"precipitate" poems
The still explosions on the rocks,
the lichens, grow
by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.
They have arranged
to meet the rings around the moon, although
within our memories they have not changed.
And since the heavens will attend
as long on us,
you've been, dear friend,
precipitate and pragmatical;
and look what happens. For Time is
nothing if not amenable.
The shooting stars in your black hair
in bright formation
are flocking where,
so straight, so soon?
--Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin,
battered and shiny like the moon.
4.2k
The final breath is entreated by the breaths of wind,
the sky returns again as the stormy clouds depart.
Droplets of water, from seas all over Earth
Puddles of mud which use to be dirt.
Centuries of creation all about,
Weep as fast as the swimming trout.
The morning birth of the turtle doves,
peaceful and sad to see the dark night.
The atmosphere of peace in might,
As it pecks its way out of shell.
Beneath the bone of its mother,
She nurtures without a bother.
The evening loss of dogs of war.
At last the threat returns,
****** turned out of sores.
Teacher sick of burns.
Fire of skies tormenting,
Precipitate of dirt fomenting.
The freedom of the snake is not so seditious,
It feeds on the nest of the turtle dove.
Protect O mother-bird your love,
Jettison the hatred deep inside,
And **** the snake with severely brutal guile.
The final wind is shakened by the quakes of ground.
Hurt is one dove but there is three.
Enough to go around,
Eaten as food by thee.
Hurt I'm, Hurt I be, nature you sicken me.
Nature you sicken me.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
XXV
A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne
From year to year until I saw thy face,
And sorrow after sorrow took the place
Of all those natural joys as lightly worn
As the stringed pearls, each lifted in its turn
By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes apace
Were changed to long despairs, till God’s own grace
Could scarcely lift above the world forlorn
My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid me bring
And let it drop adown thy calmly great
Deep being! Fast it sinketh, as a thing
Which its own nature doth precipitate,
While thine doth close above it, mediating
Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate.
3.1k
I find it interesting,
The way we mold ourselves to the given situation
Different faces means new spaces
to fill liquid in, intoxicate, and ultimately change them.
So we need our weapons clasped in our grip
catch a bad intention, make sure they're the ones who slip...
No! We've been doing this all wrong.
Keeping the walls up inhibits growth to be strong
Even if it takes, "far, too long."
Inevitably we exclaim pitches that reside in the same song.
The color-changing, tree-walkers are said to blend into their environment.
This is actually not true.
They change based on light intensity, temperature, and mood.
The personality-changing, free-walkers change based,
On the type of reaction they want to get out of you.
After all you could be the ***** to hold together the whole scheme
Caught in a feverish nightmare, when it seemed to be a sweet dream
Solitary work is needed, now, to avoid a potential sting
And so I take the time to rhyme this,
Evaluating the nature of everything.
The mouth can be, but the eyes are not untruthful
They precipitate pictures, from the scary to the downright beautiful
Look deep within yourself, and see your own array of colors.
We may be blind to the importance of some priorities, but I feel we're all lovers.
"Hurt people hurt people," In my life it's a fact.
But remember you can only be responsible for how you act.
No offense or defensive tactics,
Throw the whole playbook out.
Conducting this vessel requires much practice,
Reflect needs of warmth for the seeds to sprout
Make sure you don't love someone, just for what they can give to you.
Highlight their radiance, for making you feel the way you do
The cycle, is only as vicious as one portrays it
The choice is ours, and I choose to change it.
Right here,
right now
Breathe in,
Feel the oxygen go down
Hold it,
For a moment
Every exhale reminds us,
That life's color is golden.
So fold up the clothes,
And walk out the door.
So many illuminated pigmentations to see,
~Everybody's a new world to explore~
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
Hearing fogged drops of rain
Precipitate violence in the Amazon,
Against the placid Leaves;
Left disheveled the unfiltered forest.
Dampness divorced from its thin vapor blur
Plummeting memoirs retold, the cradled
Past returns its own, splintered light
Edging the threshold of infinitude,
Axiomatic slippage each fell cold.
Fallen moisture recovered,
Once nourished the ancients;
Correspondingly, we align.
Lineal descendants,
Tides of March,
Sibilant waters flow through us.
Hoary myths, now hallowed imminent.
Ponderous, our torn skies cleft, clouds suffused in grey─
The emergent pour, casts a montage of
Freighted silence, implicit tapestries
Sewn seamless; our kindred froth ashore.
Pedigreed continuum bound in common plight,
Unseen flood of halcyon
Dust and flesh coalesce beneath the torrent;
Genetic lines merge ─ intersection of
Time and eternity.
From the same water we drink.
Lineal descendants,
Tides of March,
Sibilant waters flow through us.
©2012 W.S. Warner
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 1:54 AM UTC
*My acute dementia
Seems to precipitate the need for immediate euthanasia
A hurried departure
Through the aperture
Deep set in the hollowness of time
Because essentially life’s been a lackluster mime
Imbibing flawlessly flawed ideas
That inform my capricious
Nature to various stimuli
It’s a life story based on a true lie
Frivolities interspersed with grave concerns
The myriad adjourns
Futile attempts at mitigating
A self-imposed galling.*
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
In the troposphere of your life are the ready clouds to precipitate
The clouds which are for days condensed of your acts
The acts of your kindness, selflessness, dedication and the lot given into other lives
And on the day of memory - a day worth celebrating
Let our wishes be the steams that melts those beautiful clouds
Let the rain soak your soul wet with joy
A joy that really make the day special
Special enough to preserve you even as you are to us forever.
Jan 20, 2021
Jan 20, 2021 at 5:41 AM UTC
You and I need to Tom Cruise together
Because I only know A Few Good Men
And you're the Top Gun
And I am a little self conscious about
how much I enjoy the first half of Cocktails
Because this kind of love can be Risky Business
When I'm with you I don't want to see the Edge of Tomorrow
Nor do I feel like I'm one of The Outsiders anymore
We should get really weird
and try some Eyes Wide Shut ****
But I'd settle for a Jack or a Reacher from you anytime
But how do I precipitate our connection, Rain Man?
It just seems like Mission: Impossible.
I stare vacantly into the Vanilla Sky
As these Days of Thunder last too long
Without you
The difference is Knight and Day
For in your Endless Love
I was merely Collateral
Now passively watch as I fall into Oblivion
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 1:03 AM UTC
No. I write against.
(Aihmeanlike, against it.)
No, against it.
Like this.
[The point is pressing
A dark circle down down down.]
So (Djiuknowhatuhmean?)
I clash on this. After doing that
All day, on air! With conscious
Breath, (which is just force myself
Breath!) out of the glued muck
Moss in my sere bellum. My
Me do lah. Oblong god. Duh.
How long, these fractured
seams of seemlessness around?
In the meantime, here’s
some words, an image of a
Stream, and I’ll say: “Like a dead
Man(’s passing.)” Look at it.
And you thought infinity
Could be brushed off like a fly!
Wring your wet sloppy self!
Undried, then sundried!
Well. Now, you are one-eyed.
But what about that cry
Of true voice swishing lost
And found in the growing
Concrescent infundibular
Abyss?
Oh, that might be the Sublime
Sadness! (That one mentioned
once.) Keeping the Eternal
Walker out in the dwindling
Afternoons, closer than tears
To littered ponds of cold light.
Will he pull out the solidified
Spirit, or precipitate his freedom
As indistinguishable from the
Mystery? Oh. Please. Then the
Self would be (the question).
And there. Would be. No.
Need for the asked king.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:58 PM UTC
The day was good,
the sun shining, a breeze
winding around the pines.
Two mockingbirds
were playing
guess me.
Cumuli loitered
above ground shadows
with cats jumping
from one to the other
in a game that only
they understood.
I felt the stirring of precipitate
motion on my cheek as a shadow
passed by whispersing the words
of an old song by Townes
about going down to see Kathleen.
I never meant for it to rain.
r ~ 5/7/14
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
A forward rush by the lamp in the gloom,
And we clasped, and almost kissed;
But she was not the woman whom
I had promised to meet in the thawing brume
On that harbour-bridge; nor was I he of her tryst.
So loosening from me swift she said:
“O why, why feign to be
The one I had meant—to whom I have sped
To fly with, being so sorrily wed,”
’Twas thus and thus that she upbraided me.
My assignation had struck upon
Some others’ like it, I found.
And her lover rose on the night anon;
And then her husband entered on
The lamplit, snowflaked, sloppiness around.
“Take her and welcome, man!” he cried:
“I wash my hands of her.
I’ll find me twice as good a bride!”
—All this to me, whom he had eyed,
Plainly, as his wife’s planned deliverer.
And next the lover: “Little I knew,
Madam, you had a third!
Kissing here in my very view!”
—Husband and lover then withdrew.
I let them; and I told them not they erred.
Why not? Well, there faced she and I—
Two strangers who’d kissed, or near,
Chancewise. To see stand weeping by
A woman once embraced, will try
The tension of a man the most austere.
So it began; and I was young,
She pretty, by the lamp,
As flakes came waltzing down among
The waves of her clinging hair, that hung
Heavily on her temples, dark and damp.
And there alone still stood we two;
She once cast off for me,
Or so it seemed: while night ondrew,
Forcing a parley what should do
We twain hearts caught in one catastrophe.
In stranded souls a common strait
Wakes latencies unknown,
Whose impulse may precipitate
A life-long leap. The hour was late,
And there was the Jersey boat with its funnel agroan.
“Is wary walking worth much pother?”
It grunted, as still it stayed.
“One pairing is as good as another
Where is all venture! Take each other,
And scrap the oaths that you have aforetime made.”
—Of the four involved there walks but one
On earth at this late day.
And what of the chapter so begun?
In that odd complex what was done?
Well; happiness comes in full to none:
Let peace lie on lulled lips: I will not say.
1.5k
Tired
Brain spits words in fits and starts
The internal running commentary misfiring badly
Ideas stuck in bottlenecks
Traffic backed up and down the on-ramps
Leading off the congested thoughtways
Tired
Stormwater overflow pours out of blocked drains
Sidling up the gutters of fallen leaves
And other assorted detritus of modern existence
Spewing out over footpaths and under cars
And over the tops of the boots of downtrodden dawn treaders
Tired
Mountain pass impassable under it’s mercurial precipitate mask
Features only glimpsed in snatches
Like looking through a white picket fence while running
Thought trees bunching up around the middle
Warping under the sun and the scrutiny of others
Tired
Collapsing under the weight of the wave function
Subatomic particles currently in a state of nonexistence
Abandoned altogether by the Higgs, thoughts vibrate and dissipate
In extraordinary frequency and noise
Drowned out by the audible hum of the big bang
Tired
As if running a marathon in treacle
Start with a whimper then dribble to a halt
Running barefoot on salt flats
Or over pillows in stilettos
More time spent on face than feet
Tired
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more
The court jester prances for the Big Queen *****
And her merry King of Fools with his band of merry drunkards
Quickly losing the point of it all
As words start tumbling down in random order
Staccato signal messages like binary or Morse code
Information overload threatens to upend the boatload
Like the military dumping refugees into the harbour
Buckle up armour and wait for the onslaught
Of somnatic visions, twisted psychedelic impressions
Land mine concussions in the fevered dreams of veterans
Who witnessed limb torn from limb
In the name of something nobody remembers
Lose their tempers and start a war on home turf
Jungles petrified into concrete monstrosities that blot out the sun
From the flowers that feed in the cracks of the pavement
Everywhere bereavement and none shall take leave
From the cold, impassive logic of Death
Who comes knocking as you read this
Wired
No chance of sleep now
This is why one shouldn’t write poetry late at night
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
What’s the connection?—
a secret kept best between plug and socket.
Prophet man gone the old electric way,
[and durn’ an election year, no less]. Epigrammatic burps, and
occasional flatulence, of intellection,
I can’t help
but admire my own kindofbouquet, it ain’t easy—
when Christ was crucified like gas…
…There’s a million and more clichés I could toss around as mud and dirt;
Alas!,
I’d rather speak in terms of glass, [plateglass, stainedglass etc.,
germs and love, and guns and lovely lovely ca-sh,
today’s math; burnt and sad, self—Walking [my] small town streets, sure to stray faraway of dense windows,
and passerby's in ugly masks, with karaoke mouthpieces,
Ballads of boredom on precipitate tongues, Shoo!—away
and blow apart minstrel clouds.
No taxis, [ever]
just men and women in ordinary cars, pedestrians,
in obvious shoes,sporting unconscious denim,northeastern scowls
—fashionable scowls,
nuanced grays that distract from the spots of ill sun [hostage winter sun;]
scowls like Northeastern sky herself.
“I’ve surely lost my perspective”
[An empty phrase, really. A neat vaguery, I submit.]
I had a perspective, I still got it;
Though not much use it does me being how singular it is,
Optics and all, no shades of reflection,
Dense windows of thought, so dense,
—it’s now a microscope! Hell, all i can make out is a loose collection of colors,
A broken box of loose wires
and some kinda bang-up dodgy liberty, those frayed connections, too.
Nothing as tidy as plug and socket,
however,enough
to keep the lights on.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
Holding hands
Creates wet lands
More like sweat lands
Our palms become lakes
That precipitate
Oh great
He don't seem to mind
All that water dripping behind
Hope we don't cause a flood
That'd be dangerous
'FLASH FLOOD FROM SWEATY LOVE'
Maybe we should wear a glove
On the hand we share
So that there
Is no cause for dismay
YOU'RE OK!
WE WON"T DROWN YOU IN OUR SWEAT
OR BETTER YET
WE WON"T DROWN YOU AT ALL!
I laugh aloud
He asks, What was that about?
Oh great
What should I say?
Don't wanna offend my babe
But anyway
Can't lie to his face
So I say, Drowning people.
We suddenly stop
His blue eyes, pop
Right out of his face
But confusion's erased
As our sweaty hands, interlaced
Become free once again
I give a big grin
Kissing his chin
As we continue to make our way.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
you smell like the rain,
a combination of
sweet and saltiness,
pleasantly musky
etched to your jacket,
on a cold, wet day.
you feel like the rain,
as our palms held and met,
I can feel your sweat form.
hold them tighter,
my heart feels tighter.
I think I'm the rain,
if not then explain,
why do I precipitate
waterdrops from my eyes,
or listen to my heartbeat
pounding loudly like
cats and dogs,
and my sight is fogged
I'm waiting for the
someone sunnier than I do
where I can form
new love again.
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 10:32 AM UTC
Precipitate your thoughts to me;
Throw them down like wet clothes on a winter night.
My mind has been dry for quite some time,
Now only full of famine and sickness and plight.
I must sip from your imagination,
I must devour your brilliant mind.
------
We used to share in this ocean, you and me,
Until slowly,mine disappeared.
Thirsty scholars ravaged its shores,
Drinking all that was until there was none to be.
Maybe you could have saved me,
Maybe we could have dried up together.
If only you'd stayed with me
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
Poetry
f
a
l
l
s
on caffeine waterf
a
l
l
s
Smiles precipitate when the world smells of r
a
i
n
&
snows preferably.
W hen water shines crystalline
H ow lovely you look
E ngulfing me wholly
N ot never and forever always
Blue cries tomorrow into golden sunshine dreams
Slathered
beauty,
hello, graceful morning
thanks for crying
daytime into existence
Good morning to your tomorrow, tonight certainly shines clear in prolific murkiness of stars drowned in city light.
Time is crestfallen when the sun sets and mourns the silenced sun away in a drunken stupor of creativity.
The colours of delight glimmer in daybreak.
Smile at the icicles today, they taste like water.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 11:08 PM UTC
Sometimes I think to myself that maybe you are actually rain and you are evaporating in the heat of the moment, when I need you the most. Those lips have eased cool words from your tongue like runoff, and your mouth has carelessly dropped beaded kisses onto my throat like a foggy window pane, and you can see through me just as easily. And after you've stormed into my room and I've felt the thunder of your fingers shaking me to the core, you still linger on me like the smell after the first spring showers. And thoughts of you precipitate in the form of acid rain, inside my head like the ***** city downpours and my brain is just a brand new Corvet left in the parking lot. You have redeemed me, refreshed me, corroded me. I can see the lightning in your eyes every time your hands are hovering over me, and now all I can do is count the seconds until I hear the thunder.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
In a juncture of three years he traipsed ***** nilly close to christ
He was the treasurer and all the finances he kept safe in a pouch hanging on his chest
He was a chosen in the midst of the chosen twelve he existed
All the miracles the son of man performed he witnessed
In his gospel all he recorded
Yet deep within he charred with bitterness he was dissapointed with the long awaited messiah
Tears of hatred soaked his soul
Ironically he felt betrayed this is not the saviour he had longed for
His iron heart had yearned for revolution
All his selfish heart wanted was the surrender of the roman
His heart pumped blood saturated with patriotism and christ with his spiritual
Kingdom was a foe of the jews whose throat were parched with the thirst of a political king
He had been preordained and he had to fulfill the divine decree
It was a calling he couldn't overcome
Thats when the ministry of christ was done and together they sat to eat the last meal the lord dropped a hint about him
He sopped a bread in wine and urged him to hastily fulfill his mission as the other disciples sat there clueless
This was a golden chance for he knew by assuming the role of a traitor he will precipitate the action of messiah and induce him to manifest his miraculous powers
For he longed for this savior to perfom the miracle he had pergorme throughout judea
For thirty pieces of silver he betrayed his master Because of his greed he condemned an innocent man to be banished from the land of living to abyss
And when the son of man was condemned his sense of guilt stirred from a deep slumber
He became despondent at his repulse by the chief priest and elders he cast down the accursed payment into the santuary
The gnawing guilt took him to a tree and with a thread rope he terminated his life
He burst asunder and for hundred year the smell of his bowels lingered in the potters field of which the betrayal money bought
On the hill of skull the man on the cross breathed last and into hell he descended not only to settle scores with the lord of underwords lucifer but to free the soul of his follower from abyss
For it was written he had to die for salvation of humankind and his betrayer was the first to b redempted
The man called judas triggered a series of pretold happening
The man called judas fulfilled old centuries prophecy
The man called judas ensured redemption knocked in every sinners door
The man called judas jumpsttsarted the birth of christianity
The man called judas need a better slot in our history
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 7:37 AM UTC
Ere despondent darkness reigns unchecked
I bask with thee in dewy eventide
On earth our hearts content do intersect
As radiant ribbons streak envermeiled skies
In friendship, woes and sorrows melt away
As winter's sullen snow doth yield spring's bloom
So long as in sweet concord we're arrayed
Day be not engulfed in Night's wide womb
But if, my friend, you soon precipitate
Into a past which, fraught with Discord's seeds
With haste would hope's effulgence dissipate
The joyous tides of life will fast recede
Your every word emblazoned I extol
Though loss to come weighs heavy on my soul
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 9:36 PM UTC
Waterfalls precipitate upon cinnamon film
Meshing with legions of tales
Forth sways a vibe only I can feel
Waterfalls precipitate upon cinnamon film
As to the mountains I flee to heal
A sign I was unwell
Waterfalls precipitate upon cinnamon film
Meshing with legions of tales
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
Bricks set in shame
and how those clouds danced above,
the precipitate descends.
The buildings feign perspiration.
The streets, oiled in appearance,
look at her with glib nuance,
slim smiles that still haunt her.
Home, such as a dead cave,
bringing with it lethargy,
tethered to the curtains;
hiding, spying, deceiving,
for the city, holds her shock.
Wet on the glass, eyes meet ghost,
sweating monoliths of the avenue,
they never answer to her tears.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
You see the fruits upon the trees
But nothing of the seeds
The painful rise above the ground
The strangling of the weeds
You gaze out upon the lazy lakes
And hear not the rushing noise
That river water and gravel makes
Feeding it from far away
You simply love the summer rain
But know not of the way
The tears of gods precipitate
Someplace above the gray
You look in wonder at glacial ice
Not knowing how all the time
It shudders and crumbles and it dies
From the burden of itself
I am the earth; I quake and heave
You see mere pools, not reservoirs
Of seeping fury when I breathe
My violent anger from my floors
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
Funny how it is.
A bright light, morphing through the clouds
The soft touch of droplets, melting into shingles
The only time you're really able to look.
Wandering along the roads and banding together, they are everywhere at once!
a political movement--libertines, belligerent against the rule of continuous airs
The princely stream that does not love them
Raised into fists, falling to bombard a defenseless floor, the poor baby of collateral
In it there is hope for the cloud
the ground does not mind being wetted again
Halfway around the world the deserts are still empty and warm, where the sands of oceans taste wind
On islands the land is a pinprick between a cloudy sea, it is green and bleeding and drinks in the light
All the baby birds of earth look up into the raining sky, asking for?
And given no answers with godly warmth.
I dream to show you this world of mine-- the one all too unreal and divine
You are a moment of rain, rapidly becoming Ingrained within the concrete
Lost in the forever of this place
I am greedy and wanting to leave my mark, I invent hydrocarbons to build smarter oxygen drops
they one day become us
They always become us
I am an early storm, violent and unkempt-- I seek immediate retribution,
I ravage the lands
With no further to go, I will dissipate
Precipitate
And give the light space to show.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
Don't move.
The air is rich with magic.
The words that so recently dropped from the poet's lips
Now hold you transfixed, as if they were
The words to a spell of binding
Freezing you to your seat and reminding you
That the pen is still mightier than the sword.
You sit, unwilling to stir, because you know all too well
That the minute you move, you'll break the spell
And the shell constructed from the lines of verse
Will shatter like someone touched the magic with a curse
And the world will come rushing back in.
A single rustle is all it takes for the world to reawaken
And the spell to break. But as the mystic moment fades away,
You pray that some of the magic will stay
And cling to you like stray cobwebs,
Trailing the beauty of the words that were spoken
So that others might be touched by the magic that awoke
In the few moments you took to step away from the world.
But whether or not the magic leaves a trail for others,
It will not fail to nestle itself inside your head
And every night you spend tossing sleepless in bed
The words will be turning over and over--
They will dissociate and scramble and regenerate
Until at last they precipitate into a new brand of magic.
Then the day will come when you, too, will stand
In that sacred space before a crowd of eager young faces--
Or perhaps just sit and spend some time with a single friend--
And you will hold in your hand a paper
Filled with the dots, lines, and squiggles
That are the visual representation
Of this creation of yours, this poetic summation
Of the beauty that has invaded your soul
And forced its way out again.
As you draw your first breath, you begin weaving the net
That will set the stage for you to upset their status quo
And transport them to a place from which you know
They will return wanting more.
Then you will speak the words
And pass the magic on.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:09 AM UTC