"profundities" poems
Charley Bob is a "walker".
He walks the roads and avenues where I live.
He doesn't appear to have a job, he just walks.....every day.
He use to walk with his zipper down
and with flacid ***** in hand proudly display himself to all who drove by,
but that embarrassed many
and they made him put his security blanket away.
Now he just grabs his crotch like the gangstas downtown.
Sorry Charley.
Every town has a "walker",
some have several.
You've seen them.
They walk the streets, lost in their own little worlds.
They look the same as they did 20 years ago.
There's the lady with nary a tooth in her head,
her ankle length skirt and her Pentecostal hairdo (PHD).
They say for 50 bucks she'll let you know why she has no teeth.
She's a "working girl walker", but she is still a "walker".
Once I was walking downtown,
and as I passed her she angrily mumbled something to me, all lips and gums,
"Muver Phucker", she said.
I don't even know her,
but she was as angry with me as if we were the best of friends.
Some "walkers" talk to themselves,
some answer themselves,
some stop and turn and scream out profundities to no-one,
or someone,
it's a matter of perspective.
It's like some shrink somewhere
gave them a prescription for their mental disorder,
walk 20 miles and see me in the morning.
Charley Bob is the best though.
I swear you can see him at 10am,
and by 5 he is still
slowly
making his way
back
from where
he went to.
I wonder what makes him turn and go home.
Charley Bob is a "walker".
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
Sometimes I like to wonder,
does my pen move
the same way as yours?
Does it
dance?
Does it
sing?
Does it
impel a grateful piece
of paper to smile,
and laugh out
tiny bubbles of its dream
to be admired in the Louvre?
Or does the paper bleed
angry droplets of deep-coloured
ink-blood from its ink-heart
from its ink-soul; or does it cry
little black tears
from its dark fountains of literature?
Does the paper feel
all of these things
as you sketch your last
line
or as I write my last
word?
What then, when every one of your pictures
makes words in the thousands?
How many more chunks of eternity
can you paint versus my poetry?
Yet you say I understand you.
Sometimes what you paint
flickers like in the movies,
and every frame
makes me wonder
if the way my pen moves
is just something someone animated
in her free time instead of studying.
Maybe then it wouldn't be too much
to say that sometimes
you sketch me into life.
Maybe then, this is why, sometimes
you say I understand you.
Even if I can barely hear your oxygen
over the noise of glittering pixels
that often disappoint us when we seek
more
than these strange profundities online,
where emotion is a commodity
and not ink... not paper...
It doesn't matter.
Because maybe my pen
was sketched by you.
And maybe
your poetry, your art
Dances. Sings. Smiles.
Laughs. Bleeds. Cries.
Breathes.
So you can as well.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
Peerless profundities profusely proffered,
Produce prolapse and propensities pro-fluent,
Presumption presides, practitioners pilfer,
Perception perfunctory, penance penurious.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 11:10 PM UTC
My Beloved speaks profundities
and pays dues not His own—
while I, the sober fool,
stumble falsely drunk.
Though His wine warms my heart
and sweetly stains my lips,
it is not potent in my veins—
I am not subject to it's dance.
I drink too little, too less
for the drunkard I claim to be.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
Once upon a century
I typed in microsoft
Testing metaphors
For new profundities
Much like the caveman did
Many centuries past
I strived to find a way
To scribble on a wall
Some moving exposition
In Century Twenty- One
I hammered mine on bond
With Brother script
To say something cool
That Shakespeare
Or his ghostwriters
Never put to pen
And finally
Wrapped it up
Did my wall
And left my card
Eat your heart out
O William the Bard
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 9:43 AM UTC
I have lived on this site for many years now, breathing poetry in, breathing poetry out; infusing the wonderful blend of thoughts and ideas, of profundities, comic absurdities, the peace of serenity, achieved in few words, poignant, vast, with my own, my own thoughts, loves, fears, conceptions of beauty, and my reality of what is ugly, and what is not. You know me only as a poet, an identity obscured by intent, lost, one among millions, in the vast web of energy that connects us, empowers us, gives us the tools to do anything, and at the same time, all too often, takes away the will to do anything at all, to emerge from its deep, narrow pool, and observe the endless ocean that is life, that surrounds us, unheeded, we on our little islands, lost in the trap of our own design. I am a poet, one who wishes only to express, and to feel, to influence others, to help them on their way, and be aided in turn, when the world seems darkest, and the temptation of the trap seems sure, the way of quick release. I am a poet, and that is all I am, and all, deep down, that I ever shall be; and I am content. For to be a poet, one who is at the core of his being connected to an other, whether that other be nature, a person, humanity, or even the depths of ones inner self, and the secrets contained therein; or a hundred thousand more, one is connected. And that, whether tragic or joyous, comic, or serene, is the greatest gift one can hold, and although it may be gained in later life, never will those who have gained it thus experience the depth of feeling as those who were at birth endowed with it, that most heavenly of gifts. I am a poet, as are you. Let us make something wonderful, together, and in time, perhaps, we may heal the world of its sorrows, and bring joy, where before there was despair, and light, where once there was darkness.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
Take me away,
words.
Show me a place where people are more than just what other people have heard.
Where the sound of their souls echo off the ideas that make up their essence;
"Life is a matter of a miracle that is collected over time by moments,
flabbergasted to be in each other's presence."*
Make me believe it,
but do it quickly,
because if I hear this flawed character's views on what's Wrong and Right one more time,
I think I might lose it.
Blow my mind,
words.
Cure this disease that's become a curse.
Reveal my muse once again in all her awe-inspiring glory.
Tell me a tale.
Share your story.
An idealized version of The Best and The Worst.
Truth may be stranger than fiction,
but real life is starting to feel rehearsed.
Let me get lost between your words,
so that I may believe in the depths of my dreams;
They've such absurd dynamics,
with hints of sibylline profundities.
Take me away again,
words,
but please do it quickly.
My faith is starting to wane,
and I've got work in the morning.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 3:04 AM UTC
*Say, a star has the eyes
To gaze at you, holding out its telescope,
And decide to leave its post to be with you,
Or on second thought, just to get a better angle
Of your laugh-smile-wink impeccable,
Would it still be foolish
To say, with all profundities,
That you, indeed, are beautiful?
What does it matter, tonight
The cicadas sing of hyperboles.
There's a certain cold, sometimes,
In the wind, as in a heart.
The warmth is in the blankets there
On my bedroom, something
That your sweater will never know.
Friendship is basic love.
The moon has its own old course,
As shadows, timely, vary,
Faithful to its better half.
Now, tell me,
Laugh at me, reason with me,
With those agitated eyes,
Which are foreign to the idea
Of these mysteries.
Isn't it possible, terribly so,
For one, for anyone,
For someone, for me,
To fall in love with you,
My friend?*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆
Dearest Count,
I know you watch and listen.
It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts
To you, to whom, I christen.
These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth.
Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth assuredly bide.
A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.
Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...
The pericombobulatory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!
(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)
For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.
Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.
Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.
A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.
Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.
The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.
Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this : our time of greatest need.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 4:23 PM UTC
Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.
Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.
A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.
For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 8:56 PM UTC
Good God kid!
Now I remember all of it:
I was just a do-gooder passing through.
Like some sort of ghost, like a wisp,
amazed that I had somehow found my way onto the guest list.
No wonder I got so drunk.
No wonder I was constantly throwing up.
I couldn't handle it -
being in the midst of such intelligence.
But I was hooked.
I knew this was where true inspiration lives.
But it scared me so I fled into self-sentenced exile.
You knew she wasn't the one, you knew all the while.
I struggled and bled. I thought of things we had said.
I tried to lead a proper life,
but I felt already dead.
So I returned,
but in the wake of a irrevocable mistake.
Much like I remembered, but it wasn't the same place.
A shadow loomed over. Everything was changed.
And though you were glad that I was back again,
it was clear that you were devastated by the death of a friend.
I couldn't relate.
Still, I tried. All those that knew him; how they cried.
There I was, with just a broken heart.
It felt like nothing compared.
I'd never loved anyone who had died.
But time goes by, and supposedly, it heals all wounds.
We were having fun again, feeling alive before too soon.
Then everything changed when you were going to move.
Afraid of what I stood to lose,
I decided to move with you too.
We got ourselves into situations with which we could not cope.
Communicating got harder and we began to lose hope.
The gap between one life and another can seem so vast.
I moved back home again and our lives took separate paths.
Here I am rehashing the past,
without you.
So where are we now?
Has it all gone so south?
Seems like there's more complaints than profundities spilling out of our mouths.
Where did we go wrong?
Was it our fate all along?
No.
No way.
Fate was always something we defied.
But I worry about you sometimes.
I thought about you today.
Why didn't you take my call tonight?
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 12:35 AM UTC
Hopefully not a mystery, mistaken,
Unquestionably unremarkable : your presentation
Miss muse of heavy breathing monologues’
Deeper meanings, thus flesh rises hot.
If into relations
No need or want for explanation.
Greater words now simply lost;
Entrails of vaporous profundities
Respite-sleep below limbs’ entangled quivering
Some sort of worshipping screaming “god!”
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
I heard her laughter through a wall made up of space and time.
I swear there's something in her voice that reminds me so much of mine.
If I tell you a joke will you do me the service of granting me a smile?
It's nice to be reminded of my lost innocence once in awhile.
I'll force rhymes and recycle lines just to get a rise.
I'll speak absurd profundities to spark a twinkle in those eyes.
Her glad and simple laughter makes me want to cry.
When I'm in her presence, I feel like I could die.
You simple, silly girl.
You clever, brilliant thing.
You make me feel alive again.
You make me want to sing.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC