"querying" poems - Hello Poetry

"querying" poems

nearer:breath of my breath:take not they tingling limbs from me:make my pain their crazy meal letting they tigers of smooth sweetness steal slowly in dumb blossoms of new mingling: deeper:blood of my blood:with upwardcringing swiftness plunge these leopards of white ream this pith of darkness:carve an evilfringing flower of madness on gritted lips and on sprawled eyes squirming with light insane chisel the killing flame that dizzily grips. Querying greys between mouthed houses curl thirstily. Dead stars stink. dawn. Inane, the poetic carcass of a girl

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Nearer:Breath Of My Breath:Take Not They Tingling

nearer:breath of my breath:take not they tingling limbs from me:make my pain their crazy meal letting they tigers of smooth sweetness steal slowly in dumb blossoms of new mingling: deeper:blood of my blood:with upwardcringing swiftness plunge these leopards of white ream this pith of darkness:carve an evilfringing flower of madness on gritted lips and on sprawled eyes squirming with light insane chisel the killing flame that dizzily grips. Querying greys between mouthed houses curl thirstily. Dead stars stink. dawn. Inane, the poetic carcass of a girl

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What She Look Like? …Like one tenderly hushing water in her lap Elemental peace No place to go No more to be …Like the ocean in the background of a photo on a warm spring day belying rage and the random possible thrash-- out! at all guilty ******** in her path Toss in the next sentient soul who should happen to pass within range who should have seen who should have known what a storm could do…. Moody in the aftermath and sorrier than rain With the tide in retreat grumbling excuses Hiding out waist-deep in dusk’s Merlot Waiting for night to sleep it off to heal the rifts cleanse the shame Rising yellow, bright— and “What the hell happened, here?!” _______________ Her hair a winter’s tragedy of trees upside down— No wait— the wind has put her right to ragged random branches swaying, wet with intermittent hues of dark and silver caught in collar, flying inelegant and free at the shoulders of the levee tossed and softening shyly sagging jaw and nose a stump of tree All perspective changes… if you watch a while— She’ll raise her eyes into the sunset to catch an eagle entering flight …and then you might… ______________ She looks like— a pudgy robin querying grass mud soaked that hides the fire of her breast tugging at a worm more than half her length “I will feed them, **** you! Give it up, you son of a snake!” _______________ ...Don’t miss her hour of music though for anything Encroaching darkness from the rooftops she listens to the hearts she breaks Remember this in winter she can give but she will take it out on February when you’re longing for her

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Nov 7, 2017

Nov 7, 2017 at 7:57 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

What She Looks Like

What She Look Like? …Like one tenderly hushing water in her lap Elemental peace No place to go No more to be …Like the ocean in the background of a photo on a warm spring day belying rage and the random possible thrash-- out! at all guilty ******** in her path Toss in the next sentient soul who should happen to pass within range who should have seen who should have known what a storm could do…. Moody in the aftermath and sorrier than rain With the tide in retreat grumbling excuses Hiding out waist-deep in dusk’s Merlot Waiting for night to sleep it off to heal the rifts cleanse the shame Rising yellow, bright— and “What the hell happened, here?!” _______________ Her hair a winter’s tragedy of trees upside down— No wait— the wind has put her right to ragged random branches swaying, wet with intermittent hues of dark and silver caught in collar, flying inelegant and free at the shoulders of the levee tossed and softening shyly sagging jaw and nose a stump of tree All perspective changes… if you watch a while— She’ll raise her eyes into the sunset to catch an eagle entering flight …and then you might… ______________ She looks like— a pudgy robin querying grass mud soaked that hides the fire of her breast tugging at a worm more than half her length “I will feed them, **** you! Give it up, you son of a snake!” _______________ ...Don’t miss her hour of music though for anything Encroaching darkness from the rooftops she listens to the hearts she breaks Remember this in winter she can give but she will take it out on February when you’re longing for her

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If you drive down route 235, the lonely parallel line of route 5, running through St. Mary's County, Maryland, between the intersection of Old Three Notch road and St. Andrew's Church road, and the liquor store at the corner of Mattapany-- you must do so with a fat wallet, and a growling stomach, who barks at the flashing signs of the sparkling chain restaurants-- wafting their familiar scents out the windows and onto the busy street. Utterly beleaguered every which way by these olfactory factories, your mouth waters and your wallet lightens as the tantalizing sensations permeate your vehicle. So you cave; another lost soul vacates the street at Restaurant Alley, under the prowling searchlights and the intoxicating smells lingering like a dense fog; You linger in your purgatory with glee. You exit satisfied, patting your abdominous belly and lifting your smiling face to the sky in thanks to the gluttonous gods who rain down these chain restaurants from the heavens. A satisfied sigh seeps out of loose lips, barely hanging on to your fleshy face, so ruddy and fat. You act like your stop was something novel, like it wasn't routine to acquiesce to these temptations; you return to your car to continue your roamings down restaurant alley. Sadly, a full stomach won't stifle a querying nose, and your senses are soon at it again; just as the waiters and waitresses, cooks and busboys-- are back at the window, leaning outside with their clamorings and bustlings and cookings-- You pretend to entertain willpower as your copilot, but even if that were so, your senses would still be at the wheel, with your mind bound and gagged in the trunk. Restaurant Alley goes on for miles and miles and miles, seemingly endless in the permeating fog of burgers and pancakes and pasta and chicken and fries and burgers and soda and ice cream and beer and pasta and wine and America and pancakes and steak and appetizers and desserts and entrees and specials and kids menus and burgers and chicken and pasta and fries and burgers and ice cream and salad and burgers and soda and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat! There's nothing to eat; there's nothing to do but eat in Restaurant Alley, on route 235 in St. Mary's County, Maryland. So fasten your seat belt, and loosen your waist belt, and take a doomed trip down the endless roadway-- where you are dragged, shackled to food chains that haul you from the perdition that is the lobby's waiting room to be seated with loved ones at the mercy seat of Ambrosia.

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Mar 5, 2016

Mar 5, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC

Restaurant Alley

If you drive down route 235, the lonely parallel line of route 5, running through St. Mary's County, Maryland, between the intersection of Old Three Notch road and St. Andrew's Church road, and the liquor store at the corner of Mattapany-- you must do so with a fat wallet, and a growling stomach, who barks at the flashing signs of the sparkling chain restaurants-- wafting their familiar scents out the windows and onto the busy street. Utterly beleaguered every which way by these olfactory factories, your mouth waters and your wallet lightens as the tantalizing sensations permeate your vehicle. So you cave; another lost soul vacates the street at Restaurant Alley, under the prowling searchlights and the intoxicating smells lingering like a dense fog; You linger in your purgatory with glee. You exit satisfied, patting your abdominous belly and lifting your smiling face to the sky in thanks to the gluttonous gods who rain down these chain restaurants from the heavens. A satisfied sigh seeps out of loose lips, barely hanging on to your fleshy face, so ruddy and fat. You act like your stop was something novel, like it wasn't routine to acquiesce to these temptations; you return to your car to continue your roamings down restaurant alley. Sadly, a full stomach won't stifle a querying nose, and your senses are soon at it again; just as the waiters and waitresses, cooks and busboys-- are back at the window, leaning outside with their clamorings and bustlings and cookings-- You pretend to entertain willpower as your copilot, but even if that were so, your senses would still be at the wheel, with your mind bound and gagged in the trunk. Restaurant Alley goes on for miles and miles and miles, seemingly endless in the permeating fog of burgers and pancakes and pasta and chicken and fries and burgers and soda and ice cream and beer and pasta and wine and America and pancakes and steak and appetizers and desserts and entrees and specials and kids menus and burgers and chicken and pasta and fries and burgers and ice cream and salad and burgers and soda and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat! There's nothing to eat; there's nothing to do but eat in Restaurant Alley, on route 235 in St. Mary's County, Maryland. So fasten your seat belt, and loosen your waist belt, and take a doomed trip down the endless roadway-- where you are dragged, shackled to food chains that haul you from the perdition that is the lobby's waiting room to be seated with loved ones at the mercy seat of Ambrosia.

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The Process There is the notion, the urging. The first spilling, the self-congratulatory Commencement ceremony for The process. Then there is the first short-pause, a quick-freeze hibernation. Then, The bubbling, The querying, the special fear, What have I started? Where is it taking me, Am I properly undressed for doing T he process? A new vocabulary, an arm extended, but distended, Words are all angled puzzled, Capable of unity, but first, Unshaped but swollen, By the process. Hatching, head-aching, words arrive rushed, but disordered, Confused by the process. *{The exception has it own character. One kingly, run-on sentence birthed, After silent labor, a full poem, fully dilated, A shocking head of hair, full developed, So fast does "it" fall onto the paper The obstetrician arrives too late To process.}* The exception, exceptional. The normal, normative. Twenty four hours of labor, False starts, much screaming, Painful joys, hardly seamless, This process. Distractions the enemy, Compulsion the master, As you choreograph the work, In loving servitude to The process. You the doctor, insert probes, Looking for the tumors, the out of ordinary, For normal flesh is not of interest as part of The process. Finally, you do exhale, With unique the pleasure, of the longest sweetest Female ****** The breathing less labored, Tho whole, sensing a diminish-meant to convey That completion is the end of part of you, The near-end of the continuum, lessened but continuing The process.

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Sep 24, 2013

Sep 24, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC

The Process There is the notion, the urging. The first spilling, the self-congratulatory Commencement ceremony for The process. Then there is the first short-pause, a quick-freeze hibernation. Then, The bubbling, The querying, the special fear, What have I started? Where is it taking me, Am I properly undressed for doing T he process? A new vocabulary, an arm extended, but distended, Words are all angled puzzled, Capable of unity, but first, Unshaped but swollen, By the process. Hatching, head-aching, words arrive rushed, but disordered, Confused by the process. *{The exception has it own character. One kingly, run-on sentence birthed, After silent labor, a full poem, fully dilated, A shocking head of hair, full developed, So fast does "it" fall onto the paper The obstetrician arrives too late To process.}* The exception, exceptional. The normal, normative. Twenty four hours of labor, False starts, much screaming, Painful joys, hardly seamless, This process. Distractions the enemy, Compulsion the master, As you choreograph the work, In loving servitude to The process. You the doctor, insert probes, Looking for the tumors, the out of ordinary, For normal flesh is not of interest as part of The process. Finally, you do exhale, With unique the pleasure, of the longest sweetest Female ****** The breathing less labored, Tho whole, sensing a diminish-meant to convey That completion is the end of part of you, The near-end of the continuum, lessened but continuing The process.

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I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter My absent child, my long lost son Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker, By the wood where icy streams run Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields Stretching for miles, empty of meaning. The landscape like a worn photograph yields Your tremulous smile, then nothing. Here, you ran with startled steps Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise, Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes. Querying awkwardly spoken words, small Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool A silly father who loved too much. On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude Partnered only by memory Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary, Where only the crackle of snow And the fleeting trajectory of birds Distracts my slow Marshalling of comforting thoughts. The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade, A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light, Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade, White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night. In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck, A cheap skateboard, ancient video games, A guitar you never learnt to pluck A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames. In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom Your school work gathered into stacks Barely visible in the gloom, Our life together in disorganised packs Denoting year and level Development and academic achievement, If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil) Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent. Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall, Are brightly coloured, polished pictures Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures. A bitter echo resonating from the shadows A cold thought darkening into memory The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows Having left all of us! Having left me!

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Nov 10, 2015

Nov 10, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC

I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter My absent child, my long lost son Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker, By the wood where icy streams run Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields Stretching for miles, empty of meaning. The landscape like a worn photograph yields Your tremulous smile, then nothing. Here, you ran with startled steps Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise, Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes. Querying awkwardly spoken words, small Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool A silly father who loved too much. On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude Partnered only by memory Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary, Where only the crackle of snow And the fleeting trajectory of birds Distracts my slow Marshalling of comforting thoughts. The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade, A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light, Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade, White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night. In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck, A cheap skateboard, ancient video games, A guitar you never learnt to pluck A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames. In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom Your school work gathered into stacks Barely visible in the gloom, Our life together in disorganised packs Denoting year and level Development and academic achievement, If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil) Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent. Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall, Are brightly coloured, polished pictures Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures. A bitter echo resonating from the shadows A cold thought darkening into memory The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows Having left all of us! Having left me!

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Flowing under winter Is the warmth of a fading love That once was on the surface But now struggles to be shone Cold hearts once bled red Broken, they needed repair Grey was too stiff for the aching heart So blue was the color of the broken part But Jotunheim and its giants can be melt By the prowess of Asgard and its heroes As the icy, depressive cover has formed After the heart had been healed So, many times passion becomes a fuel To extinguish the fear of the person who never knows And this gas perpetually ignites And the water that once thawed the rime Won’t remain covered, buried under ice That is why love always resurfaces With the heat of hope and will Querying if the person the heart beats for Doesn’t has her beating in sync, still But like a snowflake, love falls in pieces To find a place to regrow, as fear overpowers the fuel Where memory and reluctance troubles the loving soul While life seems dull to his aching state, as time never ceases My appreciation for her burns wild Maybe its youth that feeds the flames Or the personality bonded to her beautiful name But, which is enough to love her, the air that I inhale Will soon be few as I drown in the water, doubting if “we” will ever be true

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Jan 14, 2021

Jan 14, 2021 at 8:59 AM UTC

henriqueacaldas

Water Under Ice

Flowing under winter Is the warmth of a fading love That once was on the surface But now struggles to be shone Cold hearts once bled red Broken, they needed repair Grey was too stiff for the aching heart So blue was the color of the broken part But Jotunheim and its giants can be melt By the prowess of Asgard and its heroes As the icy, depressive cover has formed After the heart had been healed So, many times passion becomes a fuel To extinguish the fear of the person who never knows And this gas perpetually ignites And the water that once thawed the rime Won’t remain covered, buried under ice That is why love always resurfaces With the heat of hope and will Querying if the person the heart beats for Doesn’t has her beating in sync, still But like a snowflake, love falls in pieces To find a place to regrow, as fear overpowers the fuel Where memory and reluctance troubles the loving soul While life seems dull to his aching state, as time never ceases My appreciation for her burns wild Maybe its youth that feeds the flames Or the personality bonded to her beautiful name But, which is enough to love her, the air that I inhale Will soon be few as I drown in the water, doubting if “we” will ever be true

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A pure mind Discerning and dissecting Living in a world of forms and shapes Still revels in the true essence Beauty in truth When beyond mere looks Your presence enlivens Brings meaning to my life A feeling unexplained Beauty in love A child at play Looking, touching, querying Lost In wonder Beauty in innocence The artist looks at his canvas And it becomes his world Everything else turns to nought A flourish of colours and strokes Lost in creation Beauty in work This universe infinite Defying all imagination All we can do is surrender In awe, In admiration Praying for inspiration Beauty in devotion © copyright skm

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Oct 16, 2014

Oct 16, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC

sajeev-kumar-menon

A pure mind Discerning and dissecting Living in a world of forms and shapes Still revels in the true essence Beauty in truth When beyond mere looks Your presence enlivens Brings meaning to my life A feeling unexplained Beauty in love A child at play Looking, touching, querying Lost In wonder Beauty in innocence The artist looks at his canvas And it becomes his world Everything else turns to nought A flourish of colours and strokes Lost in creation Beauty in work This universe infinite Defying all imagination All we can do is surrender In awe, In admiration Praying for inspiration Beauty in devotion © copyright skm

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Heart pounding nonstop   Feeling I ran sixteen miles  Can't seem to decifrate   Where your affection lies   Querying who am I   Long term silence prevails  Things are better off left unsaid   We used to share friendship  Now there's nothing left  Wondering where will you travel  After all this ravel   Observe along your space  Recall your whereabouts  Back when you were just   A young teenager   You had company,  Someone who cared  That feminine corpse,  Would outsource every fiber of her soul   To see you whole  Sadly you saw her as  Another to add list of friends role  Meanwhile her heart beat off adrenaline   And nothing more   Retaining secrecy,  Devoted to destiny,  I'll exit knowing there's nothing else to do,  But to patiently wait for a propitious finale.

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Dec 29, 2016

Dec 29, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC

Heart pounding nonstop   Feeling I ran sixteen miles  Can't seem to decifrate   Where your affection lies   Querying who am I   Long term silence prevails  Things are better off left unsaid   We used to share friendship  Now there's nothing left  Wondering where will you travel  After all this ravel   Observe along your space  Recall your whereabouts  Back when you were just   A young teenager   You had company,  Someone who cared  That feminine corpse,  Would outsource every fiber of her soul   To see you whole  Sadly you saw her as  Another to add list of friends role  Meanwhile her heart beat off adrenaline   And nothing more   Retaining secrecy,  Devoted to destiny,  I'll exit knowing there's nothing else to do,  But to patiently wait for a propitious finale.

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A curtain of impatience Descends upon your day An urgency for completion Comes intensely into play Emotional Intensity Is largely in the frame But your judgements equilibrium Holds the dominance of blame. Stability is vulnerable Through a three dimensional fan And a questionable tangent Will have them querying your plan. This belligerence is natural When integrity is crossed, When intentions are criticized And cohesiveness is lost. But a rational track of history Goes far towards your cause And a creditable performance Will surely open doors? So swallow your urgency, Ease passion’s twitching arm, Put a hold on your aggression And show the scrutineer’s your charm. Marshalg @theGate Mangere Bridge 8 April 2009

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Oct 30, 2009

Oct 30, 2009 at 9:27 PM UTC

A curtain of impatience Descends upon your day An urgency for completion Comes intensely into play Emotional Intensity Is largely in the frame But your judgements equilibrium Holds the dominance of blame. Stability is vulnerable Through a three dimensional fan And a questionable tangent Will have them querying your plan. This belligerence is natural When integrity is crossed, When intentions are criticized And cohesiveness is lost. But a rational track of history Goes far towards your cause And a creditable performance Will surely open doors? So swallow your urgency, Ease passion’s twitching arm, Put a hold on your aggression And show the scrutineer’s your charm. Marshalg @theGate Mangere Bridge 8 April 2009

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Allow me to hold your breath for just a moment whilst I kiss on your neck longing for replacing it something mellow. Where are the songs of You? dare to look into me To bend the fruitiness over, drip all over me Why are you so bright? Where all those juicy vines is for? What do i breathe for? How a soul hold so much; Sentiment controls little talks triggered not to impress myself Will it last or Hurt, dashing out. One Of those nights, when the Sun lifts her up The City is revolting over her, and this Knight is so young That sees through my eyes. Braid your soft hair and marks on your torso. Racing my heart on vacant this long, querying on your presence at the right time again, again, and over again The explosions for those of who let you go Lay with me, the cuckoo's calling

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Aug 21, 2013

Aug 21, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC

When You're Sober

Allow me to hold your breath for just a moment whilst I kiss on your neck longing for replacing it something mellow. Where are the songs of You? dare to look into me To bend the fruitiness over, drip all over me Why are you so bright? Where all those juicy vines is for? What do i breathe for? How a soul hold so much; Sentiment controls little talks triggered not to impress myself Will it last or Hurt, dashing out. One Of those nights, when the Sun lifts her up The City is revolting over her, and this Knight is so young That sees through my eyes. Braid your soft hair and marks on your torso. Racing my heart on vacant this long, querying on your presence at the right time again, again, and over again The explosions for those of who let you go Lay with me, the cuckoo's calling

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You keep running ahead I fall on my knees Leeches ******* my peace Keeping me here Feeling tiny blades Sticking into me You keep running ahead I sink in a swamp Devoured by self pity By countless failings Scratches cuts bumps Infected by mud You stare back Querying me Tears drip down As I wade towards you The pain unbearable I’ll never be with you

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Nov 16, 2011

Nov 16, 2011 at 8:00 PM UTC

You keep running ahead I fall on my knees Leeches ******* my peace Keeping me here Feeling tiny blades Sticking into me You keep running ahead I sink in a swamp Devoured by self pity By countless failings Scratches cuts bumps Infected by mud You stare back Querying me Tears drip down As I wade towards you The pain unbearable I’ll never be with you

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will my roots wither if I pull away? this, incessant self-querying, the heart pain tug that tugs on a clockwork-random schedule, should I pull it up by the roots, that, the deepest cut of all. when you obsess, perplexed about responsibility, about escape, from what you’ve planted, which came up with thorns unexpected. the sweat, from the care and feeding, rankles and saddens, for this investments sour taste makes you question your common-sensical nonsensical, that intersection where the heart and the brain clash fearsome. this is oft, too oft, how life sinks it teeth into you, and extracting those thorns, leaving teeth marks hurting long long time after those withered roots get tugged, pulled, like a pain in the heart that was exorcised, but couldn’t never be fully excised 9/12/19

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Sep 12, 2019

Sep 12, 2019 at 4:35 PM UTC

will my roots wither if I pull away?

will my roots wither if I pull away? this, incessant self-querying, the heart pain tug that tugs on a clockwork-random schedule, should I pull it up by the roots, that, the deepest cut of all. when you obsess, perplexed about responsibility, about escape, from what you’ve planted, which came up with thorns unexpected. the sweat, from the care and feeding, rankles and saddens, for this investments sour taste makes you question your common-sensical nonsensical, that intersection where the heart and the brain clash fearsome. this is oft, too oft, how life sinks it teeth into you, and extracting those thorns, leaving teeth marks hurting long long time after those withered roots get tugged, pulled, like a pain in the heart that was exorcised, but couldn’t never be fully excised 9/12/19

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“Whilst smiling to my face thou Hast plucked the ****** from thy boneless gums” Thus spake the venomous she, When querying the quandary Of “The Milk of Human Kindness.” That altruism, Proffered by many as sincerity In a charity bequeathed To the disposessed and less fortunate. Is an act which may be, in fact, Obliquely or brazenly, A lure to enhancement Of personal nobility sought. “But the quality of mercy is not strained It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven. Twice blest… It blesses he that gives and he that takes.” Thus so, is ****** upon the truly altruistic… An interminable questioning Of the Impetus Behind the Act ?? In order to mitigate THE JUSTICE OF THE PLEA. How stands Thee? Marshalg 25 July 2015

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Jul 24, 2015

Jul 24, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC

What Moveth thy Soul?

“Whilst smiling to my face thou Hast plucked the ****** from thy boneless gums” Thus spake the venomous she, When querying the quandary Of “The Milk of Human Kindness.” That altruism, Proffered by many as sincerity In a charity bequeathed To the disposessed and less fortunate. Is an act which may be, in fact, Obliquely or brazenly, A lure to enhancement Of personal nobility sought. “But the quality of mercy is not strained It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven. Twice blest… It blesses he that gives and he that takes.” Thus so, is ****** upon the truly altruistic… An interminable questioning Of the Impetus Behind the Act ?? In order to mitigate THE JUSTICE OF THE PLEA. How stands Thee? Marshalg 25 July 2015

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The night caught me When the day left my *** It embraced me Called me its child I fought its querying zeitgeist I whispered It was trying to help Brought to its kingdom I was forced to observe I saw the king What a ***** The queen tried to trick me Saying she wanted to help Signs of the snake in the grass Made me run with the group I don’t want to be last We laboured long Pulling the truth up From the root of its weave Seeing lies and trick Our mind could not conceive Obedience The ***** whispered to me That is all ask for You will get a tall glass or **** In the canteen of my mind I bartered for some Shut the **** up soda A red roti Dripping the blood of my ancestors I used the benediction Saluted the moon And prepared to write fiction

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Oct 20, 2014

Oct 20, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC

Bartered solace

The night caught me When the day left my *** It embraced me Called me its child I fought its querying zeitgeist I whispered It was trying to help Brought to its kingdom I was forced to observe I saw the king What a ***** The queen tried to trick me Saying she wanted to help Signs of the snake in the grass Made me run with the group I don’t want to be last We laboured long Pulling the truth up From the root of its weave Seeing lies and trick Our mind could not conceive Obedience The ***** whispered to me That is all ask for You will get a tall glass or **** In the canteen of my mind I bartered for some Shut the **** up soda A red roti Dripping the blood of my ancestors I used the benediction Saluted the moon And prepared to write fiction

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Seb's young fertile face beamed African royalty even in the penury of this Nigerian refugee camp. Her mother's downcast eyes shunned the camera's querying lens, while Seb's, "I-love-you", eyes were welcoming. Seb's eyes were as blossom-petaled obsidian pools, each pierced by the light of a distant star. Her blackness did not succumb to woeful displacement, but shone with the promise of an overcoming spirit; for a Mother's prayers were writ in the marrow of her bones. Born with a tenacity to love, her young heart leaped out through trusting inquisitive eyes. Her tongue, budding out of rich dark faced soil, seemed eager to taste the sweet juices that her spirited-eyes promised; smiling, "l love you", behind barbed wired love-me-nots. Seb was a child . . . full of joyful expectations. A child who did not choose this world; 'tho born of a Spirit conceived to love . . . to love the . . . hell . . . out from her world. gv 4.2015 Word Hobo ~~~~~~ (Note: This piece came out of seeing this fascinating photograph by Sebastian Rich, of Seb clinging to her Mother in a camp for displaced Nigerians.) Link to this Photo of Seb and her Mother: http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-04-26/infectious-and-innocent-smiles-from-war-zones/7355958 Scroll down to Ninth Photo Caption : A Nigerian child in a UNICEF clinic, who was finally on the road to a full recovery after suffering from severe acute malnutrition. Her unprompted smile filled my lens. I would encourage all to visit the website of Sebastian Rich. His heart-gripping photography is incredibly moving and meaningful. sabastianrichphotography.com.

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Mar 14, 2018

Mar 14, 2018 at 8:23 AM UTC

Seb's I Love You Eyes

Seb's young fertile face beamed African royalty even in the penury of this Nigerian refugee camp. Her mother's downcast eyes shunned the camera's querying lens, while Seb's, "I-love-you", eyes were welcoming. Seb's eyes were as blossom-petaled obsidian pools, each pierced by the light of a distant star. Her blackness did not succumb to woeful displacement, but shone with the promise of an overcoming spirit; for a Mother's prayers were writ in the marrow of her bones. Born with a tenacity to love, her young heart leaped out through trusting inquisitive eyes. Her tongue, budding out of rich dark faced soil, seemed eager to taste the sweet juices that her spirited-eyes promised; smiling, "l love you", behind barbed wired love-me-nots. Seb was a child . . . full of joyful expectations. A child who did not choose this world; 'tho born of a Spirit conceived to love . . . to love the . . . hell . . . out from her world. gv 4.2015 Word Hobo ~~~~~~ (Note: This piece came out of seeing this fascinating photograph by Sebastian Rich, of Seb clinging to her Mother in a camp for displaced Nigerians.) Link to this Photo of Seb and her Mother: http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-04-26/infectious-and-innocent-smiles-from-war-zones/7355958 Scroll down to Ninth Photo Caption : A Nigerian child in a UNICEF clinic, who was finally on the road to a full recovery after suffering from severe acute malnutrition. Her unprompted smile filled my lens. I would encourage all to visit the website of Sebastian Rich. His heart-gripping photography is incredibly moving and meaningful. sabastianrichphotography.com.

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this Overwhelming Reality consistently returns It's tied me to the stake forcing me to question my fatality coaxing then scolding I let It dictate the voice in my head never learns like a broken record-relentless never on break querying my morality why do I find comfort in these Chains? pertinaciously handing me the lighter dousing me in oil I gaze with no concerns I've clogged up all the drains content on no longer being a fighter it's too late the demons are infesting me my mental is drenched in propane swindling they claim to "make my future brighter' cut down my ferns only a piece of me remains so I devour the lit match out of pure desire oh I'll gain a light alright in and out of frames I'm losing sight my eyes-the first to feel the burns imaginary tears smother the flames the demons run and take flight won't be long for they'll return on another night this Overwhelming Reality consistently returns

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Nov 29, 2017

Nov 29, 2017 at 10:01 PM UTC

this Overwhelming Reality consistently returns It's tied me to the stake forcing me to question my fatality coaxing then scolding I let It dictate the voice in my head never learns like a broken record-relentless never on break querying my morality why do I find comfort in these Chains? pertinaciously handing me the lighter dousing me in oil I gaze with no concerns I've clogged up all the drains content on no longer being a fighter it's too late the demons are infesting me my mental is drenched in propane swindling they claim to "make my future brighter' cut down my ferns only a piece of me remains so I devour the lit match out of pure desire oh I'll gain a light alright in and out of frames I'm losing sight my eyes-the first to feel the burns imaginary tears smother the flames the demons run and take flight won't be long for they'll return on another night this Overwhelming Reality consistently returns

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Who can tell the difference between gallantry and deceit; that is clear only to the querying breeze? Who could not smell the pungent heavy cloud before the pulling of the petulant wind? Further, afar off, no one inquires about foreseen mornings unseen dreams once winged zephyrs echo in forgotten hallways. Perched high on rock faces grim beneath the humming of the bird, awash on porous promontories - failure now permeates the abject soul.

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Apr 14, 2015

Apr 14, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC

on winged zephyr dreams

Who can tell the difference between gallantry and deceit; that is clear only to the querying breeze? Who could not smell the pungent heavy cloud before the pulling of the petulant wind? Further, afar off, no one inquires about foreseen mornings unseen dreams once winged zephyrs echo in forgotten hallways. Perched high on rock faces grim beneath the humming of the bird, awash on porous promontories - failure now permeates the abject soul.

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six trees gathered, a single stand, looking for a gathering, standing of four more, a prayer circle to make, branch to branch holding onto each other, to have their bark better heard, the question on the table, today’s agenda: why must trees die? overheard their human querying same, the proud trees too, puzzled, sending their inquiry to the heavens that feed them never failing, water to quench a rooted deep thirst, their role, job description well understood, purposed to shade the world, give off fruit, so tasked, so asked: why must trees die? Caught the busy Lord unawares, dealing with seasonal pandemics, endemic hatred from the frailings of human weakness, who honor pretense by their mouth moving, but don’t believe their enunciation, oh! tiresome battlefront, millions of casualties inflicted on each other, Lord could not countenance another self-interested questioning of his earthly architecture why must trees die? on a beautiful paradisal day, cumulus whites decorating a blue coloratura that never be quite replicated, quieting, five-sense waters at ease, minimal moving, lunching noon hour,the birds, insects, rabbits all retired to cooling reservoirs, munch, gnaw, pollinate, yet the trees misjudge the sun dial iris quietude in the manger, the grove, as the Lord’s good graceful forgiving demeanor, therefore shocking, disbelieving the unforgiving ruthlessness of a deity of love, so the cracking of a single bolt of punishing, purposed lighting, that knocked all the trees down, single blow, roots embruing, ember glowed, a “sounding” the world hears unoften, unremitting, not understanding its other-worldliness, so rare appearing when an actualized answer is returned, declarative, tangible, glorious words: because I am who I am, The Eternal, alone, who keeps the imperfect balance of all my creations, without oversight, asking only from them acceptance of things beyond earthly comprehension...

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Jun 6, 2020

Jun 6, 2020 at 8:20 AM UTC

why must trees die?

six trees gathered, a single stand, looking for a gathering, standing of four more, a prayer circle to make, branch to branch holding onto each other, to have their bark better heard, the question on the table, today’s agenda: why must trees die? overheard their human querying same, the proud trees too, puzzled, sending their inquiry to the heavens that feed them never failing, water to quench a rooted deep thirst, their role, job description well understood, purposed to shade the world, give off fruit, so tasked, so asked: why must trees die? Caught the busy Lord unawares, dealing with seasonal pandemics, endemic hatred from the frailings of human weakness, who honor pretense by their mouth moving, but don’t believe their enunciation, oh! tiresome battlefront, millions of casualties inflicted on each other, Lord could not countenance another self-interested questioning of his earthly architecture why must trees die? on a beautiful paradisal day, cumulus whites decorating a blue coloratura that never be quite replicated, quieting, five-sense waters at ease, minimal moving, lunching noon hour,the birds, insects, rabbits all retired to cooling reservoirs, munch, gnaw, pollinate, yet the trees misjudge the sun dial iris quietude in the manger, the grove, as the Lord’s good graceful forgiving demeanor, therefore shocking, disbelieving the unforgiving ruthlessness of a deity of love, so the cracking of a single bolt of punishing, purposed lighting, that knocked all the trees down, single blow, roots embruing, ember glowed, a “sounding” the world hears unoften, unremitting, not understanding its other-worldliness, so rare appearing when an actualized answer is returned, declarative, tangible, glorious words: because I am who I am, The Eternal, alone, who keeps the imperfect balance of all my creations, without oversight, asking only from them acceptance of things beyond earthly comprehension...

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We see questions where we Wish answers were, The moment We are told, Does it forfill are need Querying, Examining, Questioning, Or does a new one come to mind With what is explained, . We are a question upon ourselves We exist, Why are we, What will we become, Do we do any thing worth an answer Or just a question, To anyone. We wish answers to everything, But more times than not They bring more thought, To the answers than the question Some questions, Multiplied, *Infinite, Answers, Split between two truths Some though will never agree, As its not what everyone wishes to hear.

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Sep 1, 2014

Sep 1, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC

We see questions where we Wish answers were, The moment We are told, Does it forfill are need Querying, Examining, Questioning, Or does a new one come to mind With what is explained, . We are a question upon ourselves We exist, Why are we, What will we become, Do we do any thing worth an answer Or just a question, To anyone. We wish answers to everything, But more times than not They bring more thought, To the answers than the question Some questions, Multiplied, *Infinite, Answers, Split between two truths Some though will never agree, As its not what everyone wishes to hear.

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I've re-written it. When i read it over this evening I hated it. The sequences needed adjusting, the whole thing made more sense of. it was too abstruse, downright vague the way it stood. Crap. Here it is: I hope it's better, clearer, stronger. Vanity Or What? Or Not? Will they miss me when I’m gone? Would they miss me if I went? Is the Facebook thing, this Instagram, Snapchat, this and Snapchat that - Is only just to reassure, insure and all the -sures An immortality that’s hardly possible With such as these? A question and a statement. If you should land upon an isle, No phone, no clothing, just a smile, Who’d care that you’re not there or where? The ego takes a jolt when true result is that A lively world’s been going on In the short while you’ve been isle borne. When you take up, upon waking, Cell phone, laptop out and working, Think about your motive deep, some path new chosen. Leap into the seasons, steeping self in new horizons. Public profiles pass from sight, from mind, from heart Once they depart. Querying the motives that define, I’m off to take out, open mine, The whole controlling ‘Spite the knowing. Vanity or not? Vanity Or What? Or Not? 3.18.2018 Circling Round Vanities II; Circling Round Egos; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Arlene Corwin

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Mar 18, 2018

Mar 18, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC

Vanity Or What! 2nd time around

I've re-written it. When i read it over this evening I hated it. The sequences needed adjusting, the whole thing made more sense of. it was too abstruse, downright vague the way it stood. Crap. Here it is: I hope it's better, clearer, stronger. Vanity Or What? Or Not? Will they miss me when I’m gone? Would they miss me if I went? Is the Facebook thing, this Instagram, Snapchat, this and Snapchat that - Is only just to reassure, insure and all the -sures An immortality that’s hardly possible With such as these? A question and a statement. If you should land upon an isle, No phone, no clothing, just a smile, Who’d care that you’re not there or where? The ego takes a jolt when true result is that A lively world’s been going on In the short while you’ve been isle borne. When you take up, upon waking, Cell phone, laptop out and working, Think about your motive deep, some path new chosen. Leap into the seasons, steeping self in new horizons. Public profiles pass from sight, from mind, from heart Once they depart. Querying the motives that define, I’m off to take out, open mine, The whole controlling ‘Spite the knowing. Vanity or not? Vanity Or What? Or Not? 3.18.2018 Circling Round Vanities II; Circling Round Egos; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Arlene Corwin

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' *Can anyone really tell (what difference there is) clear to querying mind(s): **How is it we could not savour the pungent, heavy clouds before the pulling of the breeze?** Further, afar off, one imagines future life daily waiting - awash tranquil staccato whispers - permeate my porous soul after the pelting of evening rain.* ___ ____ ____✒ ○● °

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May 5, 2015

May 5, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC

early evening rain(s)

' *Can anyone really tell (what difference there is) clear to querying mind(s): **How is it we could not savour the pungent, heavy clouds before the pulling of the breeze?** Further, afar off, one imagines future life daily waiting - awash tranquil staccato whispers - permeate my porous soul after the pelting of evening rain.* ___ ____ ____✒ ○● °

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' *Who can tell the difference between gallantry and deceit; that is clear only to the querying breeze? Who could not smell the pungent heavy cloud before the pulling of the petulant wind? Further, afar off, no one inquires about foreseen mornings unseen dreams once winged zephyrs echo in forgotten hallways. Perched high on rock faces grim beneath the humming of the bird, awash on porous promontories - failure now permeates the abject soul.* ____ ____ ____ ✒ ○● °

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May 4, 2015

May 4, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC

once rechargeable, no more

' *Who can tell the difference between gallantry and deceit; that is clear only to the querying breeze? Who could not smell the pungent heavy cloud before the pulling of the petulant wind? Further, afar off, no one inquires about foreseen mornings unseen dreams once winged zephyrs echo in forgotten hallways. Perched high on rock faces grim beneath the humming of the bird, awash on porous promontories - failure now permeates the abject soul.* ____ ____ ____ ✒ ○● °

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“ The reality is that no medication or vaccine is 100% effective, and everything has risks and benefits,” (Bloomberg article on the efficacy of vaccines) <<> this the larger/largest query, if not the largesr grandee of all questions and querying, is it has no equal! hopefully you place expectant parenthood off to one side for soon enough the daily double trouble of learned birth defects yours, theirs, ours collectively, of the most ordinary human variety will be self-disclosed, no needed writ of disclaimer, just a legal exclaim, of a suitable profanity curse… better than who what when where and it’s a first cousin to why?, and begins the conversation intimating the process, goal setting, mostly failing, cursing your self oft out-loudly while think-walking, and the nearby know it all’s are thinking, what was I expecting? you don’t understand? 99.9% of us doomed, doomed I tell you, to fail… What were you expecting?

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Mar 27, 2024

Mar 27, 2024 at 2:36 AM UTC

What were you expecting?

“ The reality is that no medication or vaccine is 100% effective, and everything has risks and benefits,” (Bloomberg article on the efficacy of vaccines) <<> this the larger/largest query, if not the largesr grandee of all questions and querying, is it has no equal! hopefully you place expectant parenthood off to one side for soon enough the daily double trouble of learned birth defects yours, theirs, ours collectively, of the most ordinary human variety will be self-disclosed, no needed writ of disclaimer, just a legal exclaim, of a suitable profanity curse… better than who what when where and it’s a first cousin to why?, and begins the conversation intimating the process, goal setting, mostly failing, cursing your self oft out-loudly while think-walking, and the nearby know it all’s are thinking, what was I expecting? you don’t understand? 99.9% of us doomed, doomed I tell you, to fail… What were you expecting?

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