"precipices" poems
You!
Hey.
Good-day.
I presume.
Pessimistic flu.
Hypocritical to annoy.
The poor man's Rolls Royce
-is the pessimists one good choice.
They live with fragility,
-unwilling rigidity,
-and rarely tranquility.
Some weep at morbid memories,
-others at faithless fantasies,
-do they (or you?) see the precipices
-between the then, now and will be?
So what if you take a blue bruising back-slap
-for your lacking, a juicy reminding
-for regretful whining, lifetime timing,
-miraculous hopes of a future shining
-because you're wasting your time
-and not even minding!
So listen, or in duller cases, read;
-thoughts are naught but mares and dreams,
-man made mind transparencies
-will's the sum of immediacies
-like waiting in your station
-but you're deciding the destination
-your journey fundamentally what you make it
-it's simple but pessimists are complicated
-would you not trade freedom for a life you hated?
Pessimistic man, forget it
Ranting is silly - you just don't get it
You didn't see the golden beauty I bet it
Gold is copper to you anyway
What would Fibonacci say!
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
Earth's children cleave to Earth--her frail
Decaying children dread decay.
Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale,
And lessens in the morning ray:
Look, how, by mountain rivulet,
It lingers as it upward creeps,
And clings to fern and copsewood set
Along the green and dewy steeps:
Clings to the fragrant kalmia, clings
To precipices fringed with grass,
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings,
And bowers of fragrant sassafras.
Yet all in vain--it passes still
From hold to hold, it cannot stay,
And in the very beams that fill
The world with glory, wastes away,
Till, parting from the mountain's brow,
It vanishes from human eye,
And that which sprung of earth is now
A portion of the glorious sky.
2.2k
Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795
With many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock
That on green plots o’er precipices browse:
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(’Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest:—and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea.
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here.
2k
some of us walk insistently,
instinctively, and instantly to
and upon the edged path,
this physical nexus & abstract mental locus,
a cliffside enticing rock strewn trail,
drawn of men, by men, for men
(yes, men are people too, still)
enthralling views,
down to the riverside,
where eyes intuit the
beauteous aroma of
precious precocious
precarious precipices
and the near-stench of
mortality
amidst
wafting scents of inane undesirable need,
hints of destruction, or,
alternating eager relief,
like a ****** infused, instant attractiveness,
making weakness in the knees, all too real,
trembling with a delicious accented edge of
a fresh, familiar scent, fresh baked bread,
an all enveloping consumption need now!
to
crave what we fear,
to fear what we crave
our cravings are craven,
this twisted sense, annuls
our common sensibility, yet,
titillates our pleasured imagined relief,
releases, our unsated, even better,
our insatiable curiosity to tremble,
an entire body enjoined by vibrato~
enticing tremulations, shaken and stirred,
this danger choice releases something primordial,
escape? a reckless wrecking so deeply designed,
it has its very own designation…death wish
multitudes of easy choices afforded my senses,
and by accident, all mine chosen, all nearby,
I travel the esplanade près de the East River,
where even if calm is the sole visiblilty,
undercurrents and the unpredictable passage
of container wakes and the larger freighters
will hand you down, so easy, to become parcel
to a littered river bottom of centuries’ artifacts
but even more tempting, the balcony,
a hop, skip and a jump unlocked,
mere ten steps, no need for a running start
why it’s the “height of convenience,”
he ruefully winces, and not even any
TSA lines or inconveniencing “conveniences”
Why this calamity seems so desperately desirable,
Why this unabrogated feat so featured, nay, even
feted in our hot? cold? bloodstream
“Why just men?
*I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.*”
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 5:42 PM UTC
Little ant, so small and insignificant
Yet in numbers up an elephant’s snout
How easily you make him indisposed
Lesson to learn: strength in numbers
Maxim to remember: unity of purpose
Oh termite, thou destroyer of civilizations!
How mighty when surreptitiously you creep in
Such ingenious civil engineering feats everywhere
Orderly highways with neither jams nor congestion
And tall imposing castles kissing the air proudly
Result: new architectures plagiarizing your prototype!
And you wasp of constricted waist and mean toxin
You make no attempt to hide or disguise your dwelling
Yours is a house built upon a hill for all to see and tremble
They say when a man has no obvious protection keep away
Lest you trigger subtle forces that mesmerize and pulverize you
Lesson from this: commandos are modern day human wasps
Everybody owes the bee everything, from sweetness to health
The bees a-buzzing speak of persistence and how it breaks barriers
In the end you listen because the message is ceaseless and urgent
And oh sweet bee of the hot sting shot from your posterior
No cordon bleu chef anywhere can ever approximate your finesse
Your formula and patent are hedged with natural mystery
Lesson to learn: the bitter and the sweet in judicious mixture!
Now little man recently so puffed-up and conceited and ever so inadequate
Hear ye this and know it well lest you stumble and fall into dark precipices
You’re nothing and you’ve created nothing; there’s a prototype of everything
In nature’s wonder store of huge surprises and unassuming wisdom
Lesson from all this: one day the other world will rise up and assert it itself
So steer your course differently and beware of those who bide their time
Grim in their purpose and determined in their unshakable resolve
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 4:00 AM UTC
as the light fills in
the dark empty spots
i finally realize
what love is
you
are love
i lift higher
my soul feeling like
the first time i met you
when my heart began to beat
when i felt like a kid
my life rushes before my eyes
stupid things i did
like letting you go Filipendulous
in precipices of nefarous claws.
There you were in my nebulous fogs.
With emerald eyes,
burnished in heaven
smiling,
buttressing this heart.
Credulity
for love
is the conflagration
that consumes me now.
Could this be fools' love?
Is this true love?
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
Standing aloof in giant ignorance,
Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,
As one who sits ashore and longs perchance
To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas.
So thou wast blind;--but then the veil was rent,
For Jove uncurtain'd Heaven to let thee live,
And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent,
And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive;
Aye on the shores of darkness there is light,
And precipices show untrodden green,
There is a budding morrow in midnight,
There is a triple sight in blindness keen;
Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befel
To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell.
1.6k
It’s 18 years later and I’m strolling down O’ Connell Street.
I notice a rough-sleeper in a shop doorway. There is a queue
for the bank machine contouring around his limbs
as he lies face down on the hard ground talking loudly to himself.
I remember how the investigators worked flat out in Kosovo,
almost captive to the corners of fields and the cruelty
of the events they sought to prove, the soil they touched
became a membrane surrounding remote scars.
They lay face down at times in abandoned crops,
measuring tracks, listening for crowded spaces,
recording the gossip of trees.
They reminded me of Indian scouts from the movies,
feeling for the signature of passing armies
in the broken grass beneath their fingers.
They were asking the dead for directions, the way somebody
might search a cemetery, calling on long deceased
relatives to whisper if they are close or not.
Soon the world will discover another war crime and the skeletons
of civilisation will once more bear witness to its own ******
As the Earth opens recent wounds I imagine the rough-sleepers
as skeletons of society communicating with scouts,
investigators leaning over precipices,
contemplating what goes into the filling of a trench.
Michael J. Whelan
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 5:23 AM UTC
Conjecturing on the intimate remnants of your heart
surmising on the proper way to dissect its parts
delving into the chasm that holds your most private illusions of grandeur
bewildered by the vast expanses, these weathered lips simply stammer
the complexity of the concept left me stifled, mouth failing to make any attempts at offering kind words
as the reverberations of vocal chords became the only sound we heard
ricocheting off the precipices of your heart's unsurmountable walls
useless like hands digging the sands in fruitless attempts to draw
the full force off the ocean from a shallow hole
I stared at the blueprints of your heart's desires failing to find the control
every route on the schematic
seemed as if inner city traffic
flooded with passengers never fulling knowing when they will reach their destination rightfully so, at the center of your attention
as I sketch out the dimensions
factoring in the time it will take to find the route that leads me back to you
I marvel at the resiliency of your heart, then drive straight through
beyond these hallowed walls lies a future I was destined to reach
I shred these maps, light a match and burn all the blueprints of me...
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
catatonic patagonia rumbles off beyond the tilt in world spheres unknown unproven
a wasteland
not there, here but who wastes land decides where the waste lands as mist obscures trees like it knows its aesthetic knows the beating heart the focused eye rolling forming subversive lands and wanderings unmasked only by forward march and direct sunlight move like mist feel the fog crawl up rock faces and empty spaces foot calf hamstring submerged in secrecy
shoot bearings lose bearings shoot bearings lost bearings the bering strait rushes further than the south andes get strait to the point the peak the top unfolding dips and precipices, teetering on the edge of identity can't see can't see where what
but the fog relents revealing a why that sits a while then crumbles like a letter left in the laundry or the will to lift both feet from this earth
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
poetry is more than me
it's more than words
& more than rhyme
it's vaster than space
& faster than rhythm surfing
the waves of time
amplifying its
frequency with
each &
every
line
pointed by symbols (signs?)
clung to limestone precipices
like vines within concrete crevices
whispering screams of defiance
against ignorance's yokes,
again our arrogance jokes
about the insignificance of other folks
of the other ones
of them, those people, the absentminders
relentlessly fettered in golden
coats profaning their shine thusly true
so that the unnoticed may reflect upon the surface
as the caustics of thought refract through
the waters of spirit & soul
churned out of each & every mind
a field of poetics
lurking behind the edifice of structure
deified as functional perfection manifested
but utterly infested with ***** sheets
& replete with redundant repugnance
filtered by plumbing that dumbs **** down
to the basement level deep underground
where much is mumbled but little is said
aside from the storm a'brewin' overhead.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 7:31 PM UTC
They say "I'm not sure,"
and they know it's veritable.
Cluttered desk--hats and
textbooks and papers and
earbuds all askew, heart
pumping too quick
Sitting on a black plastic chair,
legs curled up underneath, eyes
flickering to The Latehomecomer,
stomach unsettled
"I'm not sure." of what?
head down, eyes searching,
mind spinning, lungs catered
like coffee at noon
"Everything."
Supplied lies, shaking hands
pouring chamomile tea into a
white cup, hoping for--
that too.
"Everything?" on their mind
is falsified and unknown,
twisted skin ruddy,
shoes all in a row,
nails bitten like marionette
"Anything." of confirmation
belongs to the stables
which blossom with the
stench of sweetness and
wild, roving insecurity
"I'm not sure," they
murmur, "what you mean."
Precipices are lonely business
and so are "People like me,"
Forks are steel but the
mind is molten
and rusted in decay
"dream of quiet," they laud
slick on thin ice of
the essay due tomorrow in
history on the death
of too many
Sunglasses are similar
to winter waters and
lightning spirals in;
they are in debt to
themselves, in depth of
"broken moments." that
clash and too much
to think
slivers down in silver
carcasses of thoughts
"Okay, I can't help you."
"I know," filters out
behind lips of burning iron
"I never expected you too."
floats down the crowded
unfinished
street.
They're not sure of
everything and
I'm not sure of
me.
I know it's true.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 9:38 PM UTC
It’s not love, but infatuation, memories of a false life plague the precipices of my mind. Emotions made stronger, becoming harder to distinguish between reality and fantasy. Lust, wanton and forever present, of days filled with pleasure and ecstasy.
Is it heaven or is it hell? I can no longer tell. The further away I am, the easier it is to breath but like an addict, I linger in the doorway, between the past and the possible future.
My chest aches, my breath is labored. This pain, this agony makes it hard to swallow. Emotions roll like waves in a typhoon, and I am drowning.
Where was I? When I lost my way, in the gaze that are your eyes. Where were you? The moment you placed your lips against my own.
How was i to know, how lost you had been. Kept for too long in the dark, where the voices whisper sweet lies of terror and blood shed.
So I fell, through space and time; and when I awoke it was to the familiar hollowness I have known all my life. This time however, I could not remember what it was like to live as I had before, so that part of me, the one you had filled so graciously had died along with you.
You awoke with a clean slate, no real memories, and no real emotions to prove you an organic being. You had left me to pick up the glass, I so foolishly aloud you to touch, now broken and shattered under blood soaked hands.
What a fool I had been, what a fool you aloud yourself to be.Yet here we are, face to face. With a grim smile on my lips, and a false twinkle in your dead eye.
Amongst people we don’t really care for, yet we cling to them. For a sense of normalcy. So that you may remember of those few but better days. So I can bring down those walls that I have erected once more.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
“Abate agonizing, when the grieving troposphere reaping,
As it navigates a shift as the pulverizing leaflets,
As this tender moment of nature steals upon me my deep, emotions as we drift from the Archipelago,
As the steep tall rocks swerve towards the edge of the, precipices we navigate towards our archipelago refuge,
As my heart inflection my heart beats vivaciously, through my entire body,
Conscious only of you I belong to you there is really,
A way of expressing that is not impregnable enough,
All that my soul pines to express at this instant,
Is included in the one word avidity,
A total contradiction of life if I were with those,
I loved I would only wish to be in obscure distance,
Now as I am far away all I do is wish for one more, day surrounded by those I love that home could be,
Odyssey bound for the homeland on the briny deep afar that father and husband's longing, as it seems that,
Gaviiform seabird bellows with tumultuous placidity,
Sleep the blossoms of a future flower,
You have, by your tenderness and worth twisted yourself more artfully round my heart, then I supposed possible on this my refuge,
Archipelago Refuge”
By Andrew Guzaldo July 17, 2022 © #211
Jul 17, 2022
Jul 17, 2022 at 2:05 PM UTC
There is a fountain flowing,
a thin, pure stream of melody
unbedazzled by cymbals and trumpets
rather,
the bending of willow boughs
the strain of violins
stringing away at my heart
drops of ivory, plunking
wet and dewy on the ground
a song laid naked, exposed
the longest sigh
that billows off precipices
into an abandoning
breath of clarity.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
I am human.
Such a sad state of affairs.
Where in the world of dawning spring, the cuckoo calls and no-one cares.
Or maybe chooses not to hear.
Last year's bulbs are struggling out.
Seeking freedom.
Kingdom come.
Listen really closely, you may hear them shouting.
Death is tragedy in satirical French magazines.
Ice cold death, in local stores.
Offices and dodgy precipices.
Now in superlative support, the whole world screamed.
Praises be.
Four million people truly free.
Vive la France !
(c) Livvi
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
Fine things lining pockets
And flawed gems from a faucet
It took a month to mar the clauses
long forgotten fiends and flowing
Nature lost scenery
It might be menial, but if I don't like the imagery
I'd use a run on and run on, running on
Fumes like carbon clouds, bowing at the center
Of the hopelessness I've found
Of moths and flame, danger and wanting
Nature and harboring diseases and watching
Crystalline precipices overblown from cold
Rain, eroding stone long since lain
Homes blown through in half a day
Another half century laid waste
Forage a new course for the streams
The selfish, like me only disagree
Despite the discontent
Restless nights and fires burning low
Into the biting air, a show of flair
Its not right, or fair to vent
Hollow, it would seem
Still stable, the ecosystem of
Constant change
Trying to be heard over a flood of filth
Tidal waves painting fields
Recessing long since venerated guest
Retaking ocean lost to sandy beaches
And kids with half a dream left in them
I spent my last penny on a whim
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 7:43 PM UTC
smiling in a mirror I see
an elephant in the room\a deserted island .
there are mountains precipices above about me
dangerous
surroundings if I give up
and dark valleys filled with enemies
knowledge is no armory when fitted for a battle of strength
'tis general \
or survival that brings an animal above to see
here
in reality
I am the one
alone so natural like mammal lust and human greed
in all the caves I seek
hiding
away from
rationing my sanity if I did not see a grander destiny
for me
for us.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 4:00 AM UTC
You dragged me tensed and hyped from my winter's cave
I was jittery
and giddy
and ready for spring greens.
Frightening black evening precipices came and went
smoothing themselves and smothering frown lines.
There was ringing in my head when it was empty of you.
I prayed this would stay. My warmest of winter coats.
Never my boldest and bulkiest of thorniest fright.
and days passed.
Belligerence met our tepid introduction.
Red, and raw, and worrisome were their reactions.
Holding tighter you began to
f
a
l
l
I fought (no longer scared).
Fought to keep a warm January day turned to February, to springing mid 70s.
To keep out of my long musty cave,
but whipping wind from their mouths pulled eagerly backwards.
and days passed
silent. steady. always ready. no demands. only wishes. only fondest hopes.
and it was all yellow
and everything hurt.
and someday passed
When it was warm, when you were ready
you let go
and held me tighter
weak/faint/smoggy/dust to ashes to life/dawned understanding
at the mouth of a blooming cave
I thought perhaps you were mine
for somewhere along the way
I became helplessly
[entrapped]
Let me show you
Let me hold this tangled hair full of insecurities for you to study
Let me shove in more doubts, perhaps then you'll see.
Fondness.
Cherry coke.
Learn to be
to be hale and hearty
and love with only what you know when you hold me.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 7:25 PM UTC
existing minimally can be such fun, for
oblivion wraps its fine fingers
delicately around my neck
in flirtation, and I see red and think
its love and war.
I like myself better when I exist
on precipices, hanging onto something
untouchable and trying to be
a little less star-crossed at another
tragedy, for I'm a poet
and not a hero.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
Damp hands on sticky skin
With red clover marks shaped like hand prints on pale flesh
Translucent moans with interspersed sighs that
Fill silence like fog
Looks shared like the end of the world is near
Mass extinction of the senses as wind picks up
And then drops us over precipices
5 miles high
Breathless gasp of excitement
Before hitting the grass soft ground
Falling asleep to the sounds of waves
Hitting ribcages
Air moving out of
Lungs and throats
Warm sunny thoughts burned through eyelids
Blissful sleepy heads nestled into back seats
Of cars
Unnoticed
Thank God
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
I hold hands with my boyfriend
As we walk - no - dance
Down the tiled halls of the purgatory called high school
But I'm not listening to his voice,
Not thinking of him,
Not his smile,
Not his eyes,
Not his hands skimming my skin,
Not even kneeling on his bedroom floor,
Being his ***** somehow
Reveling
In tongue and *** and moaning,
His hand on the back of my head.
I think not of his **** or
Anything it stands for - no - my fancies
Wander over the girl next to me,
My lust dripping like honey over her
Slender shoulders,
Collarbones,
Flowing over the gentle swell of her *******
Around her supple waist,
Smooth hips and perfect *** unknowingly enticing me,
Seduction even more potent for being
My own secret knowledge.
My heart tumbles over dark precipices,
Falling from one side to another
Men - no - women - no - men - no - women
Women - no - men - no - women - no - men
An eternity of labyrinthine puzzles,
Guilty glances and
Late-night imaginings in shameful ecstasy
Before an answer settles like a
Stone that stirs up a muddy pool before clearing into crystal.
Both.
Not men - no - women,
But men - and - women.
And I will stand proud,
My dress and her skirt swishing softly as we walk,
My hand and his hand, together, as we talk.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
I have loved you longer than time
Walked with you before I had legs
And told you many times
Without the mouth to speak
Or the air to breathe
I have loved you longer than space
Collected your dust before the stars
And felt you many times
Without the hands to hold
Or the fingers to touch
I loved you in the ocean
And swam between your knees
I loved you in the sky
In your kiss of gentle breeze
You knew my face
Before your eyes could see
You felt me
Before skin
I have loved you before mountains
And before rivers carved the rock
I loved your canyons
Your precipices
Your crevices
When there was no earth and no sun
I have loved you
Before I knew what love was
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC