"potable" poems
The first new star flashed waves of blue tonight ,
securing my belief in the afterlife
A grove of ferns lit my imagination
For I became a shipwrecked captain -
that stumbled upon an island nation
Exploring the deep jungle without machete ,
potable water nor compass
Knee deep in mangrove forest
Tropical winds whispered and moaned
A lean-to of fronds became my maritime home
In the presence of a million stars
An army of sand ***** paraded before -
their newfound master from near and afar
Crashing waves lulled a poor sailor to rest
The whispers of Poseidon
A dream about a lookout in the crows nest
Counting orbs in the tail of the Milky Way-
with visions of mermaids , ghost ships and rogue waves
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
first I smell myself.
the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings
then I smell herself.
sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure
then I smell our sharings.
lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh
then I smell our combinations.
the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem
it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite
Friday, March 29 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
I don't ask your permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have almost no clue
my mental torment,
headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay my kind of bills
a man has a job.
Feed you family.
Protect and serve.
do it well,
there is no acceptable excuse.
none.
was supposed to be easing on down,
slipping under.
come so far, my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition.
the legs, knotted shoulders,
body aging faster than I can write.
the doctors only give me
if's and unless's,
contingencies in order
to die a little slower
warped, reversal of causality,
the older I get,
the more mouths to feed.
tough, this unexpected situation,
a nine lives time survivor,
do it again?
defraud myself,
living like I can afford
to write,
with courageous reckless abandon,
when earnest is deadly
and Lady Luck gave me the finger.
simply amazing.
eyes, constantly tearing,
nobody notices.
Do not ! Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
this well, just got dregs left,
drudgery ain't potable, or even
worth drinking.
need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
not one object on this planet
want to posses or be possessed by.
Monday wrestle with strife,
star in my reality show once again.
now, deny reality.
Do not!
Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
my voice is stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
hush me not, for tis true,
write on for an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered,
after decades of trying.
poverty exposed,
a life unmasked
for what it is worth,
or not.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
The Mendacity of Beauty, Marvels of the Mundane
<1/1/2023 10:38 PM>
commissioned by Pradip^
<>
A special carnet permits the day,
though day itself unremarkable,
permissioning of a thousand,
even, tens of ten thousand
grasping new love poems
all mundane, all marvelous
an aborning of odes re the
vastness of sea, sandy sky,
multifarious penumbras of hewn hues,
vibrantly diverse, still, requiring the
expanse and pretense of “new”
adjectives and metaphoric
in combos recalculating
precisely, it’s the enormity,
of the difficulty of verbal capture
upon tablet of these natural treasures,
once, more, yet again, but in somehow in a new-never
quite-before conceptional~postulation-realization
I sojourn amidst both man made and natural beauty,
provoking, invoking, a steady stream of potable knowledgeables, performing as a hand-written-thank-you-note for the grace, the imagination of their mishmash existences addressed only to
“whom it may truly concern…”
I’m eager to confess that the poetry inherent in the
mundane, requiring not-so-easy mining, a sales taxing
innovation to capture the subtlety of less visible flecks of gold, that present a rarer challenge to the poet’s senses where glory abides in pyrite pebbles strewn and trod upon by most indifferently,
*ah, write of the marvel of the mundane,
**** dare you!*
<>
^Pradip: “writing of the mundane is mandatory for me…”
Aug 12 2022
Jul 1, 2023
Jul 1, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
Some types of blood arrest this mouth.
Yes, some types of lips breathe fire and shout.
Some types of women shuck men of their gain, then some women run hurriedly back to their beaches again.
Some people catch anons between their legs. Others swallow vespers BeSpoke by the lust that they crave. Then envelop Gonzo love on the tip of their quill, if only boiling themselves for five minutes to ensure themselves potable.
I live for the taste of rust. I sit in the second-to-last seat on the back-left side of the bus. And I greet her legs with my aching skin, touch my fingertips to my lips to prove that I’m alive to myself.
If her scent was obeyed by royalty. I’m traversing the world if only once more as I’m praying that she’ll see me. I’m praying for our faces to believe in we. And her taste is the bang that is big from the beginning of time, one twist of the fresh zest of a lime, while the years are turned back into the furnace of time. I’m craving faces and loves I once saw. I need to feel the skin tailored for the female gods. I’m certainly loud and catering forth, I turn up the pre, and force the gain and amp up. If only to be noted again, in a bed with my goddess together we’d spend, every moment together in eternity. Immortality conceived of the beasts we achieve. Trampled by the light and tortured by the sound of ourselves. Please won’t you help me to not be forgotten myself? I’m pursing my lips and shaking my hands, I’m jumping off rooftops and eating mouthfuls of sand. Is our hero here or has she she run? Help me find Britni West, my one true love. She’s in California last I had a taste. It’s only everyone else that I lay chaste. With her I’m on top of the world, I’d quaff her spit and champion her skin. There is nothing nor no one that could come between. She’s the only one that is for me, and I’m the only he she’s told me.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
You are as unclear as lake water,
at the same time so potable.
Like a vivid night sky,
filled with light pollution
from all the city lights.
Uncovered like the people
in renaissance paintings.
Camouflaged in the great open,
A chameleon in all colors.
Hidden like the new moon.
Present but never there to be seen.
Stated as existent, but bares in darkness.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 10:07 AM UTC
don't ask permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have no clue.
my torment,
the headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
to poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay the bills.
a breadwinner has a job.
feed the family.
protect and serve.
do it well.
because there is
no acceptable excuse.
am afraid.
when was supposed
to be easing on down,
am slipping under.
have come so far.
my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition,
in the legs, knotted shoulders,
aging faster than
hungers, fingers, can write.
warped,
reversal of causality,
the older he gets,
the more mouths to feed.
man, it is tough,
this unexpected,
for me,
already,
a nine lives survivor.
can he do it
one mo' time
on borrowed lives,
again?
it is simply amazing.
my eyes,
constantly tearing,
nobody notices.
Do not!
like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
have been strong
so long.
but this well,
just got dregs left,
drudgery dregs ain't potable,
worthy of your drinking.
need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
there's not a single
object on this planet
wanted to posses
or worse,
be
possessed by.
more cannot say.
jutting chin,
stomach ****** in.
nothing gonna
change my world.
monday,
wrestle with strife once again.
today, on the sabbath,
deny reality.
Do not!
like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
have been strong so long.
when hearing Shakespeare
my own voice, stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
am ashamed
of every word
ever wrote.
hush me not,
for tis true,
yet write on for
an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a subject, a life,
mine,
still unmastered,
even after
decades of trying.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
a stale giant under a smoking
roof designs agony only
befitting of i. up in
another attic, the map
of the day dissolved. hope
in suffix, she cast another
loop round my spine. a
wound to forget to mend,
a few days, some potable
words. just carrying along.
red, she still carves into
my eyelids closed. a fool
plays gambit above the
ground. we were flanked
by frigid soil, and given
time the space bred in
our met gaze would surely
go to seed. but, questioning
whether we'd even make
a half-heatbeat through
this mess, i can't convince
myself you'd walk along
more'n a couple miles.
i'm becoming further away.
in an instant you could
catch me,
though. i can wait.
but not forever.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
Straddled, lovingly, fibers needle into bone
Your anxiety of anticipation,
How I wish it were potable,
So I may drink the terror I have bred in you
I perch above you, heinous desires for your flora to overrun my entrails
Of all the silt eyes in the world, yours are the darkest
Pining for your validation,
For your attention,
As withered roots desperately crawl towards the damp soil
But your heart is barren of solicitude
And so I will soak the soil with your blood.
This charming man,
So cunning, and so wise
If it is not I who fulfills your ****** appetite,
No one will.
Undergrowth impels into irrigated bushes
Hedonism, even as your eyes paint such terror inimitable to capture in brush strokes
Voraciously, desperately,
It builds, the adrenaline, the bliss,
And into me you are, fulminating, everything your pedigree can give
I raise the steel, and I am unafraid
For my calloused hands have been soiled for generations
Plunging,
Squelching,
Broken yawps.
Your lineage,
Cradled by forever empty organs,
Is just as barren as your soul.
As your gore suffocates your lungs,
And my tongue caresses my blade,
I watch those silt eyes turn even darker
You will expire in me,
And no one will have you again.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 1:57 AM UTC
A cool cloudburst from up high will cleanse this *****
metropolis ..Overfilling the gutters and storm sewers , the viaducts
and retaining ponds , filthy black tar streets , sidewalks crying for
upkeep ..
Rid this unkempt town of dreaded pollen and factory dust ,
stagnant pools of non-potable creek water , scrub the tarmac
at the city airport ..
Wash the 'Big rigs' , the trailers , the railheads , buses and the commuter locations . Shine her tall skyscrapers , her radio towers and her subway stations ..
Polish the walkways , the store fronts and the precious , park greenery ..
Refill the birdbaths , the fishing ponds and the vibrant lakeland scenery ..
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
A piercing pink
is it potable?
electric shouting screaming pink
racing through the system
filling all the veins, the arteries, the capillaries
a soft pink glowing
through the skin
pulsing with the heart
a network of pink
skittering across the skin
what do we put in our bodies?
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:55 PM UTC
Precious commodity on the planet , envied by young and old , the very signature of the affluent , a blue diamond in the night , a personal star awarded the few , pirouettes beneath the midday Sun , starlight awarded all the colors of the rainbow ! Her hours numbered , the sacrificial cool ambiance bestowed upon rightful delegate , her name is Ice ! Mans only hope in the ever expanding desert ! The ozone nearly depleted , temperatures at the Equator exceed one hundred seventy degrees , Winter in Nome , Alaska , fifty degree low temps , Florida has become a coral reef , Valdosta , Georgia , Dothan , Alabama are port cities with white sand beaches ! We are a nocturnal people , the high risk of melanoma , more than the current human body can take , Winter has become the time for vacations and family gatherings , schools run from two a.m. till nine a.m. , fresh water is under government control , unlawful storage of potable water or contamination of river , stream or creek is now a capital offense ! Bicycles are the number one mode of transportation for people headed to their place of work at Dusk ! A third of the Earths human population was lost during the initial fifty year period of the climate catastrophe , World Environmental Police are granted the power of Judge , Jury and Executioner , the world now focused on ozone replacement , a green planet now barren , brown with infrequent cloud cover , one hundred degree nighttime temps in the middle of Winter !
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
We think we know so much
yet we understand so little
the handful that do
seem to have the smallest voice
while the masses deny
the earth is being *****
there is little they will accept
warming comes
displayed in the strangest way
air thins
as carbon emissions thicken
fracking
depleting potable water
during days of drought
what will it take
a global flood
or a scorched earth
when will they listen
an awakening of the masses must come
before they are no more
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
A Poem On A Failed State
......
Do you know my country
Where the leaders of tomorrow
Are wallowing in perpetual sorrow
Where the rulers selfishly borrow
To make our future hopelessly hollow?
Don't you know my country
Where "light" is never available
And potable water is not achievable
Where good roads are not sustainable
And security is woefully unattainable?
Tell me you know my country
Where corruption is applauded
And lies and failed promises lauded
Disregard for the rule of law is flaunted
And oppositions are relentlessly haunted
I am sure you know my country
Where hopes and aspirations die
As they feed us with this rotten pie
Cos today's failure sits on yesterday's lies
Chained to a bad system we cannot untie
Now you must know my country
Where we build places of worship
Rather than developing entrepreneurship
Where those who do not sow reap
While the suffering masses weep
What's the name of my country
Where education and health suffer
To satisfy the avarice of law makers
And past leaders continue to plunder
Under the guise of being godfathers?
.............
© Max Ese Anderson 17/06/2020
IG: www.instagram.com/maximo4real
FB: www.facebook/maxeseanderson
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 2:43 PM UTC
you speak so freely
of your discord,
your worry over
what others think.
you never bother,
to look inside, to see
the cup you offer,
the sour, spoiled stink.
it’s easy to claim disharmony;
to profess to be the cup from
which only a few can drink,
but, if honesty were present,
and ethic of work, were here
the cup would be full,
the tea would be easily
potable.
alas, the cup is shallow,
there is no steam,
it brings no warmth,
no welcoming pull.
dishonest love,
a selfish heart,
is all that you can
serve.
an empty cup,
a vacant tea room
is more than you
deserve.
***
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
"Sonnets From a Conversation With a Friend VII "
Sundry afternoons of quiet words that
I willingly inhaled deeply have changed
My egocentric view, somewhat. A maimed
Creature, i called it the universe, went
Splat, from a thousand miles up. Funny, but
The falling hurt the most. What dreams i lived
Before were potable, in a mind dead
Infinite way. I see beyond the ****
Now. We all may invision a sublime peace
Yet the earth is mostly anular I
Did not want to know this. It did not please
Me to feel this rough thought, so i played my
Favorite magic game, and lost it in a crease
Of brain, while floating in a purple sky.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 11:42 PM UTC
Come what may,
as long as a mayfly ..., for a day,
being alival not survival,
rather than as long as an eagle flies,
not striving, enlivening, thriving, evolving.
There but for the grace of God,
Great Spirit, ..., go I.
Nov 27, 2019
Nov 27, 2019 at 12:31 AM UTC