"placid" poems
the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...
we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...
and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.
the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
195.8k
through the streets and column cracks
culture weaves and summer smacks
sacred figures, holy shrine
monastery in grand design
cathedrals, convents, heaven’s stars
god of neptune, god of mars
doge’s palace, alley ways
gondolier on full display
winged lions on pastel breeze
cicada singing from the trees
pillar walk of saint mark's square
basilica in all its flare
crosses shade the carousel
a bridge of sigh that leads to hell
golden stairs on placid ridge
arches of rialto bridge
torcello! murano! grigio!
the countess rides the river poe!
sins of seven, fiery hides
poplars bank the levee side
black plague, attila the ***
eden formed before the sun
paradise above the marsh
high alter, gothic arch
middle age, religious wars
celestial fountains, marble floors
sculpted peacock, catholic faith
all is true the great god saith
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 9:24 AM UTC
---
in
the
crystal
water bubbles
reflecting there are
golden koi
in
the
mossy
depth of feathers
ancient moonlight
is the buoy
around the
blue-grey stone's
alignment
sand is raked
in perfect poise
every
leaf
has its
assignment
crickets make
a creaking noise
---
there
within the
island garden
small and jewel-like
in the grove
amidst
kimono and the obi
there's a peace
the Nippon know
muted colors
placid faces
the paper lanterns
sway and glow
the lords and ladies
sit for hours
where
the
lotus
flowers
grow
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
I am a ragdoll cat.
Docile and placid, I bend
to your touch, my silky fur invites
your inquisitive fingers.
Easy come, easy go.
My claws are only for show.
Bred for affection, I'm
the perfect pet. I'll follow you
wherever you go.
But the thing about ragdoll cats is
when danger is near, we do not know.
We see predators the same as friends
because it's in our nature
to go with the flow.
Too many times, I've been ripped to shreds,
been tossed around and thrown
to the wolves.
When I land on my feet and lick my wounds,
I go right back to being a ragdoll.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
He was lake placid
Her shadow fell on water,
The lake is ablaze.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
O Distinct
Lady of my unkempt adoration
if I have made
a fragile curtain
song under the window of your soul
it is not like any songs
(the singers the others
they have been faithful
to many things and which
die
i have been sometimes true
to Nothing and which lives
they were fond of the handsome
moon never spoke ill of the
pretty stars and to
the serene the complicated
and the obvious
they were faithful
and which i despise,
frankly
admitting i have been true
only to the noise of worms
in the eligible day
under the unaccountable sun)
Distinct Lady
swiftly take
my fragile certain song
that we may watch together
how behind the doomed
exact smile of life’s
placid obscure palpable
carnival where to a normal
melody of probable violins dance
the square virtues with the oblong sins
perfectly
gesticulate the accurate
strenuous lips of incorruptible
Nothing under the ample
sun, under the insufficient
day under the noise of worms
11.8k
74
A Lady red—amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!
The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms—
Sweep vale—and hill—and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?
The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird—
In such a little while!
And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the “Resurrection”
Were nothing very strange!
10.3k
The lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...
we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...
and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.
the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
Ethereal petals
blue
unfurling a presence
on the waveless
shoreless waters
bathed in golden light
a smile, a portal
to vaster worlds
unfolding
on the placid lake
a golden peace
unending dawn
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 3:59 AM UTC
In touch with you inner feelings
You create a beautiful world
The charisma of your touch
Will create beautiful ripples
The placid lake of love
Will come alive with the beautiful touch
Genuine touch touches the heart
Creating a lasting impression
A touch that becomes a remembrance
From heart to heart
Touch that cradles with loving hands
That touch etched in memory
Forever, a touch, that inspires
Love and beauty in your touch
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
(I)
Pale mulberry was the sky,
No bird dared to fly!
Thus all seemed wrong,
But then, you came along
Suddenly like summer rain
And quelled away my pain.
(II)
Velvet blue was the sky,
No bird dared not to fly!
Thus all seemed right,
And as pure as a cloud in white,
When suddenly like the rainbow,
You quelled away thy heavenly glow.
(III)
Dark grey is the sky,
No bird seems to ever fly!
Athwart my wild blue yonder
Where I, indignantly do ponder
Night and day wondering why,
We can't give it just one more try.
(IV)
Pitch black is always the sky,
But, faster than any bird I'll fly!
Swifter than a scudding cloud
Whilst calling upon you so loud,
All the way to a strange plain,
Just to ever feast about you again.
(V)
Magenta magic will always be the sky,
When once again we'll merilly fly!
Then, flowers once again shall bloom,
To see you and me as bride and groom
By a placid Mulberry Moon on the rise,
To kindle our enchanted paradise.
©Kikodinho Alexandros
Jumeira, Dubai
1st December 2016
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
I remember that placid night...
Sitting in my room alone.
Something inside me was filled with fright,
Knowing that there was no one to phone.
And I suddenly hungered, ached, desired—
That animalistic feeling,
That urge left unhindered—
That lustful tingling.
A lust I lusted after,
But to no avail.
My lonely heart started beating faster,
But all I could do was wait and wail.
I felt choked up,
Stifled beyond belief.
I felt like I had dealt with enough,
And I needed to help my soul breathe.
A lust I had lusted after,
Longing for that forgotten feeling.
But my hopes were useless chatter,
No one could hear my silent pleading.
I felt so very hopeful—
Hopeful and excited.
But I was left feeling wistful,
With my lust uninvited.
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 11:39 PM UTC
Conceal amnesiac eyes with a hood,
Maybe nights fall oddly placid.
Sleep could collapse its resistance,
Crumble sunlight into ashes.
Nightmares internally unravel,
Soldiers fought, already lost.
Invasive thoughts occurring,
Arising ice, I can't defrost.
This complexion leaves me perplexed,
Battling behind my forehead.
I can't evade this hopelessness,
I've pled, go back to bed.
Sunsets settled maniacal,
Malnourished; give me a mask.
Because all I ache for is sleep,
To possess what life I'd had-
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 1:46 PM UTC
⭐️
*Reading is like
Sitting under
A canopy of trees
Listening to the humming of bees
Chirp of birds
A gentle breeze soothing the mind
Absorbing the warmth of the early morning sunshine
Being one with nature
A solitude
Undefined Peace
Writing is like
An ever flowing stream
Cascading rills
Sparkling placid waters
The essence of nature
The different seasons
Like a flurry of emotions
The moments lived
Reminiscing the times
The Moments to come
The moments one dreams
Different reasons
Wrapped in words ideal
Writing is Therapeutic
The essence of it all*
⭐️
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
If the good die young
Then I’ll die old
My stress is so high strung
And my heart is so cold
The sad song I sing
Has nothing on the pain I bring
Lively on the outside
But on the inside
Its genocide
Everything is dead
Sent to permanent bed
People walking around
But they have no heads
The land is vast, empty and depleted
My heart is everything but completed
The disease I have is so rare
One hand shake
It’s all down hill from there
Your life I'll break
My sorrow is everything but fake
Everyday my broken heart is at stake
My emotions flow
Like a placid lake
With water so deep
No one understands
So to my self I keep
When I fall
No one lends helping hands
Everyone just stands
In a circle around
As I lay helpless on the ground
They don’t care
They all just stare
My heart is empty
Nothing is there
My soul matches
It too is bare
Blessed with this curse
Man life isn't fair
I’ll die first
This disease is too rare
To claim anymore lives than my own
This is all set in stone
As I sit on that hill weeping alone
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 7:48 PM UTC
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
well that was lunch which
was preoccupied with such
thoughts of the typical poet
eg why does the world want
to cheat me..
what is the point and what
is for tea..my lover´ s eyes are
burnished fields´ of wheat
i thought of love
and lily..
a small blue bowl of vague
reminded of a broken heart
and since stopping smoking
marijuana has my art
suffered unnecessarily..
or is it better some clue
must tell the difference between
the placid and uncontolable rage
the compatability of lasagne and rice
the oxymoron..
the pollution of serviettes..
with our destructive urges
laced with inexplicable
flat cola and
creation..
not unlike hunting for
searching salt to will
made in our own likeness
cold soup to chips
to explain..
what is this thing called man
chapatti and jam..
we have to have to tell
we have to work
and then stack
to clear them..
begin again
the thoughts
of a typical
poet and soooo
end..
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
Underneath the leaves of life,
Green on the prodigious tree,
In a trance of grief
Stand the fallen man and wife:
Far away the single stag
Banished to a lonely crag
Gazes placid out to sea,
And from thickets round about
Breeding animals look in
On Duality,
And the birds fly in and out
Of the world of man.
Down in order from the ridge,
Bayonets glittering in the sun,
Soldiers who will judge
Wind towards the little bridge:
Even politicians speak
Truths of value to the weak,
Necessary acts are done
By the ill and the unjust;
But the Judgment and the Smile,
Though these two-in-one
See creation as they must,
None shall reconcile.
Bordering our middle earth
Kingdoms of the Short and Tall,
Rivals for our faith,
Stir up envy from our birth:
So the giant who storms the sky
In an angry wish to die
Wakes the hero in us all,
While the tiny with their power
To divide and hide and flee,
When our fortunes fall
Tempt to a belief in our
Immortality.
Lovers running each to each
Feel such timid dreams catch fire
Blazing as they touch,
Learn what love alone can teach:
Happy on a tousled bed
Praise Blake's acumen who said:
"One thing only we require
Of each other; we must see
In another's lineaments
Gratified desire";
This is our humanity;
Nothing else contents.
Nowhere else could I have known
Than, beloved, in your eyes
What we have to learn,
That we love ourselves alone:
All our terrors burned away
We can learn at last to say:
"All our knowledge comes to this,
That existence is enough,
That in savage solitude
Or the play of love
Every living creature is
Woman, Man, and Child."
5.9k
Cobalt. Gunmetal. Pastel. Powder. Forget-me-not.
Out of all the blues,
She has the eye color with no name
The eye color that is slowly driving me insane.
Who gave her the right?
To have something so beautiful
I see blue everywhere;
In paintings, photographs—even the air
There are no crayons that can capture it
Not even color codes on computers can match her eyes
Her eyes are the space between the rippling depths of the ocean and the shards of reflected sky
They are the eyes that squint a bit as she smirks because she thinks she's sly
No matter how much I glance to the left during lunch
The color escapes my mind and simply becomes a concept
In my thoughts frustration likes to roam
If it weren't for the non-existent green, her eyes would look like sea foam
But here is no green—
Only hundred year old glaciers, rivers, and stormy skies
I don't even know what blue is anymore
As angering as they are, her eyes are still something I adore
I'm tempted to just ask her what color they are,
But that would mean that I don't pay attention
To do so would be like mistaking a stranger for your dad
Everyone will become apprehensive and think that I have gone mad
Her placid gaze tends to bore through my shell
I feel vulnerable— like she can see my dilapidated soul
But I know that she means no harm;
She is amiable and full of charm
Who knew blue could mean so much
And still be convoluted?
Blue washes the shore with the push and pull of the tides
Blue has managed to stain my thoughts and dye my insides
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
the color green
floats around in my mind like a pool of death
bottomless in my heart
thick and dark
flowing completely
and
completely
empty
its all there
but its all gone
I am a human
but I lack all the characteristics
of a human mind
Im frigid
metal like
placid
and emotionless
you bring me forth
and I lay in my tomb
next to all my thoughts of you
death
you have annihliated me
brought me to an end
of no return
my words would never be enough
if times cures
I will feel you a millenium from now
flowing through my blood
as if we just met
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 7:23 PM UTC
Winds from far foreign climes beats upon the Lizard rocks
Gulls driven towards the blackest of crags, yet pass over safely inland
In the darkest skies they wheel and spin as if torn by some giant’s hand
White horses gallop crests of waves as they rush towards tiny harbours
There to crash savagely and rend cut stones from their secured places
Men work to save their boats, fighting the storm which mothers sent
Nature conspires to take their very lives as they struggle with her might
Rocks gnash their teeth and boats not safe yet, pass near their faces
Hoping for the safety of their port, men’s white faces line their gunwales
Black, white, red, blue and yellow, boats colours lost within the spray
These same boats that forge the men they carry out upon the sea’s wrath
But now just seek to bring them safely home to their worried wives
Their women stand upon the quay or stare worried from their windows
Churchyards on the hills above seaside villages filled with headstones
Men’s deaths caused by storms in past times of fishing for their living
Leaving spouses, their children to carry on their traditions and religion
Headstones cut from the very granite of the weather worn Lizard cliffs
Menfolk deep beneath the Cornish loam, there to rest for all eternity
Whilst below in the thrashing storm, the families fight once again
Then as quickly as it came, the storm blows out, waters return to placid
Men stretch their aching backs, those hidden from storm turn out
The seaman’s mission helps as it can the fractured families
And church maybe rings for those lost out to sea, never to be seen again
There will be time to mourn, and the village will then lament together
And those who are left, they return to their sacred craft of netting fish
Return to shining calm, to ply their trade, to bring food to this isles shore
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 8:56 AM UTC
Violating a placid spirit
Memories transgress
desecrating the sacred.
Memories are
the dark side
of a full moon.
Memories are unsatiated desires
couched on sorrow
entangled in time
a perennial wrinkle on the soul.
Memories are trespassers
possessing neural atrium
wading saline sockets
slithering in to throbbing veins
tiptoeing to hollow spaces
burying all under their eerie weight,
Memories are an inescapable affliction.
In fragmented mindscape
Memories are violent winds
littering the past.
Lurking behind aches
in ethereal garbs,
Memories are assassins.
Or sema
of a swirling dervish.
Hurtling within, Memories
is an avalanche
pounding the abyss
choking the void
one gasp at a time.
Memories are
nameless apparitions
fused as shadows
to the very being.
Memories are an assault
on identity and belonging.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
Sheer passion, laden layers after
dense layers was the lake,deep blue,
His hidden heart was all aflame,
in anticipation of her, his hurricane,
the wildest girl in town, hard to get,
yet he acts placid on the surface
one'd see just gently billowing waves.
The hurricane has never known any
such guile, hiding passion.Her eyes
wide and ***** flashing lightening,
cloudy hair disheveled and flying
she comes heavily down on her passive lover.
rebounds to come back with more force
that'd tell how intense her passion runs,
churning water goes up in a swirl and
dance with her passion,how spectacular
is their union, sky and earth look on
with bated breath, this ebullient **********
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
I
remembered you,
you
remembered
me,
I believed in you,
You believed in me,
We were both sea creatures
traveling
uncommon seas.
We had taken to that
unconscious ocean
to see in the sea,
What we could see.
It's been a strange journey
of that there is no doubt.
Where everyone walks with
their insides in,
We travel these seas
with our
insides out,
We don't know any other
way to be
when you're swimming through
these
uncommon seas.
It's often a desert
out there,
But inside here
all kinds of musty
characters
drudged up from
anxious memory
inhabitants of this sea -
Sponge Bob Square Pants
has
nothing on you or me,
We are all travelers
in this uncommon sea.
Our bathing suits left far behind,
the temperature sometimes
too hot
too cold
depending on our state of mind,
There's strife
confrontation
character assination
often
uncommon seas
are far from placid.
The joy of traveling
though
you and me,
Sea creatures
feeling
the longing,
Finally belonging,
Where somewhere
and
sometimes
out of the blue,
A Beluga whale
speaks
your
name
so
perfectly
and
swims alongside
you and me
in
uncommon seas.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
All she wanted was a taste of perfection,
Yet all she found was chaos, sweet beautiful chaos.
It was always in her mind and she hid it with her smile,
But those green eyes can never lie.
A sensitive soul with a harsh exterior, she pushed hard everyday.
She pushed herself and others noticed,
But it's never enough in those green eyes.
She seeks approval from all the others but hesitantly disagrees.
For those green eyes look through her, disapproving.
Intuition and intelligence storm over her hearts desires,
A burning beautiful chaos in her mind.
A placid shell always hiding
The hurricane brewing in those green eyes.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC