"precludes" poems
not here, here, here
inside, outside, her head
bath tub, bubbles shaped
like balloons, rising
in the air,
cut open, she
precludes the secret nature
of her love,
he loved, her
every ballet she danced
pink fur, a butterfly moving,
on tips of toes,
tripping the light, en pointe
painted pale lips,
winged eyeliner, corset
silk, golden embellished,
Lacroix,
feathered tutu, romantic
Tchaikovsky's compositions,
faery tale ballets,
Swan Lake, Paris Opéra
Odette, a sorcerer's curse
falling to her fate, black
later, taxi rides home, kissing
moonlight, bedroom laughter,
KNOCK
not here, here, here
the bathroom door,
she kisses away,
her melancholy madness,
his voice; Laurier...
her soul, punctured
by her lover...
not here, here, here
© Sia Jane
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
my imagination scalds
with violating stains
of contemptuous familiarity
agonised shrieks
confront my mouth
with an unremitting combustibility
while a frustration like a volatile tornado
engulfs me with an hallucinated savagery
detonating unrelenting explosions
within my consciousness of perception
causing a hurricane of momentum
bringing such oddities to my mind
as such precludes their proper elucidation
yet a tempestuously implosive inner cosmos
is located a volcanic insurgence
the accelerative storm on which
the poem like Valkyries rides
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
I am curled upon myself in eleven
hidden dimensions predicted by Superstring Theory,
confident revealing my whereabouts
precludes guessing my velocity.
Paradox of uncertainty handed down by
Heisenberg, mental Mobius of mind,
tethers my strong nuclear force,
I am King of Quantum.
I vibrate in energetic strings
octaves below scale of Stradivarius,
seeking a unified framework
for the duality of space and time.
Like a black-hole event horizon,
where no thought escapes
this gravity of mind,
I ponder blinking out of existence.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
Life is a sacred journey.
No two are the same.
Respect for divergence
is paramount
to a holistic experience.
Life
is not about
status-quo
or
expectations,
t'is simply what's made thereof
Lyphe
is a sacred opportunity
not to be taken lightly
Our Bodies
are our umbilical vessels
which tether us
as mortals
to "Reality,"
which, in itself,
seems to me to be
a reduction of potentials
from chance
to actuality
such ephemeral eternety;
infinite limitations;
actualized potentials;
possible paths-
these are but some of
the koan-like attributes
which lead me to use
the rather ambiguous
and ambitious
term "sacred."
Truly,
it becomes
whatthefucksoever
One may well will
to create thereof.
Action is Manifestation,
yet Thought begets Action.
Therein lies the sacred gift of Life.
'T'is all too oft taken for granted.
Every living being
(i am convinced)
has an equally vivid depth of experience
and I find it more than somewhat offensive
that humans (with a lowercase H)
feel they are the penultimate organism.
All is One
in that existence, itself,
tethers us all
to everything
and probably even beyond,
and so
to be so
hubristic and arrogant
as to assume a hierarchy
so convieñantly crested by mere
**** Sapiens Sapiens*
seems to me to be
an anthrocentric and narcissistic projection
of that meddlesome ages-old archetype
of the "Ego,"
that is to say "God,"
whatthefuckever that means!
Find it in thyself
to be humble enough
to accept that each and every iota of "Creation"
is, by virtue of association, equally sacred; divine.
Heirarchy, thus, seems to be a manifestation of some desire for order; control; a yearning to alleviate some hypothetical insecurity as a result of being essentially "absolute, infinite" (vis-a-vis the domain of Consciousness) yet contained within a vessel that is mortal, and, thus, ephimeral.
The Ego doth so loathe it's own limitations:
too bad it's far too arrogant to realize that most of the limitations it experiences are illusions, allusions;
charades of an insatiable Consciousness
Hell-bent on experiencing something
it won't redily allow itself to experience!
What a Holy fuckton of
incredulous, ineffable, impalpable, inspirational **** that would be, eh?! (insert interrobang)
I am me (I think...)
as thou art thee;
so why can't that just be good enough?
Could it be?
What obstruction precludes such harmonious divergence?
I reckon 't'is but us;
and very little else, indeed!
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
Cosmic serpent
Flies in circles
Orbits earths
Visits vessels
Stings and wrestles
Prowls the plain
The desert arrangements
Faces fire no fear
Takes one look at the spider
Sees through the fire
Undresses the only envy
The necessity plenty
Of spiraling ascent
To meaning manifest
A plunge into the nest of the fortune cookie prophecies
Fate pulled from a hat
In the terraforming visions of the seven breasted harpy speech devours itself
The visioneer’s ouroboros precludes ovals of assimilation clinging tight to the exoteric
The vessel rejects the half digested
An ammonia laden upheaval
Dispelling folderol with blinding reverence
Inviting tragedy with nostalgic foresight
Wet nightmares
Logic abandons the visioneer ****** into the opposite of static
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
i have been introduced to a fragmented universe
blue and silver
amid temporal ruins
oxidized epochs extract from me
thought processes and aural distillations
of a catatonic rage, that discards all trivia
in its scrutiny of minds
in a chronological diversity of words and images
it is a kinetic fluency of gestures
in an ****** calligraphy of expansive
transferable threads of thought
it is the real and the imagined
one that precludes inquiry
which leaves me infused
with a compulsion of composed complications
in episodic inspired delirium
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
I am afflicted with a 24/7 romantic nature (olp)
genetic or prophetic, the consciousness seeks out
the tiny things, the soft stroking, the single flower,
the necklace iridescent, a new love poem,
(if such were possible!)
the overflowing heart dam is spilling over in relief,
now, merely tolerable fulsome, we go about the day
ever alert for the next new way to, say it again
but differently, a happily exhausting task, this 24/7
employment contract that grants no vacation days,
so if your eyes should foresee my eyes a-glistening,
my lips moving silently recording a new conceptualization,
do not disturb
if you please, for this contract offers
no excuses, especially for
Acts of Nature!
…………
“Unpredictable and verifiable acts of nature (such as catastrophic fire, flood, tornado, earthquake, or other acts of nature of similar intensity) or other unpredictable and verifiable circumstances beyond the control of the unit member which precludes (or includes!) the unit member from reporting to duty.”
Jun 26, 2023
Jun 26, 2023 at 9:36 AM UTC
A stone terrain waits
A landscape deserted
Devoid of real
Or imagined explorations
For it turns inward
At a tangent that
Precludes inquiry
It has an articulation
Of slow deliberate movements
Where particularized
Geology has painted it
Cut off and disconnected
By an estrangement of creation
Other existences only serve
To magnify its sense of isolation
Its blank uncaring non-geometric
Dimensions of observable
Unquantifiable location is obscure
And unrealised
Producing an immediate
Initiated sensory experience
Of unreleased silent appraisal
But why does it wait?
What for
Does it anticipate or foresee
Some expected prediction
Of apocalyptic presentiment
Is it recalling color?
Or is it experiencing
The present like floating in a dream
Alas there is no clue
To its tilted yet frozen expectancy
A stone terrain waits
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
“Inasmuch as you did it to one
of the least of these my brethren,
You did it to me,” proclaimed the Master.
Inasmuch as the body is one
Tuning out the least among us
Is an act of self sabotage.
The mystery of many members in one body
Precludes apathy- abominable ambivalence toward the elect.
The epidemic of savage inequalities in the church
is a glaring act of self-sabotage.
To truly thrive is to transcend temporal tendencies–
it’s measured in connection with the brethren.
To prosper alone is alien to the gospel.
In such a mundane state, shiftiness and perfidy abound.
In an age of narcissism where tokenism thrives,
The redeemed spin out of balance
by taking their cue from the world.
By minding the least of these,
and by shunning an unholy, self-absorbed trend,
We are spared the cataclysm foretold.
There’s comfort in the unity of the faithful
That other state is pure self-sabotage,
added to the drudgery of life.
Dec 10, 2020
Dec 10, 2020 at 10:02 PM UTC
To the extant,
That love is an expression,
Of familia any over time,
My excess to infinity time lines
Precludes in excessive of a time line...
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
Packet of Time
T'is the custom of some,
To do their self-sums,
Periodically,
A self-review of
What is seen
When standing before the
Mirror that cannot lie.
Some like Xmas, while others
Count their turkey feathers
on January first.
Others numerical ***** on
The fifteenth of April,
As required by the IRS.
Others habit bound,
Do a spring cleaning,
Or an annualized medical checkup.
Then there are the enviable few,
Who never do
Such an exercise,
For being sure of one's rightness
Precludes the necessity of having their
**** probed, their status, already known.
As I lie in bed at four am,
Waking after a four hour packet of rest,
Began to wonder, what is the proper period
That a person should time themselves out,
Take a look back, do a "get back Jack,"
To find where they not once belonged,
But where they should set the course heading.
Here is where
This poem gets
Deadly
Serious.
One minute please!
One on, one off.
Did you just spend the minute prior,
Setting your brain on fire,
Scrub away the false pretenses,
Or waste 60 of them on mindless telly?
Day dream, plan and scheme,
Outline the plan, man,
Or curse your fate
The one you, Nate,
Created.
Seems quite expensive,
Spending half a life
Thinking how to
Spend the other half.
But a **** worthwhile,
Notion,
likely to reduce
Self- promotion.
For after but a few such minutes,
You will likely conclude,
Better to think of others,
Than yourself.
Then you truly begin,
The voyage human.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
It's sort of nice when we can't put names on things
because it precludes the shitstorm that is invoked
by using language
with it's presuppositions
and predispositions.
Objectivity is scarce in a world of memories.
The truest things are anomalous.
Anonymous; without names:
by their very nature,
Ineffable. Paradoxical.
Wonderful.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
If I'm wrong, I die.
I cease to exist.
But I know what it's like not to exist.
Or at least I can imagine.
I didn't exist before I did.
For billions of years.
And Mark Twain was right.
It didn't bother me in the slightest.
But I'll give it a chance.
I will read Awake!
And I'll visit the Hall.
And I'll use your name for God.
Jehovah.
But what if you're wrong?
You feel joy, love, peace.
Meaning, purpose, certainty.
Those things elude me.
But what else?
Fear? Guilt? Isolation?
A hatred that you call pity?
Those things are beyond my reach.
An education cut short?
A marriage too long?
"Don't talk to her.
It's for her own good."
What if it's not?
There will always be people trying to hurt you.
It's easier when they have God on their side.
"Two eyes saw this, but two others did not.
I'll take my reward now.
Did I mention I'm good with kids?"
What if you're wrong?
Sure, your Tower is tall.
It dwarfs my cathedral.
And it does.
I stand in awe.
Your Tower is tall.
It Watches all things.
And it does.
But is it tall enough to see Clearwater?
You know, Celebrity Centers and personality tests.
Cruise and Travolta.
Your names are different: Michael Jackson and Prince.
But the songbook is the same.
Leadership is accountable to no one.
Dissent is a **** that must be eliminated.
The world is out to get you.
And critical thinking is a trap.
Families are vital (until they aren't).
Our authority will not be questioned.
We make no mistakes.
But we do become more perfect over time.
"But it's not 'disconnection,' it's disfellowship.
And they're not 'suppressives,' they're apostates.
And we live in no bubble.
But we'd rather not debate you."
"Besides, they're new.
They're small and they're few.
They have strange beliefs.
That's what matters, right?"
But it's not.
It's not what matters.
And it's not in my nature to hurt people.
I can **** when it's justified.
But I don't know that this is justified.
And consider the life of a poor, worldly soul.
Fear is no friend.
Guilt is a memory.
(Guilt for things that warrant no guilt.)
We see the world as it is.
Science is no threat.
Solitude is a choice, not a lesson.
Education is full.
Abuse is reported.
Families talk.
We are slaves to no Slave.
Of course these things are foreign to you.
Your book precludes them.
And your book is infallible.
But so are all the others.
So thank you for visiting, but I'm hedging my bets.
I wish you the best, but I'd rather take death.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 4:44 PM UTC
My loyalties ought to be elsewhere
Not self-respect.
Twenty-ought years
Of listening, performing
Commands in my ears
Atop the most prominent point
Of a circle.
Do I speak up and proclaim my wants,
As they have, as they do
Whose execution is one’s normative due?
Do I risk monstrosity
That grotesque
Of passivity turned active?
O, people hate the biting mirror.
Architecture worn and rubble
Precludes the fate of so headstrong nations:
A people, all leaders,
Would swallow and spite
Litter the flowers with bones
And plight.
Great structures built with power
Are levied ‘gainst the weak
For plurality would cancel it out;
It’s not imperative
Bodies of power to push for us all,
The lion’s share.
It’s more an empty cadence, mere practice
To tickle emotions
And prove, ultimately, the infallibility
Of tenets of strength and structure:
The passive are submissive
As they should.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
The primary obstacles preventing One from following One's Heart
seem to be the incalculable ******** excuses in One's head
ultimately serving to justify a lack of proper effort-
to justify stagnation, complacency, and laziness.
Overcome them or be overcome by them.
You shall never know if you never try.
One who doesn't try
precludes any chance of future success.
One who doesn't care
is unworthy of what success may otherwise be actualized.
Take the incentive to cultivate the Mind.
Have the courage to follow your Heart.
Have the Heart to help others do the same.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC
So much to process.
Process, process, process,
Process, process, process,
Process, process, process,
Until sleep switches off my endless conveyor belt of over-analyzation.
Tonight I'll precisely pick apart things that have no business being harnessed
Until perfect rest precludes my process-a-palooza.
**** this brain.
And **** the thoughts that float through it, wispy, adrift.
Aimless, with no hope of reaching the other side, the action side.
I know exactly what's going to happen.
And yet, still, I will repeat this process.
The definition of insanity comes to mind.
Am I insane?
Those who do what they've always done will get what they've always gotten.
So some frustration is coming down the pipeline, undoubtedly.
But here I am.
Keeping myself awake while my little mind powers through minutes and seconds and hours of data
Burning itself out completely
And yet accomplishing nothing.
Moral of the story?
To overthink is to run a car for hours with no one driving it,
To study vigorously and then not take the test,
To hedge your bets,
To run on a treadmill,
To fight an uphill battle,
To enter into a no-win scenario on purpose.
To analyze too much is to work the muscles of your sanity to the point of tearing. **** it, **** it all. This crucible of introspection, I hate it.
It's all thinking, and no doing.
What kind of world would we have built on thought? Deceptive, static and imprisoned thought, in and of itself?
The procession marches on through the early morning hours,
Until sleep rescues me from this malicious rabble of thoughts
I cringe at their noise, I grow weak from the weight of such an immense amount of perception
My mind shifts and sifts through it all
Until I finally lose consciousness.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
I’ve entered the Inner Passage
Thought of as the safe route to Alaska
Protected by friendly coves and sheltered bays
Shields voyagers from the uncertainties
Of the tectonics of a heaving Pacific
The Inner Passage
A compass point of
Jack London’s imagination
Spinning fantastic adventure yarns
of audacious Sea Wolf sailors
And rugged fortune seekers
Answering the call of the wild
The Inner Passage
Fraught with hidden shoals
And submerged rocky promontories
Lay just below the water line
Jutting on the steep banks
Of a glaciated mountain lined sea
The Inner Passage
Precludes an easy escape
To the boundless freedom
Of the open seas
One cannot sail away
One must firmly
grab the wheel
Guide the rudder
map the terra firma
Of a misconstructed life
The hazards and mishaps
Buried in the unconscious sands of the mind
interred to protect the heart
From the walking ghosts
Springing to life
Emboldening
The daily aches of living
The Inner Passage
Seemingly the safe route
Yet the hidden shoals
The ship wrecks
crews of stranded castaways
Call out for recovery, resurrection,
Watchfulness and recognition
Careful navigation is required
To salvage the wreckage
Rescue the unfortunate victims
Of the disasters and gales
I engendered along
my life's journey
The Inner Passage
A promise of rebirth
Reconstitution, recovery
“Can a man enter the womb again?”
The Gospel writer asks.
This inner passage may yet
Deliver me to a reinvigorated life
Let me uncover
What lies deep
In my tell tale heart
Let me tame
the mighty beasts of the sea
That rule the fathomless waters
Of my tumultuous emotions
May Thy Will and a better course
Heal my restive soul
My I finally free
my grounded vessel
From the false sanctuary
Offered by shallow shoals
Freeing me to dive deep
Into the hidden reefs
Of my heart and mind
May this pilgrim make good progress
May I accept life on life's terms
May I practice a well considered
engaged stewardship
May I never arrive at a staid place
And become wholesomely satisfied
with a serene state of being
The Inner Passage
Indeed a difficult voyage
Is underway
a new course mapped
I will pass through
The dark ranges where the
Commanding heights of
Fear, anger, resent and regret
Become nothing more
Then the precipitous peaks
Of a harmless silhouette
Fading away into the mist
Of yesterday's twilight
The Inner Passage
Aboard the Kennicott
Near Ketchikan, AK
8.22.19
jbm
Michael Nyman
The Piano
Aug 22, 2023
Aug 22, 2023 at 4:50 PM UTC
Silver black explosion
and deep red introspection
brought on by blinding orange.
Shading myself intentionally,
to be exposed to the nightness'
exquisite purple pyre.
She's come and gone on
however the colors go by;
divine glimpses of violet fury
In dark blue sadness
and opal melancholy
pass endless lightless days.
The shadowed past, forever dark
precludes the waking dawn.
Deadly near, a desire to pass on.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
there have been times
in my life
when thoughts became
active strife
not knowing when
enough is enough
carrying on
huff and puff
as I start
to reflect a bit
seems to me
I was a ****
as I have aged
a new person arose
replacing one
with one who knows
The difference between
some souls it seems
is greatly reduced
when kindness precludes
an understanding ear
o'er a glass of dark beer
can bring out a smile
that might last awhile
so before you insult
consider the drought
of humanity within your soul
always reach out
even in doubt
for the life you will save
will be yours
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
It is within the province of the personality where freedom finds its voice; but never assume that the freedom exhibited by someone else precludes their capacity for kindness and a gentle spirit; for what is foreign to you does not marginalize their humanity.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
A portent of the intricate was looming in the sky
With its fiery red eyes fixed upon its prey
Already down the cliff, I wondered if there was a way back
There were those evil birds stooping towards me
Thought they'd **** me at once
But they chose to torment till the very existence of the soul is crippled and crumbled
The death still precludes for the free fall had some rising hopes
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Be not discouraged by discomfort:
endure some now if it precludes any later.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
I am often asked, as the inn goes quiet
Where is the dignity in a life anchored
By the brothel, the public house’s riot.
I note—politely—the base of the tankard
Provides a grand, if somewhat modulated,
Viewing of the so-called unexamined life,
A happy one not discombobulated
By the constant nattering of priest or wife.
It’s not—far from it!—that my heart is not stirred
By valiant men performing their valiant deeds,
But the urge to take up arms remains deterred
By the image of a knight face down in weeds,
And my heart’s overruled by the misgiving
That the stuff of legend precludes the living.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC