"precipitations" poems
I love your curvaceous contours, whilst physiological precipitations calmly shoot their nectar across longitudinal and latitudinal expressions of ontology.
How seductive are your displayed features of blatant enticements.
I truly give thanks for your explicit revelations, where blatancy and discretion collide with dialectical icebergs.
So, my friend of uncertain deliberation, put it on the altar of sacrifice where botanical skies of elliptical infernos resound throughout the classical universe.
I love this revealing and scientific corridor of acknowledgement.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
The Gregorian calendar has evolved from insular Celtic languages, whilst the epitome of death is witnessed by desolate tree-tops of silent and haunted hills.
As we bask in the radiance of harsh winter precipitations, I acknowledge his birthplace in Ayrshire. We are asked to give credence to the important lyrics: Haste Ye Back.
The national party has pronounced Brosnachadh Bhruis, whilst partaking of the offal pudding at the address of the laird.
Our sectarian intercourses are ceremonial ejaculations in the bedlam of staunch affiliation.
I can feel the spirit of damp historical ancestry on this Presbyterian eloquence which surpasses Hogmanay by a mere 25 days.
One more thing: Don’t be a stranger.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
Pretty things
Like Kath kidston florals
And open fires and cheery wine
Harrowed souls are repaired by music
Minds grow hazy from *** smoking
Clean air that was dusted with magical sparkles
Now choked by perplexing precipitations…..
Atmosphere surrounded by regret
Whilst the act is still submerging from chaotic emotions
Remorseful tears do not appear until alone
Until the tide of the ocean reaches minds
When they are isolated from the world and all it brings
Nothing but sorrow consuming body and soul
Like a cantankerous person within person
Scratching from inside out
Until lyrics are sung to the world
Declarations of apologetic notions
‘Im sorry, I love you, Im sorry, I love you…’
Nothing else can be said.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 8:22 AM UTC
Little beads of precipitations runs on me
While I wait underneath the cherry tree
Mysterious mist surrounds the atmosphere
Pedestrians comes into sight and then disappear
Unfaithful hopes flows through my psyche
While I wait underneath the cherry tree
Is this the sound of footsteps that I hear?
Now the foggy hemisphere appears so clear
I discover you blushing and yet eyes filled with tears
And the poem I secretly drew for you between your fingers
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 11:12 AM UTC
Sitting in this warm house
I look out the window that keeps me safe inside
I look through to a snowy paradise
Man, it looks beautiful...
from in here at least
but the grass chokes beneath the suffocating snow
and the glittery ice on dead trees weighs the branches down.
From inside this season is a pleasant scene,
In reality, tragically beautiful.
Nature's remnants shrouded by frozen precipitations.
How can each single unique snowflake band together to push cars off of roads?
And seal doors shut?
Winter you are real,
A crazy gorgeous, yearly event
with the power to make us slow down,
or stay in.
Winter you are a force to be observed and not challenged.
Sometimes you freeze us,
but you always look spectacular.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
In the late hours of early morning,
Precipitations of the day before,
Lay there like caked makeup,
On a face waiting to be deplored.
The sun makes for a good shadow,
Blackening irises, making optimism crawl,
Then when the night arrives,
You see black spots on every wall.
Your soul develops a stutter,
Hiding away in the side of the moon,
Loneliness is not a disease,
It's a cure for a remorseful afternoon.
Down with every gulp of too sweet tea,
Every resentful thought is fighting to win,
Every second hand image
You see in the eyes of a foreign set of limbs.
You're yearning to wipe the world away,
Just to mask your green footsteps,
And when nobody's looking,
You'll bury all those versions of yourself that you've kept.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 2:20 PM UTC
The everlasting wisdom perpetually transforms. It narrates unknown,
Uttering the verses of its love in winds and snows.
It rains and calms from day to day,
It ceases only in the summertime;
For a halt
Is also gay in its own way.
It will urge precipitations,
Warn us,
Coax us to beat in flocks.
While it never leaves a mark
On the azure dome,
For the ceiling is the face,
It has traces on the boiling rock,
Ancient earth,
And on my holey socks.
The holy "wisdom" is
Merely the way perceived
By me.
Solely an imaginary bliss.
Though the mind elevates,
Sublimes it. After, states
That the chemical occasional coition,
Which is way up high,
Bears all the answers,
To my weird childish whys.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 1:28 AM UTC