"pinpointed" poems
i'm not looking for pinpointed lights
in the sky or my veins like
emission spectra of petals you leave
around my aorta
with daisy chain bracelets
whilst holding my heart like a
baby hedgehog or a shard
of glass left from broke-into car
windows our getaway driver, misery,
scattered across the pavement of your
gaze i met for five exact seconds
i remember, clean as new linen,
the geometry of your living room
seventy-six centimetres from your
glasses or the symmetry of the
bridge of your nose or the sound
of your soft exhalation.
to three decimal places i
was in love with you, then.
the rain need not spell it out in
morse for me to know that. the
sun need not rise to devour sleep;
through the ten factorial seconds of
each six-week fraction of my
life,
i dream of you.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
everything around __you__ is blurry
all my focus is pinpointed
__your__ eyes shining
while laughter light up __your__ face
all I see is __you__
sounds, smells, sights
all come down to
__you__
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 8:12 PM UTC
Sometimes
A piece of art
A rhythmic beat
Or a string of words
Comes along
To connect you
To your own thoughts
An indescribable feeling
Now pinpointed on the map of emotion
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 12:56 PM UTC
~for she who will know~
the Mother of Muses came to me
on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart
*we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse
to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.
all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing
see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime
We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End*
11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
the hand that rubs my body down
is soft: softly veined &
of a powder-white translucence; transcribed
from dover chalks to run down my
chest, backs of my thighs.
the hand that rubs my body down
curves in sweet musics 'round my soul;
the shrill but beaut'ous rasp of skin
on skin
-- of fingertips tracing strange poetry
along my spine.
the hand that rubs my body down
holds in its palm a sacred oil;
anointing me at midnight hour. muted
bewitchments; burns the candle
down to a nub.
the hand that rubs my body down
calls for christ in attics of sunday
afternoon ... crosses its fingers in
spiteful fits
of piousness.
the hand that rubs my body down
takes the shape of golden scarab;
sets aflame my eyes of beaming azure &
finds in me a willing servant.
the hand that rubs my body down
wakes me at dawn, partnered
with an extension of pinpointed
warmth: the touch of her breath upon my cheek.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 7:41 PM UTC
My words do splits, therefore they do gymnastic flips
this acid pit drips sick masses of glass and ink
Brain **** call it massive **** pinpointed so accurate
I'm going to a place with no conciseness
I write with my arms Then drop legs and abstract kicks
My abstractions are the thrills of a ride or several attractions
My mental is monumental to some by a fraction
I'm an empty thought that lies in a Casket
Surprise with my habits That's applied to the madness is tragic...
Slithering satisfaction supported strongly surpasses idiots by the masses.
Monumental mysteries mesmerizes men in misery...
I live life to amaze while in a maze of symmetry
I hope what I say Is riveting, Imagery will then cascade into a blaze of remedies
instantly sparking a chain reaction of positive energy...
The negative turns away...along with its enemies...
Ears evolve into eyes then spot their demise
I hope I never get lost in these times.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
As a consequence of my conscious decision to rendevouz with self centering mind
the power of words to create , to compose the unheard symphonies of small time intricacies and fast ride hair raising cold brushing feet failing wing taking heart soaring , bone marrow crushing delectable yet disgusting .... it's a strange place , yet made streamlined still by the number of multi dimensional infinities on the horizon sitting on one window sill one space filled,
known in time,
moment of wondering reason and wondering rhyme
no sordid or morbid tune keeps up to long and even then - feeling is feeling's tune
feeling is feeling undue,
feeling all the while whenst the secret encloses of mind unravel and intertwine
check list.
Fretboard harmonies strike bass line discord to form in own accord relations
and relate to late lives past and on time lives present
always running with time not out of it
in dew dipped grasslands
wild horses run free
dragonflies in hair and silver teeth glimmer against the rising sun
pushing each other to the best we can be , we are just the lost kids, found.
gaping holes in chests that need no name or can't be pinpointed by a single needle
that can't be filled by the love of one
but only a pack
only a tribe
running , 40/40 home .... and this time YOU are my homie , i've already run the distance
made it.
gotta feeling , we are gunna win
all of us, in whatever endeavor we feel - beings of this oh so gracious earth whose abundance is a burning flame within the vast cold depths of spaces in refutable habitat , children who never grow up from the mother earths arms - no need - no need - no need - no need for any more running
we've reached the home
and now ,
it's time to Party!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
Dear Santa
I know you don't exist
So I've no requests on a list
You see, my parents had me believing
And I never thought they'd be deceiving!
My mom confessed to me, one time
Oh, the shock that blew my mind!
No, I'm not- for good- traumatized
I just don't care much for lies!
Truly, I'm sick of all the attention
Nauseating, and really much to mention
A jolly, fat guy parading through the sky
Has been nothing but a childhood lie!
You're as bad as the tooth fairy
Suit of red and white--AND hairy!
Godlike powers to know who's been bad or good
And reindeer taking you to every neighborhood!
Come on, hey!
I say, "No way!"
Sure, there is a kernel of truth I can pick
A generous man of old - St. Nick!
He really gave gifts to pass around.
For his kindness, he was found.
So get lost, Santa Claus, just go!
I'm cynical, yes, I know!
Kids might hate me!
They might berate me!
But when they grow up, they'll get my drift
That you are nothing but a myth!!!
Okay, it's off my chest
I can give it a rest!
So, really, why do you dominate the Xmas scene?
Makes me wonder what it really means.
Is it really for the children or the child inside?
Who's it truly for, the simple fun it provides?
Yeah, I do get it, your silly charm.
Actually, it's done me no harm.
I long for what Christmas should stand for.
Love for others, the needy and the poor.
But I think you get in the way!
Shopping up a debt isn't right, I say!
Comprehending a love that came here on earth.
Two millennium ago, that wondrous birth.
That gets lost in the hurry
All the frenzy and the scurry!
Cliche-but I've just pinpointed the reason
At least for me, for this season.
Quite sincerely
Dorothy
P. S. Merry Christmas, everyone!
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
A particular peculiarity of my piss-poor
personality is a predictable penchant
for pursuing people who put that
***** of prominent protrusion
of pinpointed pain just
inside my perfect
throat.
It's in
the quaint
place where
questions quell
beneath the quiver
of emotion that could be
quickly dissolved if quelling
qualified in the quest for quiet peace.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 10:17 AM UTC
*whatever we speak, it's hardly going to
be spoken of.*
which means two kettles...
mind you: target practise
or as i mind
the 2.4
of said: superman
in Iowa...
do i care to mind?
well, **** me!
they verse in acronym
i.n.d.i.a. & c.h.i.n.a.
akin to a billion...
i'm tongue tied and heaving,
das bōt...
this doesn't help the aesthetic...
with prolonging dies
the excess o...
kaiser schweizer min took!
whatever that means,
they say funny accents in ****
to **** a thought of a zeppelin...
yhwh: or the hollowing-out,
awaiting the god to lift us out...
Pythagorean umlaut
into a macron joinery...
depending on your aesthetic...
Kreisler schisser...
twins anti avid,
interchange s and z...
Charlotte
and sharpening, shearing and cheering,
and so many excuses...
the chard and the sh and the charcoal
and the shattering of, of the chatter:
cheap and sharp
or the acute variations of śarp & ćeap...
or what the first H represents:
an upper punctuation marking,
above the letter,
Y or gamma γ vs. Υ (upsilon)
in latter phrasing comma...
or what's pinpointed with Y
and what's later replicated in trigonometric W
of sine and cosine, as is Y the tan divergence...
excesses bound to later and latter...
how to differentiate? the lay'ter
from the latté of not mopping up the surd
h and the vocalised h that's asphyxiating
within catching breath asthmatic?
people forgot punctuation
in the same way they forgot diacritical markings
but at least they got a pretty picture
and dyslexia, and iconoclasm, and
modern illiteracy;
as said modern conspiracy theory:
far **** away from 1990s cartoon network...
everything you just said: doesn't
prop a need for me to buy things;
which is why, i guess, you need
a drugs trade that's the alternative
of consumerism.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
I was told that
you do not like
my disjointed arms,
my geekish look,
my elongated legs,
my unruly manner.
I never knew
I am imperfect,
until you
pinpointed my
obviously beautiful flaws.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
He used to be more aware
Vision peripheral instead of pinpointed
More real
More free
He remembers what choice tasted like
As he rolled each opened ended one across his kaleidoscope tongue
He knew this would drown him before he could breathe again
His heart lines had turned to dust
Blowing gently into the visceral wind of his malady
This left him misguided
Every hand through his
Fingers entwined
Became collateral in this new war he did not know how to fight
All encouragement fell on his now deaf ears
All he could hear was the weighted hum
Of personal failure
Another day spent in bed past noon
Joints moaning in protest when pushed to function
He would pull himself together
Sew the chasms and fizzures close
If only he could make that choice
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
And always the silent smell
Of music follows
Each time his name is mentioned
Never justice,
Covered in ignored pleadings
With pinpointed accuracy
Constantly kicking
The ladder away
From his freedom
Evidence suppressed and misplaced
For 16 years
In cross currents
Of ignored medical reports
Miscarrying justice
And innocence
Constantly brushed
Under the carpets
Drawn back on curtains
Across hospitals
And your bedroom upon release
Which eventually killed you
A terrible crime
With two victims.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
Its not your romance that so frightens the deepest of my corridor.
Its what is upstairs,
In my mind
The stuff that has gathered dust,
That’s been shoved to and locked away in a corner.
Some mover left it there,
And there it sat,
Not knowing if it would have the lid opened in the future,
To reveal the contents inside.
So, perhaps I’ll shift my thoughts,
Move on to some new terrain.
Think with my thoughts being a completely separate entity of my own mind.
Escape my imagination.
Is it possible to escape one’s imagination?
Or would that just lead to further withdrawal.
******
You ask me what I want.
I guess it makes me nervous,
Uneasy.
I “Should Have” pinpointed that by now,
Huh?!
What if I haven’t?
The thought remains there.
There are a lot of what if’s
Chasing me around
Blowing like daffodils,
One seed in every direction.
You’re willing to go there with me
Aren’t you?
You know.
And how you know is beyond me.
But know you do.
Know that once my thoughts have been spread
Throughout the whole land
When I am but the green stalk that still stands *****
No matter how shaken to and fro by the winds of my time.
You know.
Daffodils just grow more sunshiny yellows don’t they?!
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 5:54 PM UTC
I ***** that cold spit on this hot terrain...
My subzero degree waves smash like glaciers and make ice parades
I'm hype like I smoked that right and when left instead
I will **** you and myself I simply knife gernades
My flows bomb-tastic
When I spit, your temple sizzles from my splashed acid.
I periodically pummel phonies in masses
Reverberations reveal Reactions.
My devilish grin shows satisfaction
Am lyrically chemically unbalanced
My lyrics ripple wild with drizzles of stylish accent.
I double dribble with the sound of pistols and stick back flips..
You fiddle skittles, blow like tea kettles an kiss assess
My classic rip will make your brain flip like gymnastic tricks
I'm gone like acid trips
This is levitation no magic trick
Verbal constipation my massive ****
My words are pinpointed so accurate
I'm there and gone I'm oxygen.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
Dear Emily,
Tell me
Tell me
How you ****** t he marrow out of life
from your transparent cave.
while I have been shriveled dry.
Can't think
breathe
feel
touch
see
drink the Earth.
I have one foot on the ground and one in the car.
My senses are numb unless both feet find
soil, grass and greenery.
Tell me
Tell me
how you pinpointed the essence of man
the essence of this earth.
without running the race yourself?
(at least once?)
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 10:55 PM UTC
Music
Slides from your eyes, hands,
Guitar strings
Voice
into
my senses like
wine
elixir
Cut grass
Woodsmoke
The demons of your mind
Are the demons of mine
The animals tearing the surface
Of a pinpointed, widening iris
The delicate lisp of
The depths burning
The surface
The sarcastic twang of an
Upturned syllable
Starry twinkles
In the corners of your mouth
Mirrored in my
Starry
Iris whispers
And the music
Of
Every whimsy
Sliding into my eyes
Like wine
Spilt on a dartboard
Waiting to be hit
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 6:41 PM UTC
i'm looking at getting a global map up
with all the addys of everyone who responded
pinpointed somehow
just for fun
probably take awhile
anyway thats what I'd like to do
will link it when it's done
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 5:40 AM UTC
to deliver any of these moments, in perfect clarity
the dust, caught, between streetlight resolutions
footprints, in short and fragrant sidewalk grasses
heard the tears leaking from the road
outside of rosemary's house
nobody deserved that loss
so soon
I
hadn't said
my last sentences
haven't seen you in years
this news rests heavy on my father's eyelids
attempting sleep, in a log or tin cabin miles and miles away
summiting the path that diverges from penny lane
through semi-forested, midnight blanketed steps
the glitter of the valley below lies in wait
*the clouds ventilate interior spaces
leaving a halo of shadowlit castles
three stars pinpointed about
the perimeter*
lost my breath
telling myself you'll want better
before anything can change.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 8:21 AM UTC
aingeal,
Mine blood pressure when thou art near rises, not from anything bad, just a simple fact thineself maketh me tremble at thy beauty and at thine own angelic aura that surrounds thee. Thou art heaven to me, for when I looketh into thy cosmos iris, I canst seeith all creation pinpointed to a marvelous canvas portrait, and it maketh me cryeth......... Not a sadly cry, not a hurtful cry, a cry because all the grace I canst seeith in that iris, is as if God hath sent michelangelo in the core of thy lid's to showeth me a piece of heaven I've never known couldst exist here on a planet that's been ruined by it's own kind, disgustingly!!!! And looking into those michelangelo eyes of thy own, I canst seeith so much refinement and artistry, and so much love they giveth off to me, as something I've never known, I was looking into an iris of an aingeal, and thou art mine one and only aingeal sent from God to me, as I to thee... What a blessing underserved!!!!
©By-Brandon nagley (Lonesome poet's poetry)
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
HOW WE LAUGHED AT THE PHOTOGRAPH -
HAIR LONGER THEN, CAN WE GO BACK AGAIN?
IT WAS A SUNNY DAY WITH THE SMELL
OF NEW CUT HAY - COULD BE ANY MAY
BUT IT WASN'T - TIME WAS PINPOINTED
AND FATED EXACTLY NEITHER FORWARD OR BACK,
JUST ON THE MERIDIAN AND WON'T COME AGAIN
ALWAYS A GOOD MOOD NEVER CAUGHT THE SAME
HIDDEN FROM VIEW NOT SHOWING SOLUTIONS,
ONLY SMILES, SNAPPY CLOTHES AND GOOD INTENTIONS
I CLIMB IN YOUR PICTURE AND WALK TOWARDS
YOU - A LIST OF THINGS ON MY LIPS BUT
SOMEONE SAYS NO! AND TIME STANDS STILL,
HOW WE DIDN'T SEE JUST HOW LUCKY WE COULD BE!
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
now, i'm tipsy fine
and spatial divine,
this moment's the happiest glade,
and yes, stretch I would,
if only I could,
this second, pinpointed, and saved,
though my usual friend,
the Sun, will soon end
a perfection, so cursed to fade,
and i'll have to wake,
and on faith, sober take,
that i'll find
the Moon's shine
re-displayed.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 3:20 PM UTC
the intermediate state of art from one innovative orientation pinpointed to the next is plagiarism, and the output of this intermediate state is colossal, although back in the day, it would have been called schooling, like the school of painting that might have produced a pseudo-caravaggio x10 in number for a marquis dumbflou, a don quichehot, a tsar ukuleleitch, a baron einsbach etc etc. well you can’t expect everyone to own an original caravaggio, can you?
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
The stars are always pinpointed
Against their dark blanket of sky -
As constant as the pool of patience
She always finds herself drowning in. Waiting.
The days seem to linger like a long spiraling staircase you thought would end
Fifteen flights ago - But you're sure that when you reach the top and step onto the balcony, you'll be greeted with a stunning vista - and you'll know the strenuous trek was worth it.
But it won't be discernible until every blister is calloused, until every muscle has ached, until every labored breath has been released into the uncaring sky.
Until every second lurches - towards an unforeseen time that seems completely off the watch.
She isn't a patron of time because time is wind-
Wind erodes, disintegrates, deteriorates, and plunders.
There is a photograph of him and her pinned
To a plaster wall that was painted dark blue -
The photo flutters against the pressure of time,
but it is not threatened.
He is constant - a tangible, absolute gravity
That pulled her into his orbit.
In that safe harbor, the wind cannot lash at their hearts
Despite the geographical distance between them.
The infinite Universe pays no homage to time,
But it does respect gravity, orbits, inertia, and
Love.
The forces that keep the stars
from falling
out of the sky.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 2:10 PM UTC