"permutations" poems
*Poetry moves from within our souls,
It's emotions pouring out
Covering us in rhymes and flow,
Like rain from the clouds*
***Infinite letters, words and phrases
In various permutations we play
Collaboration between heart and mind
Breathed into these pieces that we lay***
*Touching lives with our written form
Healing with words, what's poetically true
Freedom of expression, thoughts and ideals
Crying out in ink, until our sadness is through*
***Similar in thoughts but meander through individual routes
We all sing the same but to different rhythm and tunes
Inscribe our innermost but to varying worthy causes
We all draw inspiration but from the same loyal moon***
*A different form of art, yet art none the same
It's in the eye of the beholder, so they say
Poetry is life drawn in pen, it's not an erasable game
It truly breathes life, looking forward to each new day*
***We proudly fly our diverse flags
United under one banner
We revel in words of poetry
In the hopes they'd last forever***
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
All of the moves on a
chessboard of which
the permutations are
infinite, have been
witnessed at Camp-
Nou by the G.O.A.T.
Upon hillside tracks
and mountain passes
where herds pasture
on unsure footings at
cliffs edge in all types
of weather is the Goat.
Think of a goalkeeper
waiting for an indirect
free out of vision from
behind a wall of players,
imagine the thoughts-----
between predator & prey.
................
|˚ |
| |
Tribute to Lionel Messi
Barcelona on his 7th Balon D'or.
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 6:20 AM UTC
I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Sharing my words picked out from life's hat
I can't find the most accurate to say
So letters I dabble in various permutations
Layers of letters turn into words and come to play
Could call them journals, these text-laden creations
But I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Penning the words picked out of life's hat
I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Relating experiences out of life's hat
I can't conjure poems... About anything or everything
Can't use my words to incite or inspire
These are just ideas and I just like rhyming
They are just experiences that fuel my fire
But I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Spouting rhymes out of life's hat
I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Drawing scenes from life's hat
I can't sketch a portrait with a simple pencil
Can't put together an installation and call it art
I can paint fairly well; of which I have done several
I can draw out emotions and depictions from the heart
But I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Producing paintings out of life's hat
I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Playing melodies from life's hat
I don't have the quality of voice to match that of a crooner
I can't play instruments that could earn a place in a band
I can sing in key without the help of a tuner
I enjoy music best with a guitar in my hands
But I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Singing songs from life's hat
I'm not a writer, poet, musician or an artist...
I do a little of everything, not excelling at any one title
Although I wish to have everything clenched in one fist
All I ever really do is just dabble....
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
*Balanced on the cusp of reason
Teetering in rationale,
Gyroscopic permutations
Take the leap or stay and snarl.
Reason fights with high confusion
Torn between the yae and nay,
Gyroscopic permutations
Pack the case and leave or stay.
Screaming taunts in ragged order
Torment in saliva mist,
Gyroscopic permutations
Cut the throat or slit the wrist.
Standing on the lonely cliff top
Way below the surging tide
Gyroscopic permutations
Take the leap or run and hide.
Balanced on the cusp of reason
Teetering on right or wrong,
Gyroscopic permutations
Join the dead or sing a song.
Walking up the baking highway
Soaking up the streaming sun
Gyroscopic permutations
Laugh or cry... today I won.*
Marshalg
Throwing the dice.
22 February 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
please to admit, it is
true & not too deep within,
a scientifically proven and a oddly
curio shop fact,
we are all aliens
to each other, despite,
the overlapping of
a billion permutations
of cellular related associations
our individuating palettes
the diversity of our genetics,
other than the physics of sharing a planet,
simplest put,
no one can ever
be exactly the same,
the precisely of you or me,
doppelgängers notwithstanding,
our individuation, so incredibly due
to our blessed diversification, that to
subdivide ourselves from others,
is a downward
facing absolutely ridiculous ideation
and thus we reveal here and (n/kn-ow) that the
only reason we aliens unique nonetheless
can communicate with each other,
regardless of alphabet or character of idiom,
(or idiots of character)
is
*all alien beings love to breathe and speak
intuitively in a pleasing rhyme and meter,*
to the ear of our overlapping physique,
and that is why, every tongue is connectable,
and every alpha produces its own poetic creations,
'tis poetic soundings alliterating glue,
that molds this planet of aliens
from a tower of babel into a
shapely sphere
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 1:05 AM UTC
A life away
You intertwined our fingers
And whisper, this is fate
It cannot be by chance.
But little do you know,
There is no guiding hand
We are a combination
Of one path that we took
And the rest that were not taken
And in this very moment
I read a book in a café
I watch a movie from my bed
I ski across the Alps
I breathe your scent
Mingled with the aromas
Of coffee, sleep and freshly packed snow
And of many, many more
And yet
The braid made by our fingers
Is duplicated countless times
Through all these permutations
You see
The odds were therefore in our favor
Alas, no mysticism here
What you call fate, is chance
The guiding hand of nature.
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC
When you are swept over by sorrow
And your night is forlorn
When your hours are reigning pain
My compassion will be there.
When everything is taken
And your attachments are all broken
And you've squandered your daily bank of seconds
My compassion will be there.
When rage and retaliation strike home
Alienation, isolation sings loud
When the thoughts are like a spinning whirling twisted train with the most perverse of engineers
And the tracks lead to endless night
My compassion will be there.
When love has slipped through your fingers again
And you're in the deepest hole you've ever known with only a shovel
And your fingers can't grip
And it can't be fixed without a ladder
And there is no ladder anywhere
My compassion will be there.
Whether you're too young or too old
Whether your world is
Expanding or contracting
My compassion will be there.
Countless life stories
Many echoing rooms
The human condition played out
In infinite permutations
When I have nothing else to say
And nothing else to give
As best I can
My compassion will be there.
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC
I dream of permutations and of potted cacti sitting on crystal shelves.
I listen for melancholy silence and I pray that hope and peace of mind tiptoe gently around splintered frustrations.
I want to see the hot sun beat down on prickly green skin until it feels whole again and flowers bloom from its head.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
body genre
at a carnal address
sensory and sensuous effects
materiality
digital images
anthropology of desire
she tied a knot around his ****
a wedding band made of licorice shoelaces
for the art of tongue and ****
driving it in her pink throat
back and forth
like a shift stick
flared for the retina
a puzzlement and fascination
haptic screen of fiction
adventure of being pinned down
an unpremeditated punctum
fucktum sucktum
the stadium of desire
a shop window
banality transcending banality
the literal transformed
into the ******
a ****** smiles red
girl in a suitcase
with a hole to ****
a treasure chest
the leaky boundaries of erotica
sing in
musical blood whistles
I packed her up
limbless and threw
her on the bed
and with tender kisses
of endless
wet permutations
banged
three oozing holes
into finger ponds of oblivion
she taunted
age play- ageless
***** class
a weird ethnicity
from Timbuktu
racially motivated lust for a
conveyance of
fleshy intensities
way past help
a big **** dips
a tender dimple
like a barnacled whale
in a deep dive
the violence of
a preemptive strike
for everything imaginable
across raw lips
in her cosmos
of swinging hips
and cross bone riddles
oh happy *****
suicide ******
at the computer screen
**** bullets birthday cake
in a River Styx of flames
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 4:40 PM UTC
A heavy cloud hangs over the sky
in rumble tumble
and I can bend the universe
If I can get there first
I'm a tautology guy
so latrine cakes arrive one after
the other in succession
they may be a mystery to the ladies
but they’re very familiar to gentlemen
Here we go clockwise from the table
and in one straight shot
we go to places unwished for
but barely unimagined
places that cheat the polygraph
places of stalled-out civil wars
and infinite permutations
places of frequent flush and analysis
places that drain out of each one of us
and right into the undone sea
Jan 23, 2023
Jan 23, 2023 at 9:47 AM UTC
he is
not the kind of guy you would imagine growing old with,
not because he wouldn't make a good father,
quite the contrary,
but because it's hard to wrap your mind around him
not
being
young
he smiles strangely sometimes, kind of an awkward perfect U shape, but it makes me laugh and sometimes I wonder if he does it on purpose
his freckles are like stars, and sometimes I wish I could trace them with a soft finger, just to see if Orion or the Little Dipper will appear in the folds of his cheeks when he laughs, or remain hidden in the creases in his eyes
and he'll say the strangest things, like he's got nothing to lose
he gets passionate about things I don't give a **** about
like calculus, permutations and **** as if he could calculate Life
strap Life to a chair and torture out its confessions, brandishing a TI-Inspire
his eyes glow sometimes, and he doesn't believe in oxymorons or paradoxes
he counts cards at Blackjack, but he'll let me win because he knows how much of a sore loser I am, and he
gives the best hugs in the world
not because they're warm and make me feel like I'm flying
but because of how awkward and gangly his arms feel,
and how reluctant the embrace is, like he's holding something back
and its the promise and awkwardness and
realness
of the hug that
makes them so
great.
Apr 14, 2011
Apr 14, 2011 at 2:50 PM UTC
*In a world, somewhere beyond the senses of human
a woman fell in love with a man,
he could be me too.In no way she could see
all(every one )of me, or I her; yet we know each other
in our magnificent ignorance of universe, that
makes things work for us in this world we live.
A sea of bubbles, each universe is copy of some other
as a lost pair in parallel universes, if researched enough
I would have found there are millions of she and I, exist
in numerous universes, doing things in all
permutations and combinations, I am sure.
If I take me as a Romeo, I can't happily court tragedy,
remember in some of these worlds where a different
law of physics works(a different Newton existed, apple didn't fall)
our love could become a super success, Shakespeare there
would have been forced to write a different classic.
In some other world a different tragedy might have occurred
I am not one , but multitudes, in planets of different universes,
I am the past, the present and the future awaited, I am the same cat
Schrodinger has donated his name and made famous
that made life and death suspects
I am the 'atman'- the essence absolute, in human beings
that yearns deeply to merge in the absolute consciousness 'brahmam'
about what the Indian sages of yore spoke in 'Upanishads'
millenniums before quantum mechanics saw the light of the day.
Brahmam, the absolute, non-duel in unmanifested part of the universe, beyond knowing
by a cryptic play becomes matter and manifests before us, bit by bit
Higgs boson, please catch the cosmic slight of hand red handed.*
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
Have the time it takes to
love someone unconditionally
love the someone, the having time
laughter, once taken, gives the love
someone unconditionally wishes
murmur someone murmur love murmur
indistinct laughter
touch the indistinct time, the laughter, the
someone
have the someone to murmur touch, give
distinct love, unconditional time
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
embraced within your own shabby clothes
drink the fireplace in and out through your nose
cross-eyed women eat a lot of chicken
while symbiotic brothers deny
that they blindly love their father's ghosts
and you are sordid like a cat
now i'm glad we got that sorted out
give an ounce of fat and you’ll get a pound of muscle
students take tests in bottomless basements
and are trained to use sandpaper for dusting
some of whom immediately fail examination
solely because their faces are too **** stubbly (ugly)
i shudder at the thought of stopping in the middle
so remove the dissonant fiddle and sit indian style
as riddles are permutations of words
that are sometimes thousands of years old
and gone are the shovels that we use to dig up our souls
your headaches are baked like pound-cakes in the dirt
indecent muffles were heard thirty miles west of earth
hesitate and you’ll die, so rise up and learn to fly
undress the legacy that keeps you chained to lies
this fire is hot and so is your disguise
strategies are as strange as fiction
and i deflect your indecisive missiles
with perfect vision crystallized
and then compounded like coal into diamonds
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
in one spot: the intersection of an infinite number of chances
& their permutations.
produced: a nighttime arrythmia of storm drain popcorn
leather creaks and my friends' leaky sink.
your hand is surprisingly soft; i am out of line
(that was a pun).
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 3:53 PM UTC
It was a scam, a sham
The flimmiest of flams
There was more pork there
Than a Christmas ham.
It’s nothing but a racket
Stuff it all into a big packet
And put into a time capture
Leave it until the rapture
Where it can’t hurt anybody
Then, fix yourself a hot toddy
And laugh about how shoddy
Future folks will think we are.
They won’t be wrong by far.
They’ll marvel at how many
Candidates worth a penny,
Or less, showed up to run
Like the whole thing was fun
And better than a TV show.
How could they tumble for
Not that good of a governor
Didn’t know what lips are for
Or what to say on the floor
Yet some wanted her to run?
What fun the press had with
Filling up the internet bandwidth
With screeching permutations
Of tired old KKK reiterations
Of the wonderful Aryan nation
The South advocated before
We had us a big-ass ugly war.
It’s like they didn’t know they lost
And were prepared to pay the cost
To do it all over again, not just men
But women too, who shouldn’t do
Because they were not part of
The government to be started up.
It was rather Alice In Wonderland,
The fuzzy details of their whole plan.
Certain things were carved in stone.
Some should go back to an age of stone
And forever leave the real people alone.
Because they’d shout out now and then
That this world was meant for white men
To run and control and own. Nothing tribal.
They said it was written in their Bible
Which was obvious they never really read
Or they would know what it really said
About helping the poor, the halt and lame.
They went on doing harm in the name
Of the King of Passion and Rescue
Saying that was the wrong thing to do.
They insisted they could do what pleases
And it should have nothing to do with Jesus.
It’s all about who is rich and who is not
And who doesn’t need what they have got:
All the good land and the mineral rights.
The rest can just stay up nights working
Two jobs, maybe three, they didn’t care.
Those pundits had to start somewhere.
Let those dishwashers and caddies
Go get their own filthy rich daddies
To leave them accounts full of millions
So they could hire undocumented millions
To build their dynasties of marble and gold.
Really, folks. This story never gets old.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
slugging and chortling all infinite and lax
leaning back on monobloc chairs—
some borrowed courage some borrowed reflex some leased home
to a figure shadowboxing in stereophonic eclipsing volume
sentimental love song, some humdrum alchemy of ale and whiskey,
feeding us with lies straight to our
fallible ears as guava and atis whiplash in inebriated sensurround
of playful mirth and feelingfulness
toppling the signs painting the avatars incarnadine with black-wounds
again the music rending the vale
lying straight to the face something the
heart still is— gears and clash-work
of analog deceit and fecund belief;
some permutation of early, imagined
falling into fledgling beats of
pining softly dancing in echoing beds
watch this twitch of my finger
meets to cigarette ember afloat
in verdure-jazz, lunar offspring of the
tubular deadbeat — crossing this
side of strife-torn street, hopscotch
in staccato. i believe there is rescue
in here somewhere as a tricycle blares
its rapacious orchestra of metal
underneath the makeshift moon,
why, it is so much better to burn out
than fade away, the song lying
again straight to our disgusted faces.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
in loving you, every memory that i have of myself has dissolved into nothingness
coffee in the morning is no longer sufficient why
has my head become a globe that can barely balance on its tiny pedestals?
in my solipsistic dreams somehow i can see your silhouette
even in the solace of my slumber you still manage to penetrate my inner most and intimate thoughts
like a shadow
that strays from the light
particles that amass and then leave again
the daisy to my gatsby-esque ideals of romance and hope
shaky visuals brought on by a familiar melody that conjures a memory that has given me stockholm syndrome
you are the captor but i
i am a willing victim
if hannibal lecter could dine on his friends, you can have me as dessert
and it wouldn't matter, for my life
has till this moment, been devoid of the one thing everybody seeks
love, in all its permutations and essence.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
I spoke to the sky today
a steel plate pressing me
I have not heard from her
something about the absence of sun
weighs too much
so I spoke to the sky today
I know all the reasons
the patterns and formations
and permutations
chaos theory
the science of highs and lows
explain to me
attraction to the sun
the way a leaf turns to it
by what will
she decides when she appears
I hugged my coat
by its pockets
I spoke to the sky today
and I told it to depart
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
Some days we'd lay about the milled plank deck
eyes to the sky
shoulders pinned
deliberating
on the hickory trees
and pillow clouds
and heavenly contrails
the warm caress
of a mid-summer wind
whispering through the hayfields
coondog at our side
sandhill crane still
feet in the shallows
of the Haldimand pond
a soft trickle coming
from the Pickerel stream
creaks from the woodshed whistle
as the Massey Ferguson
putters her way
up the county line
catharsis in place
(in this ethereal space)
just a garden variety day
...with fire ants
and fowler toads
and golden honey bees
Aug 20, 2021
Aug 20, 2021 at 2:40 PM UTC
through the cusp of
predawn heavy dark i woke,
one knee too cold to
feel. stars imperfectly ablaze;
radial fractions between
soft fingersplits in overlying canopy.
at ground level, spinning
slowly, i pried a small hole
out of my cocoon of moss. drew
legs to chest. felt clean air wash
up and over me. this is all that
matters. everything. acres alone,
save trapped stoat or the small
hawk in my ribcage. kea call
up at pearl flat; hours later,
i thaw. i rescind no sentiment.
and i dare not take back a
mote of motion. my
hands mend you sweetness on hazy
days the sun careens through
dust and valleys.
endless spurs
on all horizons to clamber to
you, or just to find me. endless
convection to spread wing under.
endless permutations of lovers; but,
of course, nobody else
would near suffice.
down a darkened trail, sleep
heavy on shoulders, i waltz with
torch dying in one hand. beating
heart in other. a fine
day crawls up over
peaks; i sigh, smile,
endlessly think
of you.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC
Multiverses infinite,
Endless permutations
Harmonise together into
Fortuitous combinations
Of planets and stars,
Of fluid minutes and hours,
Zoning time into a ceaseless warp,
Yet, the sole instance I ever achieved
Absolute Mehfooziyat
Was in that stationary speck of a moment,
When my heart lay idle in your arms.
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC
We began with little mutations,
Harmless, or more so beneficial,
We adapted to our love,
With no methods of dispersal,
People thought we couldn’t get any closer,
But your behaviors changed and we began to isolate,
We were stabilized so I hoped for fusion,
But realized that overtime not even reinforcement could’ve helped,
We had our Kingdom set up,
And later we fell into a “Family”,
But you classified me too general,
Now I don’t know where I belong,
My feelings for you were like the Cambrian,
Sadly enough they became a catastrophe,
You started selecting,
Seeing me as worthless,
But I knew I am not one to select,
You looked at me like you’ve studied Phylogenetics,
I was at the most top,
But ended up at the bottom,
You were not natural, but neither was I,
What did our selections favor?
And our relationship turned into cloud and dust,
Sadly it collapsed,
And you left me imprints of lies and hurt,
And words preserved inside me like a cast,
You ingested away my feelings,
I was the pili so attached to you,
But you were an endospore resisting all of me,
You no longer knew what feelings were,
And to you, I was an annual,
Got replaced so quickly,
But I shed tears where the oceans have formed,
And supported you like the roots of trees,
But you were a virus,
A pathogen,
A parasite,
And I was the host,
Blinded by your toxins,
And my cells swelled in favor of you,
You offered me and I gladly took,
I thought I was an obligate,
Surviving off of you,
But I was too mindless to see the real you,
And I was like the Archaea,
Survived the harshest paths for you,
But with a single expression you crushed my world,
And like a Zygomycota you’ve molded our love away,
And sadly enough I couldn’t evolve,
With pain feeling like spikes inside,
I am no longer the magistrate of love,
And love is my killer.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
Where do good ideas come from?
They shrivel away from the hypnotizing light of a virtual socialite
They grow toward the sun out above the clouds
Ever-present from birth to death,
They're the latest permutations of the same explosion that started that
Fusion core up there running
Running without stopping for a billion years
Fueling the experiments of life that consciousness spontaneously manifested
Across the planets
Each a test of a different vibrational frequency
Incompatible with one another but coexistent
Mercury's barren silver mines
And the Venusian valleys
And the regal red sands of Mars
And Jupiter's infinite wisdom and so forth to the edge of the Oort Cloud
And the green and blue ecology of earth, the waterworld
Where the entire drama we've seen so far has been carried out
The audience has grown in appetite
And doesn't always see that it too is the performance
But the unwilling blindness is all part of the sublime suspense of this subcosmic game
The planetary curiosity,
Can we make it? Would it matter?
We'll never truly die when we forget time
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
We're young.
God we're young.
We're young and rebels all.
Rebels with every cause and to every glorious effect.
We melt the sun away,
And howl at the moon.
We carry our dreams in our jeans,
Our heads in our hearts.
Screams soaked in ocean surf-
The highest highs and lowest lows as but tide on our toes.
The big black always behind us,
The big bang always ahead.
We cut the chains of a criminal cage,
Search for the red in our veins.
In all of us a personal summer,
Pushed by fear of future winters.
A timeless truth over a thousand permutations,
A thousand generations, a thousand germinations:
We are.
We are fires in the night, stars in a sublunary sky.
We are mutable gases born by open wind,
We are illumination, awakening, engendering.
We seek the world and spurn the rest.
We are young.
God we're young.
-c. c. Condry
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:18 PM UTC