"profundity" poems
The vulnerability of baring myself fully
clenches the belly
panics the heart
stands my hairs on end.
It is truly the most terrifying thing
to stand in ones authenticity.
And yet. And yet.
The courage it takes.
The great tender strength.
The spine tingling elation.
The heart swells, and magic.
The naked beauty borne, in feeling you have nothing to hide.
The spirit touched ardor of a bare approach to life.
The openings and the mystery.
The expressions: tripping, falling, incomplete, misguided.
The wonderful mistakes, elucidating lessons.
The perfect imperfections.
The easing of honesty.
The engendered humility.
The profundity.
The sense of being touched, touching, and in touch with life.
The unmasked revelations, of full spectral undulation.
The this. The that. The I can accept it all.
The dropping of shame.
The incredible liberation, in shedding that shame.
The finding forgiveness for self, for other.
The quiver of unknowing.
The sweet caress of potential.
The dread. The sorrows. The uncertainties.
All making room for, in their acknowledgement:
Room for what else is there.
Room for laughter, and joy, and luminescence.
Room for flirtation, dancing, spontaneity.
Breaking open.
Melting into Love.
Soaring on the wings of Truth.
The hush, of anxious worry.
The Goodness bestowed.
The empathy.
The compassion.
The connection.
The holy restoration of creative flow.
The fires of real passion.
And everything.
And everything.
And Beauty.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
Often people,
mesmerised by
the depth of others,
comment that they had
no idea they had so many layers,
that such profundity existed. I have myself
been likened to a coconut with a hard shell,
with undiscovered realms within. Hah.
I think perhaps though, that I
am more of an onion.
You can peel all
that you
want
but
-I'm just the same inside.
Maybe I could even
make you cry.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC
Seasons pass, tempered by insalubrious fervor; treasonous design remiss of fate
An echo of prior songs resonate somber atrophy; mourn the passing of constant defeat, stained by triumphant dissonance and disdain
Fear strides along the broken path, left alone and solemn and crass: Through sour feats of vindication, tones of plight become dismissed
Surfeit, the sound of temptation rides upon the crest of dawn, blinding darkness like calming waves caressing infinite stretches of sand: soft and warm; kind and welcoming, embracing in its gentle touch
Sentience hides behind a creeping fog, whispering secrets of life eternal, bearing gifts wrought through sensuous candor
Two threads lost, now found; slowly bonding, uniting purpose, rhythm, rhyme, and reason; born from the same cloth, garnering habit, singing in harmony what echoes from within
Beautiful, intelligent, staunch with profundity; stark, handsome, wholesome, and good
The call of a true home may finally beckon..
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 2:08 AM UTC
I feel I am stuck
With a bear in my hut
The forest - surrounding
Our friendship - enticing
We sit and drink tea
Like there’s nothing to see
We chat about the weather
and how it could be
There is meaning in absurdity
With insightful profundity
From a grizzly stream
words enter the scene
They're washing right over
The things we don't see
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 5:14 AM UTC
"Contentment is a synonym for loneliness, cool loneliness, settling down with cool loneliness. We give up believing that being able to escape our loneliness is going to bring any lasting happiness or joy or sense of well-being or courage or strength. Usually we have to give up this belief about a billion times, again and again making friends with our jumpiness and dread, doing the same old thing a billion times with awareness. Then without our even noticing, something begins to shift. We can just be lonely with no alternatives, content to be right here with the mood and texture of what’s happening."
"it allows us to finally discover a completely unfabricated state of being. Our habitual assumptions — all our ideas about how things are — keep us from seeing anything in a fresh, open way… We don’t ultimately know anything. There’s no certainty about anything. This basic truth hurts, and we want to run away from it. But coming back and relaxing with something as familiar as loneliness is good discipline for realizing the profundity of the unresolved moments of our lives. We are cheating ourselves when we run away from the ambiguity of loneliness."
"Cool loneliness allows us to look honestly and without aggression at our own minds. We can gradually drop our ideals of who we think we ought to be, or who we think we want to be, or who we think other people think we want to be or ought to be. We give it up and just look directly with compassion and humor at who we are. Then loneliness is no threat and heartache, no punishment. Cool loneliness doesn’t provide any resolution or give us ground under our feet. It challenges us to step into a world of no reference point without polarizing or solidifying. This is called the middle way, or the sacred path of the warrior."
by Pema Chodron from "When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advise for Difficult Times"
Mar 28, 2023
Mar 28, 2023 at 6:17 AM UTC
There is never nothing new
Just rearrange things
I don’t write poems
I just remove the extra words that are in the way
Hold on to the words like whispers and shadows and wings
Recklessly insert adjectives
Tie it all to your delusions of profundity
Dig down deep for pain
no matter how senseless
Pick at your emotional scabs
Bleed
No one likes poetry
Constantly remind people of that
Tell them that you make it sound good to you and **** them
(Even though their ovation means everything)
Slip, dip and weave
With ambiguous wet dreams
Full lips and thick tongue
Mouthing…
Come
to an understanding
***** is much better than clean
Make it filthy
Soil it
Make it nostalgic
People need to be reassured that you were really ******* up as a kid
and that this poetry **** doesn’t just happen to people overnight
Make it esoteric
That way, when no one knows what the hell you are talking about,
you will have a good word to explain why
Say things that are so ill mannered that they are weighty
I will give you an example
“I’m not looking for a girl that is beautiful
I'm looking for one just barely ugly enough to **** me”
Incite large groups of people to *****
Get so personal that it gives people headaches
Expose yourself until everyone is embarrassed for you
Spew it all over the bar
In a drunken stupor
flaunt it lasciviously with your genitals
Pour yourself into reckless collisions
Drink from your soul until it rots your liver
Write until you want to **** yourself
then write about that
Make it as bitter as a Wal-mart associate
Make it so sweet she will swallow it all
before looking up at you with eyes like tiny puddles
To say, “that was beautiful”
(even though it was disgusting)
It should be raw
It should make you itch
It should be like rubbing up against it spreads it
It should be like VD
Make really long
Like it’s your *****
No,
Make it really, really long
Like its my *****
Make it rhyme
I mean don’t
Don’t
Don’t ever write another ******* poem
because I assure you
if I did not write it
than it must ****
and that is how poetry works
Michael L Sutter
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 12:31 PM UTC
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
I dare you to close your legs, button up your shirt, fasten your bra, put a locker on that zip and see if they will stay,
the parting of your legs should not be the only conversation you are meant to have,
collecting your bra straps or looking for lost earrings on the floor should not be the only time they bend over for you,
as if the only time you deserve worship is only after you have screamed home coming in their ears.
The dimples on your thighs and the fabric of your hair should not be the only time they learn to pronounce your name,
there is more to remember of you than the scars you left on their backs,
that is not the only time you know how to hold on tight,
you have held graves on your wrinkled forehead from the day blood came gushing, unarmed for from your womanhood, a tragedy from which you are yet to recover,
you have held far more important things, far more important secrets, far more important names than the birthmarks under their arms,
there is more profundity and wisdom to your being, your family name, than the disentanglement of your lower lips and the ruin of your own flesh.
There is more to you than the wetness of your womanhood and your hardened *******
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
I
The stars are double-weighted tonight.
bulging, beating, they sink
from their proper lurches.
One by one across the murky
evening they sputter out.
What natural light remains
seeps from that subtly gaudy
bauble of a moon.
II
Peeled eucalyptus, ice-plant, new-mown summer grass,
dandelion, sloping hill, carved stone bench,
the view, the reflected city-light off the bay water,
white-washed near-tenements.
I am firmly locked up, chained in a bone cage
of chemically manipulated cranial plates;
serotonin, synapses, dopamine, dendrite
create a web like seaweed constricting the sea;
this computer of a head calculates, oscillates,
and processes the sensory.
III
My body is a tattered jib sail
flowing in the light sprinkling rain:
the simmer of the gale:
a hollow cathedral abandoned
by the believers:
a vessel for my marrow:
an imaginary catalyst for profundity:
an incarceration: a hull of particles
arrested: some part of an experience.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
The coffee cups are *****
But it’s the cleanest way
To drink whiskey here.
The barman lost half his right fingers
To a wood chipper in his early 20’s
And spent the rest of his adult life
Flipping the world off.
He got it down to a fine art
By the time I showed up.
He didn’t smile when I ordered my drink.
He didn’t smile at all.
The jukebox hasn’t changed
For two stagnant decades
And most everyone but the regulars
Are too scared to use it.
It’s the same rotation
Of Elvis,
Muddy Waters,
BB King,
John Coltrane,
And early Bruce Springsteen.
Not a woman in sight
But every song is about them
And we are all here
Because of them.
Certain patches of carpet
Have not seen a crack of light
Since the Berlin Wall fell.
Nothing changes here but the customers-
And that change is incremental at best.
The same filthy etchings over
The same filthy cubicle doors.
The same Cherokee Indian
Smoking a Cuban Cigar
In the heartland of America.
I can’t find myself here
But there is no feeling of loss.
There is no profundity in anything here.
Just squalor
And enjoying one’s squalor.
I think that is what it means
To be truly happy.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 5:24 AM UTC
The feeble glow
of yesterday's myths
and illogical legends
drift into obliquity
where the pallid shapes
of old friendships
and silhouettes of demented heads
merge
with a splash of light
on the satirical side of solemnity
in the pursuit of profundity.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
Relax, begin to Imagine you are in the proximity
to immerse yourself into a precious moment.
It is that needed time you have brought into being, and is intrinsic
to experience composure, equanimity.
Smooth - melodic - ambient music with simple cause,
low and soft will, in its incipiency invalidate
trending previous troublesome thoughts,
silkily, sauntering, lingeringly pauses,
to softly embrace your audible senses
with silence which conveys complete assurance,
that the here and now is yours, no-one elses,
ataraxia created by you, for your true inner self,
It continues; envelops remaining unsettled interruption
embraces the heart, and encourages serenity,
all the remaining negative, solicitous intellection
are temporarily, tipped out of your consciousness,
you are experiencing them leave, then transcended
with blissful tranquillity for your indulgence.
You are asleep with your eyes open, it feels so benefic,
the mind is calm and clear no longer confused.
Melodious sound continues to provide atmospheric
momentum to this sensibility folding into the soul.
Joyfully you are enduring moments of pure inner solitude and
wrapped in perfect peace, consciousness uncommitted.
There is no expectation of time, not at all
just the psyche drifting, changing shape, density, profundity.
You feel wonderfully restituted, calmed; uplifted.
You sense it, knowing, this absence of tension you sought,
this, your perfect you, is transient and will slowly begin to regress, reluctantly,
relinquishing this blissfully serene, conditioned emotional stillness, to be restored.
Then you turn the telly on! All gone.
Michael C Crowder March 5th 2019
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
Smoking American Spirits
Like that name is not sickly ironic
As I watch the moon
And blow your name
Out through my teeth.
After all of it
I still can’t decide
If I’m happy that you’re happy
Or hate you for leaving me
In the cold to gape
At a barren rock.
The moon is a visceral spirit,
Pundit of creation myths,
Vaudevillian purveyor
Of heavy handed profundity,
Reflects the sun
When nothing else can,
Means so much to so many;
The moon is an entropic
Collusion of earth-chunk
That happens to orbit us,
Objectively meaningless,
Communicating with the ocean
As ants ***** chemicals
Into each others mouths to converse.
Staring together up into
The gaping gnash of space,
Humans give the moon its meaning
Just as two people falling in love
Forever inhabit midsummer nights
'Till one leaves in a haze
Of evaporating brain chemistry.
I really am happy you’re happy,
Because I really do love you
Even after everything,
And I really do hate you
Because it hurts so much
And you were so selfish,
Go **** yourself,
Why can't I feel both?
Just this silly girl,
Just two broken people,
Look at what we made Chlo,
It's hanging in the sky
Strung up with used filaments.
I love you and hate you still
Because knowing the moon
Is a barren rock
Makes what it has become
Incandescently, infinitely beautiful.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
My dear friend,
I know,
In the desert, we have been friends.
Under the burden of the sun, in such sweltering design,
The chorus of reason has failed to reach us.
We have seen each other look for the same spot,
The exact same place. Where neither the searing heat
Of the storms, nor a hundred dunes can still our voices.
Where your love for your wife will forever resound in its perpetual longing
To be,
And where without heat or sand, there
My voice will finally hold still.
Is it not disappointing that in every question with even the slightest
Tinge of profundity, the only answer that pleases
The truth of our deepest insight
is yes and no?
The desert is unflinching in being barren, all the waters,
Few and far between,
Are only images of those which are not desert.
You strike to spell love, but where will you keep it
As to let it hide from the light of the sun and the howling of harrowing sand?
My friend,
It only piles up and up and up.
And when it can no longer go up, pray tell,
How does it feel to view the horizon and see only more desert, vast and infinite?
How would it be like to look down and know
That even now you are no safer?
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:45 AM UTC
Stop reading, I tell you;
there is no resolution coming.
Only laments and curiosities,
incursions into the soulless depths of mesonoxian thunder,
maybe a note on the desirability of warm socks,
but no satisfaction.
Don't expect a mournful awakening,
nor deliberate (or otherwise) profundity.
-disregarding the note on warm socks, of course-
I have given you warning, and if you continue,
the burden of exploration falls on you,
for consideration is the ferry to insight,
of which this text is built strictly without.
The boatman may ask that you pay with your wisdom
and refuse those that have no treasures to offer.
Would that not be the most desirable life?
Where we live to learn and when we have,
the boatman ferries us into the undying waters?
And those refused must wander and wonder
why they were excluded, where wisdom is birthed,
realizing that they are exactly as intelligent as they work to become,
to which the boatman might say, "Welcome aboard. Tell me more."
Allegorically speaking, this notion is nonsense.
Metaphorically speaking, completely absurd.
Practically, it's practically insane,
though actively, it is inanely preferred.
Alternative to apathy and pageantry,
wherein the boatman has empathy for those without wealth.
There is no true truth, only real observation,
so stop trusting my judgment and go create it yourself
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
***-I just love with profundity
I swear i'm not ******
-fir.m
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
That there is something,
from nothing;
that there is anything at all,
is a tireless miracle.
Simply being
is profound.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
your silent plight begets silent nights
the inaudible whispers haunt us in daunting hollows
insalubrious fervor beseeches thy name
forlorn and lost among creeping doubt
guilt holding refrain from calling to any such fate
with second guess casts shame on second nature
innate profundity loses meaning with time
but all that's known is all that can be
tangible efforts get lost in the shadow of dissonance
my body resonates with such reeling efficacy
empathy goes unheard but your tone still sings truth
such sweetness lost to empty promise reigns defeat and pain
my silent nights beget silent strife
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC
Collaboration's implicit excitations explicate expectations
Unity's myriad augurs geomancy's indications
Demagoguery's ostensibly intuitive impetus coordinations
Extravagantly exorbitant panaceas appreciate exaggerations
Prolifically profuse profundity's autonomous gestations
Empirically emulate epistemology's exogamous creations
Intrigue's imperative promulgation's quantum fecundations
Fealty's ephemeral enunciation's explicit complications
Hypercritically exponential prophylaxis protocol's interpretations
Sacrosanct unary's preternatural predilection's extrications
Eventuation's evocative illuminism avant garde's ostentations
Corrupt costume counselor's indicative explications
Assimilation's synthetic synthesis' ascensional implications
Ominous phenomenon portrayal detinue's integrations
Umbrage ultraism's penumbral platitude's objectifications
Futurity's spontaneous flamboyance's apotropaic expiations
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 7:53 PM UTC
beleaguered poet
defended weakly:
"profundity,
is unfortunately
mistaken as vapidity"
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC
To the Poets of Hello, Hello!*
We write, we share.
We hope there’s someone there
To read
Perhaps need
Poetry,
Precisely as we
Say it,
Hoping that they see it
As we do.
(They seldom do, but
It’s the memo
Of the heart,
Our smattering of art
That matters.)
Hello, Hello,
My fellow poets.
Ego-less
I come to you,
Admiring, commenting,
Caring for the things you dare to share.
Over simplified, naïve maybe,
Never diva we,
The weavers of profundity.
Hello, Hello to poets and to poetry,
Its crystal-gifted company
And you who take in what you see
Here.
To The Poets Of Hello, Hello! 7.4.2016
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin
*Hello Poetry; a site encouraging one and all to submit & share their oeuvre.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
Kippers and toast for breakfast,
washed down by a fairtrade Ceylon,
eagerly anticipating the Christain Aid appeal
through my letter box.
Aware of others earthly disengage
their morning monotony flickers through their lounge,
consummate hypocrites watching the repeat soap operas,
the profundity of their silence radiates through to the adverts.
as they had a cause too,
until its auto recluse with the
outside world
the news slot borders on paranoia
a dent to exclusivity.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
An old woman sits down in the wheelchair.
A small child takes her first wavering step.
A million fireworks dance into the air, flash, ears hear songs of celebration, awe takes hold.
A million mortar shells leap into the air, flash, ears sing the ring of confusion, shock takes hold.
A man nearing the end of his time on earth stoops to tie a child's shoe.
A man nearing the end of his time on earth stoops to tie a noose.
A woman in white walks down the aisle alongside the man she loves.
A woman in black walks down the aisle to the man she loved.
A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of cold medicine to an ill infant.
A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of pentobarbital to an ill canine.
A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of ****** into her own arm.
A father raises his hand.
. . .
A child receives a reassuring pat on the shoulder, his team having just won the tee-ball state championships.
A woman takes aim, her lens coming into focus on her subject.
. . .
A man that has been psychologically abusing her for several years collapses to the ground.
A team of several hundred people stands back, looking in awe upon the skyscraper they have designed and built over the course of several years. This accomplishment towers above all else humankind has created.
A team of several hundred people stands back, looking in awe upon the mushroom cloud they have engineered and constructed over the course of several months. This weapon towers above all else humankind has created.
A million lives wink out.
A million eyes open for the first time.
A manuscript is penned, the author sets down his pen and takes a sip of tea.
A pile of books burns with black smoke, the cult sets down their torches and takes a deep breath before screaming.
The infant screams sharply after taking its first breath.
The old man wheezes after telling the last of his stories to his grandson.
"That's it, boy. That's everything I ever did."
A tear rolls down his cheek, the profundity of his statement dawning on him as the breaths become harder to take.
"That's everything I was to everyone I met."
Under every rock a thousand secrets shimmer.
Beneath every tree, a hundred promises have been made.
Some of them have been broken.
Remember the promises you made? You know the ones.
You can become the architect of someone's dreams or the shadowed figure in their nightmares.
You can put down the gun. You can pull the trigger.
You can.
A billion men and a billion women before you have lived out their lives, have wasted, have wanted, have sunk to the lowest depths and risen to the highest peaks. A million have set out to become the best at something, and a whole lot of them have succeeded.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
I want to write you a big long letter
and give voice to the frustration I feel
maybe even get mad at you
take it out on you
say horrible, nasty things
flail my hands in animation
smash a vase or two against the wall
release the real animal rage that I feel
that you have your own mind and your own will
but how could I?
first of all, I pride myself on my high thinking
I can’t descend to those petty vibrations
that will only destroy me in the end
But, the real reason
are your big brown eyes
those deep hues
of which I have a tendency to fall into
whenever they linger too long on mine
oh, why can’t we intertwine?
and be so close that we forget we’re dying
just for a second or two, at least?
the sun is splicing through the blinds
in neatly descending rays
casting parallels of shadow and light
across the bed
the leaves whirl outside the windowpane
the branches rustle in the late afternoon breeze
reminding me of the lucid dream I had on the bed we shared together on the floor
I was flying through the constellations
at incredible speeds
It felt so real at the time.
if you won’t come away with me
if you won’t let me stay
I won’t hold it against you
I won’t cast you away.
the freedom of choice is a gift (I respect your choice)
and I love the freedom of this life too dearly
I love the sunrises and the sunsets too dearly
I see the light in me seeing the light in you too clearly
to ever make light of the profundity of this
this trip
what a trip
and if we’re not on it together
then I’ll pass you on the highway
separate loads
with separate courses
in the twilight
I’m so glad to have seen you
for a moment in the headlights.
Aug 2, 2020
Aug 2, 2020 at 10:20 PM UTC
Transcendentally existential in-extremis extremity nuance. Vicinity victual vigilante villain. Propinquity habitation harbinger harangued. Clairaudience clairvoyance agilely dexterous acuity, tactile coordination. Feral phrenic frenzied **** Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma. 29th Psalm some holy spirit, the angel was a vision of resplendent beauty as it hovered in mid air above the knoll. Apex axis crux and citadel pinnacle's peak. And yet I would distance traveled time spent like to mitigate this of in to you. What then is the essence of metaphysical mystique. I say lets ethereally sublime be mesmerically enrapturing. Ecstatically euphoric and climactically ******** Let your vicarious recalcitrance revel in the prolific profuseness of my profundity as we lavish in our wanton abandon. Though paw flaw laws are to claws aimed craw, horsefeathers are more proficient and surreal on the salaciously seductive.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 1:50 AM UTC