"pervades" poems
1400
What mystery pervades a well!
That water lives so far—
A neighbor from another world
Residing in a jar
Whose limit none have ever seen,
But just his lid of glass—
Like looking every time you please
In an abyss’s face!
The grass does not appear afraid,
I often wonder he
Can stand so close and look so bold
At what is awe to me.
Related somehow they may be,
The sedge stands next the sea—
Where he is floorless
And does no timidity betray
But nature is a stranger yet;
The ones that cite her most
Have never passed her haunted house,
Nor simplified her ghost.
To pity those that know her not
Is helped by the regret
That those who know her, know her less
The nearer her they get.
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Darkness pervades; an empty whole.
Tears fill this broken bowl.
The nectar too salty to quench the thirst
A brutal reminder of what came first
A Blackness, a Void. God illuminated into being.
Beauty, Belief, Faith - a false way of Seeing.
The futile attempts to make the hole whole,
but it's Loneliness that resides in our Soul.
In every being sprung into existence
the Romantic effort of Man's resistance
is Love, hailed as the Cure.
But ask yourself, "Are you sure?".
At a life with Loneliness by our side
Love's importance becomes amplified.
But Love is just a wishful lie
it is Loneliness that embraces us as we die.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Perseverance on my tongue,
a silken thought in silver ink
I scrawl strange patterns on the sun
and watch for daybreak to dismiss
the blackboard starlight drips and runs.
Now listless with my aching legs
I’m counting candles, chasing smoke
that filters yellow, drains the dregs
of coffee, cold and drowned of hope.
By tingling error I swallow words,
boredom pervades the bitter night
with a whistle, tuneless, that seems absurd
I empty out my troubled mind
to exhale sadness; curled, entwined -
quite futile, like staring when blind.
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 8:57 AM UTC
I. the smell of sad
odorless colorless like ***** similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling sadding, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will S’s),
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
still stink
don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ****** your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I,
who has your sadness smell into my skin cells creepily crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face
there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all
this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present***
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
was covered with gold,
to grace the heights
of Peru with its yellow tassels.
But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above the tender teeth
of the young ear.
Then the husks parted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
that grains of laughter
might fall upon the earth.
To the stone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to the terrible stone,
the ******
triangle of Mexican death,
but to the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.
Wherever you fall, maize,
whether into the
splendid *** of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
the meal and lend it
your virginal flavor.
Oh, to bite into
the steaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.
But is there
no end
to your treasure?
In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
the rocky Chilean coast,
at times
only your radiance
reaches the empty
table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.
Within your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
children's hearts were nurtured,
until life began
to shuck us from the ear.
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These nights I pretend to myself
and whisper to myself that
its not only you but,
alas,
you are confused why it still pervades you.
But I am told that
God calls lying evil sin.
And through Eden,
God tried to say to the world -
that lust is demolishing.
( but who is god to say)
it’s all so beguiling
and delirious.
and god yes it’s demolishing,
when reality resurrects every day and I am
thrown to watch it before me
even if I close my eyes
or bite my tongue till blood.
only the false sins I whisper
will wipe the blood clean.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
I read your manuscript
Arose; your liquid; I sip.
Wet, dripping, fingers slip.
Devine intersection
Your mind; intervention
Your ***** companion
Drenched in perfection
You silence pervades
Seduction persuades
******* 4 days
My bad habit; both ways
Soundless screams
Wildest dreams
**** Please
Naughty-Girls tease
Kingdom *** make believes.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
Adrift.
August 1, 2013 at 4:34pm
I feel adrift these days,
Lost on the sea of mediocrity,
Adrift in waters too mundane to be storm tossed,
Gently held,
By times' slow waves,
Still and changless,
Until the end of my days.
I used to survive upon the fruit of my dreams,
And play in the turbulent waters of many thought streams,
But dreams and streams are easily lost,
when you are adrift,
Lost in the empty sea,
Of mediocrity.
When your only companions are loneliness and apathy.
It is hard to strive for anything in life,
When all I can see,
Is failure,
And mediocrity.
Laziness pervades,
It has invaded my soul,
And it is impossible to carry any goal,
When I float aimlessly at the bottom of a world sized bowl,
Filled to the brim,
And all I can see,
Is a lifetime of failures,
Adrift on the sea of mediocrity.
Pursued by predators,
Too many to name,
But they are lead by lazy, apathy, failure, guilt, and blame.
What teeth they have to bite,
They inflict a numbing pain,
Their numbers steal the light,
They carry me down,
And Im afraid I may drown,
Im adrift,
On the sea of mediocrity.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
Blindly crawling, ****** kneed, trembling.
Feeling in the darkness, the murk and muck on the floor covers knees.
Breath uneven and scared, terrified again.
There are no doors, no windows, no others.
The cell has no features, only walls with no color.
An expression of the mind, an image of nightmare. Empty.
The lack of content is what scares.
Air so thick, one would choke, but I can't open my mouth.
Nothingness pervades. Wades through the thoughts to another corner.
With but thy blood and fingernails, messages are cut, carved and scraped into the grey concrete of these walls, words begging to not be forgotten.
Messages mandating weak memory to scribe.
This is my mind. This is where each day I reside.
In terror of the world, I am not inside.
in horror of the things I think, or thought?
I know not nor remember what I do, I am scared.
Naked, afraid and trying to remember the lessons I learned so long ago.
Goose-bump covered and huddled in the corner.
Hands wrapped around my knees, crying, shaking.
Dead inside, hollowed out. Nobody home.
Betrayed again...
By myself.
Beside myself.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
Somebody call Ben Affleck
We got phantoms in this *****
This endless haunted mansion
Their presence pervades
No company
In this lonely labyrinth
Only phantoms
The only figures resembling humanity
Are the corpses of those before
Who couldn't navigate this torturous structure
And of course, the masquerading phantoms
My soul they aim to puncture
I tried closing my eyes
But I just kept running into walls
I tried sleeping through it
But I just sank deeper into the basement
When I attempted to join the phantoms
You were there
You waited until I was hanging there
On the rope
And eviscerated everything
Lycanthrope
The rope in shreds
Your heart then fled
Leaving me alone again
Lying in my exhausted blood
The phantoms sensed my desperation
And took advantage of my disorientation
So I ran to the darkest recesses of the basement
To retrieve my blindfold and sledgehammer
But is my hammer powerful enough?
Will visual impairment abstain the trickery of ghosts?
I put Sisyphus to shame
With the determination I utilize to demolish these walls
But the phantoms are devious
They ***** new facades
Thicker, sturdier, with odder textures
I destroy them all the same
It just takes a bit more time
And time means nothing
To a man who's sole purpose is knocking down walls
And cowering from apparitions
Yet a man means nothing
To a time ruled by phantoms
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance
yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses
and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.
Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.
and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers
wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high
or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting ***********
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.
Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.
Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.
The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.
So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.
We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Many mornings now,
as day opens its sky eyes
to early sunlight,
Silence pervades all that I am,
or might ever want to be.
Speaking is natural, and life goes on,
but for the tug on my heart,
to go deeper, ever deeper
into the ocean of silence.
Ancient lands of my ancestry
are calling me
to come home now
and
be near the sea.
My own sea, salty and blue,
red rocks plunging
into stormy union
with ultramarine.
Be that I was selkie, I was mermaid,
I know these places where I lived and loved,
breathing underwater in perfect, silent freedom.
Perfection, a sidhi,
might be,
to live as a sadhvi selkie.
Knowing timelessness
through ancient, silent wisdom,
feeling, loving, living
and swimming in unboundedness.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
There's a virulent disease
inside him. It pervades every
where. It invades him. The
toxic cells exist in every nook
and crevice. He starts wondering
whether his soul and body will
suffice and live through the
brutal treatments that await.
Radiotherapy or chemo. A
part of himself could be lost in the
pomposity and elaborateness
of the machines used to do so.
He lies on the bed, surrounded
by the ostensibly loved ones
who mourn now and who hated
him once. He looks back at
his life and feels that getting
back to his healthy, strong self
is a chimera. Days pass and his
bed is his sanctuary. The reports
from the doctors arrive and he is
all but stationary. He finds the
concept of reports funny. They
determine life and death in a
second and after that, life could
be jubilant or miry with hopelessness.
The reports clearly indicate that
"cancer was not detected". He
scoffs at the elaborate medical
language and sits back and
relaxes, concluding his close
call with death and an emotional mess.
Not letting the intimidation and
sinister nature of the diseases get to him.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
You are buried in my pillow of fever
And burn heavily in my eyeballs. Your odour
Pervades my bed, and will not be laid.
Though you offer me an orphan future
Which I leave untouched on an unknown doorstep
Medicine is the touch of your lip.
If you called as you do call from the bottom of the sea
I would hear you in my grave easily
I would step down to join you happily.
Brushing the lies aside I shall leave my bed
I shall find you under the Rumanian dead
Under the wreck, still arched for attack.
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My words have been ripped from me
uncovering my naked body below
and I bemoan the cold or mayhap
just existence
My pupils will not focus, a lack of dilation
I am not entombed in life
for I blink with each inhalation
I am subtly encased in flesh
not suffering
simply slipping
Mourning the loss of my language
and when I dream
death pervades my visions
when I wake,
I'm approached by none other than heartbreak
at my most fearful perception
Strength isn't to forcefully remove temptation,
but to resist temptation daily and survive.
A man doesn't reflect until he is imprisoned,
and limited by an external boundary,
I re-forge myself within the internal foundry.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 11:29 PM UTC
Atmosphere pervades this place:
A subtle, spiritual background
So surreal.
Far from haunted manors
Or flashing disco halls.
Soundless surrounds ****** my soul
As I’m serenaded by serenity.
Peaceful plains becalmed:
Punctuated only by gently rustling trees
And the distant twittering of birds.
I cannot feel any force
Except some sublime emanation
Of peace and tranquility.
Satisfaction soothes my mood
As I make the most of these lingering moments.
So good to chill out in the snug
Of my local pub.
Paul Butters
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 6:34 AM UTC
Wand'ring
Lost and alone
Through a dense and murky wood
Far from familiar shores
A damp, deep weariness
Pervades my soul
As I search
For the tell-tale signs of passage
My quarry has evaded me thus far
The path weaving
Between the roots
Of ancient, gnarled oaks
I pause and wonder
At the futility of my quest
Might he have slipped from my grasp
For good and all
Ne'er to be seen again
I laugh derisively
The cynic rears its ugly head
I must keep up hope
Else why go on
Steeling myself
I begin to move once more
I turn my thoughts
To years past
And a wave of bitter nostalgia
Washes over me
I can almost hear the faint echo
Of their singing
The high pitched
Tra-la-la
As they went gaily on their way
I can hear his voice in the lead
See his blue skin
And white beard
A tear rolls down my cheek
I sink to my knees
I cry out
Papa Smurf!
Where are you?
But, alas, there is no reply
And so I journey on
In search of all I've lost
Knowing deep inside
That it can never be again.
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 11:23 AM UTC
Whopping blue sky
Rises above my eyes
Something nostalgic
Pervades my mind
The Yellow Eye observes
And gives light in that blue
Ocean with air for its water
And flimsy clouds for its foam
Swallows one by one
Trigger through the air
Plunge into the clouds
Come out to follow the
Track to their tiny prey
So lovely are those swallows for me
The special birds with magic in the heart.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
Prelude
"Let's go" his soft whisper
the mantra, in his voice she hears
the esoteric voyage through
the cryptic high seas of self,
fathomless, unmapped,
uncharted and reachable
only by the most fearless
ready to unbind and make
the self free for it's adventure,
begins thus for the peaceful pair
complementing the absolute
for a life time, til they reach there
and find themselves one with
pure consciousness.
"Let's let's, but only together"
she chants in unison,with him.
1.
Bidding good bye to ego, clad in red and black
a beast, not easy to bring to it's knees, submit,
the high horse proud,raring to go,having sharp horns
sticking out, fierce, that goes berserk,on seeing white.
Altogether a curious construct, that dictates terms-
they set about, invoking the blessing of the flame of light.
2
They stood together, eyes widely shut, bringing
both palms together,in front of their chests
creating a lotus bud, symbolizing hearts,bowing
each other in "Namaste",-bows the divinity in thyself-
chanting the mantras of peace, thrice, each time, repeatedly.
3
"Lets go back to the begining of every begining.."
the primordial hum, transcending quagmires of time
in the path of our ancestors,who did see the" unseeable",
without eyes, knew the "unknowable",diving in to the
ocean depth of self,going inwards chanting"Neti, Neti"
Not this, Not this, inquiring each till the essence did reveal.
4
They did this, focusing the eye of the mind, on the eye
beyond all, that watches every small thing in universe.
Mind, sharpened like the blade of a sword,efficient to cut
the Gordian knots,of paradox, duality and illusion,
encountering the silence that thickens at last, speaks
the words of wisdom,patient they are, to know the ultimate,
right there at the source of light that is the true essence of all,
5
Celebrate the pure consciousness, that pervades in every thing,
the thought that begets all thoughts,that moves on to be karma,
that becomes purer, through the cycles of lives, one after another.
"Let's be humble, utmost, sans the ornamental clothes of pride.
May the thought reigning cosmos, the spirit of peace,chanted aloud,
take us to it's sanctum sanctorum and melt us in to it's divine embrace.
Only one there is, all are it's integrals,the divine cosmic hum 'Aum'
that enliven the universe within each cell, remember , is eternal"
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Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
Chorus
Watch me fly
Let me fly away
As the bird
I take a flight away
Verse 1
In the still, silence pervades
No reminiscence of a past gone away
You watched me talk,
Then I lost all my words you waved
Goodbye, sad goodbyes
In the caves, the echo of my voice pollutes
It’s in the when, the how all the where
Verse 2
In the fields, I withered as the crops bloomed
No remembrance of a past erased
You heard me beg,
As I lost all the will to live but die
The pointed fingers on my being
In the brave, I took the shield and guarded up
It’s the now, the never ending paths
Bridge
Parachuting from the skies
The distance is to high
But I trust the safety net
The hailing jet
I wear the sailing zest
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
The snowy lilies gird her pith - in wake;
bejewelled love reposed in truest sleep
as Floras' wreath outdone by sorrow's make,
then thought; what comfort worth are stems - to weep?
Could petals glint upon her sombre plume
and sorb bereaving rain - of mourning kin,
or priestly Latin's timbre out of gloom
and Schuberts' toned refrain - a lighter hymn.
Although, a striking; flowered plush pervades
as fragrance spliced with copal - yields in heart
and over each an ashing pyre cascades,
begotten times and seasons - death not part.
Embraced the blossoms, now upon her lay;
a sweeten lilly - kissed by loves defray.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC
Joshua tree
Across the high California desert you stand with lifted salutation off the beaten path the drift
Of sea moisture mingles with tule fog rising from the desert floor you have briefly entered an alien
World a brooding connection develops with London’s fog shrouded streets or the Arden with its
Identification with It being the one natural barrier to the advancing Roman’s might and Shakespeare’s
Play the woods for him was familiar but a place where change to ones fortune could occur and one
Could find love mist is one of the times that a magic wand was effectively waved it produced a myriad
Of realties notable connections a display that reaches the far borders of wonder pleasantness infringes
On the harder order of the desert’s hotter principles farther east the great desert sentry looms above
All else the saguaro cactus also raises its arms as the Joshua giving thanks for life in a stark and
Burdensome land rock and scrub fills this place it takes time to appreciate such bitter circumstances
But you can sink thoughtful roots that will play a symphony between sun and shadow and all the living
Things that eke out a living there are a breed of people that thrive here also they can teach a lot to
Others live on less you would be amazed how refreshing simple living can be get to much you find
Fun squeezed out of the seams of the so called good life just think in this term when does water taste
Like heavenly nectar when you have been deprived and are at a loss to find it the abundance of anything
Can temper its value death swiftly occurs when the spirit of taking things for granted pervades those
Times that are riveting and create completeness in us are by nature rare and treasured you don’t have
To trek to far off deserts or faraway places a child’s youthful smile that is slipping away When tenderness flows and she makes your heart glow know my friend you are blessed with God’s best for all of earths time a husbands
Gentle laugh his look that stirs you deeply these are but three of rarified finds that are in your life
Enjoy treasure them they are personal gifts you possess today
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:51 PM UTC
Sitting here
Waiting, wishing, wanting,
I can't even focus.
The distraction of you pervades my mind's eye.
Write it down, the eye tells me
As if it were the messenger perched upon my shoulder.
Each breath that crawls in and out of my lungs feels heavy;
Saturated with wishful thoughts and flickering candle light
Like shards of glass
Shining and reflecting the unseen.
The wind blows cold here.
Can you feel it too?
When I was young, the teachers said I had a vivid imagination.
They deemed me "creative"
Because I liked to play pretend.
That 8-letter C word hasn't left me since.
I still like to play pretend, so
Let's make believe we can touch.
Put that scene on repeat please.
Ever since I was young I've had this vivid imagination.
The night I cried a monsoon for lack of you,
Somewhere between each breath lost
I found a realization of epic proportions.
I sat with myself in the dim light,
My arms wrapped around me,
White knuckles,
Cradling this vessel that felt hollow as a canoe,
Pretending the arms weren't mine, but yours.
Wanting.
In bed with the blankets tucked around my silhouette
And your thoughts in words cradled in my hands,
I can imagine your front against my back
And your warm breath on my neck.
I can almost feel… a rush of blood to my heart.
Name that song.
Sorry I have to plagiarize that thought but it comes so easily.
A rush of blood straight to the core.
Pumping, pulsing
Sometimes I just sit alone with my heart.
Close my eyes and listen to what it has to say.
It seems to tell me, hey I'm keeping your engine running, but you have to do the rest.
And I say a prayer for that motor inside my chest that keeps everything flowing
But I know that it won't do it all for me.
Isn't it miraculous to be alive?
Earlier today I thought: my God, do I have trust issues.
I'm confused about what's real and about how to believe.
I've been told plenty of things that aren't true
Like how pluto is a planet...
Just kidding it's only a moon.
But who's to say it's only a moon?
My moon is your moon and that seems pretty swell to me.
People say it's a comfort to look up
And know you see the same moon as someone far away.
Maybe I'll take that for truth.
Might as well.
What've I got to lose?
On second thought I might want to avoid that question.
What have I got to lose?
My head, my heart, my sanity...
It's a question for another day.
But for now I'm sitting here
Wishing, waiting, wanting
For my make-believe to get real already
And for all my distraction fantasy to spring to life.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
I felt an unusual twinge in my neck
as I turned toward you.
Heavy breathing signaled morning sleep
as my arm reached across your palpitating belly.
These casual cuddles, typical of the start of our day
emit a warmth unlike sunrays or furnace heat.
No use to wake you or tease apart your legs
for seldom do we play.
That may come after morning news is devoured,
bananas peeled and different morning hungers eased.
Now i rise to consume small pellets of brown, pink,
grey and white chemicals compounded to keep me alive.
There is a stillness downstairs with greetings from a well-worn chair
contoured to support my soul.
Blades whirl overhead churning a breeze
my face accepts upon my forehead.
Now is my time of meditation, my attempt to
listen to whatever god pervades this universe.
There will be no answers, no jolts of insight or revelations,
only small particles of peace to cover my disquiet.
You will lumber down steps with effort accentuated by creaks
and moans that are more pronounced each day.
Our lips will touch confirming both obligation and willingness
to walk beside each other.
I wonder if you think there could be more?
Could each gaze toward one another be longer?
Could I unbutton myself enough to see or would you scold me
for such an unrepressed display?
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC