously close, he stepped back,
muttering three incoherent words..
components of love.
Back to the Rest House,
he was packing his bag.
He was not sure, if his reappearance,
at so short a notice,
would at all be, a pleasant surprise.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC
among the lean and
narrow hours
when the brutal minutes
aggrieve
like the protruding ribs
of an emaciated animal
abandoned things shuffle
into dark unkempt little rooms
littered
with the manifested debris
of a life
unspoken thoughts
in rusted cans
stacked heedlessly
on overused shelving
bowing perilously under the weight
mangled hopes
kicked into the corners
stuck to the floor
foul and fetid
vitiated with wasted time
black mold
leaking from dilapidated hearts
creating pointillism art
across the sagging plaster
overhead
consuming an ersatz
Sistine Chapel ceiling
saints and angels
prophets and devils
sepia toned
in their water stain media
disappearing
into corruptions artistic virtuosity
only God remains visible
reaching out
to give life
if any are left
to receive it
Nov 28, 2023
Nov 28, 2023 at 10:23 PM UTC
Wade perilously through violent flames
Decay of a thousand riddles
Of the midnight hurricanes.
Dressed in gray linen,
Eyes gazed downward,
Upon Heaven’s direction
Waiting for some sort of cleansing,
Through one headlight.
Lost in the high lighted directions
(left, right, east 2.6 miles)
Tossed out to sea,
Follow the blue-lit eye
Of our storm
To illuminate every imperfect beauty,
Upon balanced Braille on your heart’s sleeve.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
Bitterness beseeches every
GROTESQUE
Inch of me
Thoughts of your light enveloping
my existence in a
condemnation
of
sabotaging
dreams.
I am the dark queen, and you,
you are my ghost.
Haunting me perilously.
The destruction of my kingdom is welcomed.
Dismantle
Decimate
Destroy.
Poison me with ANY
Affliction.
I welcome the cardinal sins of my evocations.
Blasphemy of my soul
Awakened and stripped
Of us, leaving me
Welcoming the blackness.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
Penguins painted pink,
peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement.
Perfectly pointy piles, please!
Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems,
predict potential palsy.
Prognosis? Perilously poor.
Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools,
placidly pasturing petrified plankton.
Poor protozoans perish.
Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs
populate putrid puddles,
Pulverizing pumpkin pies.
Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants,
pin-pointing precisely.
Puce petunias preferred.
Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition,
pardon profuse pollution.
Pretentious ******
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
Your luscious lips fervently seek mine and the time freezes,
the cosmic hum, the primordial love anthem is heard within us,
Your signature scent, perilously plays fiddle with my olfactory nerves,
a garden of love within me blooms, hear the sonorous drone of bees !
A web of silver threads from your eyes, makes me your captive,
stitches the insignia of our love in my heart with the touch of a feather.
On the back of my neck, your broken breath permeates ****** heat,
the hold around my waist,tells what your words couldn't spell out.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
I find myself, reeling, once more,
Slipping slowly, surely, into silent suffocation,
The soft edges of my skin, and I succumb
like the sun, plunging perilously into the sea
At the end of another day, fraught with regal uncertainties.
I find myself, breathing, once more,
heaving heavily at the hollowness
Of my hapless, hungry heart..
Searching for traces of the treachery
that has drowned me in this distasteful sorrow,
I find myself, bleeding, once more,
bleeding unabashedly at the guilt,
that I bear in my melancholic soul,
tenuous tears of tessellation,
sink slowly, like the sun, into the soft edges of my skin
I find myself, numb, once more,
A numbness taking over, nefariously negating
the lasting love for light,
that I once bore deep within my self.
And I cannot find myself anymore...
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
The waves tossed about in her soul
while I drifted perilously in the deluge
all the while wondering what monsters swam below.
With thunder in her voice
and lightning in her eyes
I knew that the blood of the gods
still pumped through her veins,
but I was still just a man adrift.
I longed to calm her tempest,
but I wanted it to rage just as bad.
Her lips were salty and solid,
and gave no hint of the hurricane within.
She was a storm destined to be wild.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
I craft my love
From words and dreams,
Forgotten, bygone memories.
And of this life, Real Love knows not.
I am to him a Time Forgot.
He left me picking pieces, changed
He lives in my mind, I lie deranged
Sobbing and writing all over the floor
You left too soon, Love. I need more.
I resurrect you from the dead
And spill my heart to the you in my head.
So I wrote you
But perilously;
For you, in your brilliance,
Unwrite me.
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 3:04 AM UTC
The moon inexorably needs the sun;
just like i perilously need you.
the remarkable, the not so magnificent,
the parts not everyone can see,
illiberally all of you.
Solis dies every night ,
just to let Luna live.
But my dear,
Our love is not like the ones written
in the depths of the fathomless universe.
The harrowing, unblemished and blackened truth
that silences and ***** the moonlight
out of my insignificant galaxy...
you don't love me the same.
I know I'm not extraordinary enough
to belong in the same canvas blue/black skies as you,
and be your moon.
It is not the end. For neither you or me.
I will move on to new cosmic horizons,
in search of a new sun.
A sun that will reflect the darkest parts of the moon,
and love it all the same.
And you, Solis
will find your momentous and exquisitely portentous Luna.
But my friend,
You are ever my collosally beautiful and singular Sun.
You're irreplacable.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
for all of us, star-seekers, feeling now alive
for those with the ghastly skill of being alone
amid crowds of people
lost in thought but ok inside
for those who see streaks of madness
fly round, illume patterns/puzzles
grasping scales celestial to infinitesimal
for those playing games with reality
snogging smug wealthy boys in stairwells
oxygen bonds breaking the sublime
for those forgotten under dirt, asphalt & spot
buried dates and dashes no splashes of memory
just naked nihilistic Precambrian bones
for those nameless from identity crises
smiling glibly through missing teeth
embarrassed by circumstance and the folly of age
for those trapped in jaunty youthful frames
lacking mind's dessert: veneration (contradiction)--still
wisdom perilously choked plus feared
for those chanceless beings fate sweeps & sooner snips
chuckling at theodicies while they still can
some soothed by snake oil--I mean Purpose--
then just dying
and we're still uplifted? we are still star-seekers.
we, divorced from form and aching for the sky's response
hear nothing, but we know
eyes' lies are all around us and inside
they wear us out and keep us moving
they are ancient dull clichés, tarnished but
they have the audacity to make us shine, aspire
they are what your grandma says to get you to behave
eyes' lies are true:
we are still star-seekers
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
I would my life were a movie,
that on the anniversary of your death
I could ride my bike, straight-backed,
hair blowing in the manufactured wind,
to your grave, with a perfect bouquet of flowers
perched in my basket, or else
zipped perilously into a backpack;
and, arriving at your headstone,
donate their impermanent beauty
to your memory, placing them
artistically
beneath the singular, factual phrases
that hold all remembrance of you
in their cold stone embrace.
But your ashes rest beneath the waves:
your tomb is the sea,
the sky your eternal epitaph;
and my heart has no physical place
to fix my mourning to.
And so I wander - for I must!
I cannot tie myself to the earth
when to the earth you are not tied,
when the wind carries your voice
and the rivers flow
with what once was your laughter.
The whole world is such a very big grave
for someone once so real as you.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
History is a pendulum
swinging perilously
back and forth
over our shared humanity.
Slicing bitterly
at the air above me
with a visceral hatred
for all the good things
I hoped we could be.
Kinder to hater,
forgiving to denier
loving to crier
sharper it slices
cutting the air cleanly
leaving me feeling it keenly.
Wild rhetoric
going viral,
virus of white power words
spreading like the plague,
a poisonous and bubonic phage.
I struggle to stop it,
this rising tide
of tired tirades,
republican charades
turning different skin shades
into the enemy.
These neighbors are our family,
but the pendulum sees them
separated by the serrated blade,
exhausted by the hate
and violence that blazes.
History returns to sicken
my sorrowfully stricken
heartbeat.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
A
splash
overtakes
the stern and
rocks grind the
gunwales. Quick to
maneuver, draw draw
draw, easing the boat into
calmer waters; pause. A deep
breath to regain focus and scout
the stream ahead. White water, boiling
foaming writhing as it is forced reluctantly
along. Trout shimmer under the warm sun
cutting effortlessly through the brisk water.
Disrupted and scattering they flee as a stroke
breaks the surface, bubbles rise off the paddle
ascending like the decent of snowflakes falling
falling falling to the surface above. On this ground
blanketed by freshly fallen snow, water bugs dart
back and forth more quickly than the eye can see,
disturbing only a slight dimple below. These too
flee as the water is broken, cut in half, by the keel
of a slender hull sliding seductively over the surface.
The pace hastens. Unified, the paddler and boat
react and flow as one. Tipping forward over the
brink, the canoe shoots forward over thrashing
snow. Quick right. Dodging a fallen weathered
tree. Quick left. Swooping past a rocky isle.
Whitecaps breaking and eddies twisting, a
sirens song, drawing the boat closer.
Violent spray distracts from the call of
the sirens and the canoe is buffeted
from side to side rocking perilously.
Waves reach up in a welcoming
embrace as the boat quivers.
Regaining balance it soars
onward, leaving the
anguished water
with only a
fading
wake.
V
-AM
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
It seems to be
That at one time
No one cared about the sewers
The ****** and manic-depressives
The postman who exploded his brains
Tragedy in shadows
Pieces of people
Romanticized, it is
To die in effortless affliction
To die in parts
The end is perilously attractive
Cradling the unknown
As for love
As for hope
Happiness, joy
Savagely attacked
It is too easy
To be sad
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Too soon, she became a human,
climbing perilously
(unwinged)
to kiss the sky,
to see waves roll over oceans
(she would tame a tiger with
her mortal fingers)
inside, she knew that it would take
magic, not love
to save her
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC