"receding" poems
.
The waves spilled the rising tide
back into the scattered footprints in the sand
deeply entrenched in life’s mystery,
receding into every breaking wave
A stiff sea breeze put back every grain of sand,
elements of a larger object gathers,
gravity firmed, into the silent shoreline chasms—
a beheld essence washed out to sea
by the fugitive tides and retreating sea-foam
Soon all trodden traces visibly vanish;
unmarked mileposts on a metaphysical pathway
slip away back to a windswept shoreline
and elapsing summer tide
Seabirds glide in slow-motion,
held sway into the shapeless gusts —
as if feathered puppets hovering,
hanging from the rafters
of the burgeoning orange sky
There's an uncommon peace in the renaissance;
effervescent crisp ocean air filling
the indefinable emptiness
marooned within each heartbeat’s echo
Each new breath inhaled, disappearing within
the unhealed hollow of every thing once believed;
fully aware this life is unholdable as time,
yet feeling many things deeply retained
in each passing moment—
slipping away like a handful of sand
sifting through all these hands once held
Presence becoming wreathed in a miasma of stillness,
space that levitates like an unpredictable fog
that seeps into the gnawing voids
of an unsated hunger
harlon rivers ... August 1st, 2018
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 8:34 PM UTC
When I woke for work this morning
I wish I'd stayed in bed
But, I perservered and showered
I could sleep more when I'm dead
Another ache, another pain
My eyes were sore and red
But, I had to keep on moving
I could sleep more when I'm dead
Age is creeping up on me
In fact, I know it's here
It lets me know it's present
It gets louder every year
I can not do the things I did
I can't see what once was
I know it's not technology
I know age...yes, age is the main cause
I have to sit to tie my shoes
Even that takes all my breath
I cough most times I do them up
It scares my wife to death
I used to go out for a run
Each day when I got home
But, now I like the company
I can't go outside alone
Age is creeping up on me
In fact, I know it's here
It lets me know it's present
It gets louder every year
I can not do the things I did
I can't see what once was
I know it's not technology
I know age...yes, age is the main cause
My hair, is grey with brown highlights
At least, where it still lies
It's growing like a **** field
Above both of my eyes
I have more types of medicine
Than most people half my age
My glasses are now trifocal
So I can see what's on the page
Age is creeping up on me
In fact, I know it's here
It lets me know it's present
It gets louder every year
I can not do the things I did
I can't see what once was
I know it's not technology
I know age...yes, age is the main cause
I hear as well as I once did
As long as all is quiet
I didn't think you'd believe that one
But, I thought,....oh hell, let's try it
Spicy foods, don't start me off
My stomach they just turn
I have a little purple pill
To help with the heart burn
Age is creeping up on me
In fact, I know it's here
It lets me know it's present
It gets louder every year
I can not do the things I did
I can't see what once was
I know it's not technology
I know age...yes, age is the main cause
*** now there's a topic
I would rather watch tv
My wife still wants to have it
All that's missing's ...me
I talk just like my grandpa did
About the good old days
How we had to walk uphill to school
And how it was uphill...both ways
Age is creeping up on me
In fact, I know it's here
It lets me know it's present
It gets louder every year
I can not do the things I did
I can't see what once was
I know it's not technology
I know age...yes, age is the main cause
Age....it is a nasty thing
You don't see it, but it comes
All my body is receding
My hair, my brain, my gums
I know I'll never beat it
I'll learn to live with it instead
so, for now...I'll just go along
I'll get my rest when I am dead.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
I had put on weight,
I enjoyed life,
I was optimist,
I was my children's number one,
My husband had not left me,
Though my beauty was receding.
Didn't have time for beauty parlours,
I decided to sum up myself in the mirror,
Looked at my curves,
None at all,
Looked at my face,
Slight traces of beauty left.
Needed a face lift,
Smile still **** and beautiful,
Hair, high time I went to a good hairstylist.
I turned this way and that way,
I was no more stylish,
I was fading.
Tears welled up in my eyes,
I heard a chorus from behind me,
"BEST CREATION FROM GOD"
My three children and husband
gathered around me for a family hug,
We love you as you are,
Nothing More Nothing Less.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
Fluid and soft
she will slip through your hands
like water
meant not to fill you,
but to help you grow.
She is not your rock
in a hard place
She is a tidal wave
that breaks at the receding.
She is not the light
That calls you close
But the warmth
That keeps
You at ends
With life
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
A woman drew herself up from wrecked wood at the bottom of the ocean;
whispered sea-songs into the wistful ear of a long lost love;
shook her locks 'til his heart beat faster;
looked longer than she should into the deep pools of his pleading eyes.
"I will call you when I want to;
I will call you when I want."
Cooled his temples;
breathed her watery breath
as silvered beads streamed down his shocked skin.
.......
Rumors rock an empty drifting boat;
a glazed shell faced with priceless pearl
broken from its moorings,
strangled by a knotted rope.
"You have not chosen me, but I have chosen you"
Hold fast the bestowed gift,
your Quinquireme of stowed treasure.
Protect its precious structure.
"Who are you, the one who stripped my soul?
Who is the third who stole yours?"
.........
Broken from netting I lie
a beached starfish on burning sand,
wishing the waves to wash me
back through Time's receding current
to find the silence that once was;
to turn away before the sacrifice,
before the Eye of the storm.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2010
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 2:05 AM UTC
129
Cocoon above! Cocoon below!
Stealthy Cocoon, why hide you so
What all the world suspect?
An hour, and gay on every tree
Your secret, perched in ecstasy
Defies imprisonment!
An hour in Chrysalis to pass,
Then gay above receding grass
A Butterfly to go!
A moment to interrogate,
Then wiser than a “Surrogate,”
The Universe to know!
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The first night I stayed under the stars at your house,
I tossed and turned until finally I woke you with
Soft kisses over your bare shoulders and on your chest
Just above your heart.
After stirring out of your slumber, your lips brushed mine
And the crook of your arm fit perfectly around
My body as you held me close.
One of us just barely awake, the other wide.
Learning to sleep with someone new takes time;
Discovering the way their chest rises and falls
Like the tide comes up to kiss the sand
Before receding back and pushing forward again.
Listening to their deep breaths as they lay
Almost lifeless on their back,
Matching their breaths to heartbeats beneath your cheek.
The way they stir in the sleep and reposition
Themselves so their arm holds you safe and secure
Even when they’re dreaming.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
The fading state lines spells memories,
as the rain comes down,
a clutch of fallen gratitude
may possibly release the pain.
Spent embraces dissolve
those hard shouldered highways.
Let your tumblers of Tennessee cry resolution,
as the doe eyed Gypsy Inn
dims low,
receding as this one night stand.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
They have now thronged brimful, all the barazas
In their elderly gear, in a move to cut off my thing,
The Maasai chiefs and elders have their fangs now,
More glowing in the crudeness of despotic culture,
Their foul circumcisers’ tools sharply menacing,
All focused on my ****** ******** the only joy of my nature,
They want to maliciously cut it off in their selfish solace
Minus mine consent the right of a young girl,
Chided by evils done in the name of culture,
Kwani? a maasai and culture who creates the other?
Can’t we create culture that is so darlingly to rights of girl?
Other than receding back to crookedness of un-gendered past
Denying I your posterity the rights to self worthiness,
Kindly I beg that you don’t cut of my ********
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
Dusk has fallen,
And the day is done
The sky is receding,
For the night has just begun
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 6:25 AM UTC
#1: My face is disproportional to the rest of me
It looks so uncomfortable sitting on my shoulders
Like it's a holder for the weight of the world
#2: My eyes show too much expression
They cannot lie
Even in moments of severe desperation
When lying that no, I am not about to cry
#3: My words are always awkward
Especially when spoken
They convey the notion of stupidity
When that's not true in reality
#4: My inability to cope with any stressful circumstance
Always retreating
Always receding
Instead of seeking out help
#5: My self hate
My inability to love who I am
The constant wish that I was someone
Who can
Love themselves with their entire heart
And not be dragged into this never ending dark
Of despising yourself
But blaming everyone else
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
Bugles sang, saddening the evening air,
And bugles answered, sorrowful to hear.
Voices of boys were by the river-side.
Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.
The shadow of the morrow weighed on men.
Voices of old despondency resigned,
Bowed by the shadow of the morrow, slept.
( ) dying tone
Of receding voices that will not return.
The wailing of the high far-travelling shells
And the deep cursing of the provoking ( )
The monstrous anger of our taciturn guns.
The majesty of the insults of their mouths.
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the ocean
it’s calling me.
its sweet longing,
tugs at the echoes of the beach.
the water is the greatest illusion,
seemingly blue and seamless,
it washes up,
clear as crystal.
the water stretches for miles
like millions of diamonds
floating on the transparent linen
blurred by the glint of the sun.
sailboats glide past
creating the only dents
in the flawless sheet of foam
haunting the blue ink.
swish
my eyes close
and i lean back
and i let the arms of the waves
catch me
the tides pull me down
until my head is no longer above the surface
and i do not struggle
but say my farewell to the sunlight.
swish
the sounds are fading
and my vision is receding
i try not to fight
and i let my body lie limp
the world will never know i am gone.
the sky will never spill a tear.
insignificant
insignificant
when you hear the echoes of the ocean
or see the million diamonds lined up along the shore
i hope you think of me
and i hope you know,
i am free
swish
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
I.
I wonder if you remember me.
You said, “Go out. Find me
that universe, and take these
with you.” Talismans.
Good luck charms like Mozart
and fifty-five ways to say hello.
Navajo night chant,
Peruvian wedding song,
diagrams of ribcages, gender,
bushmen and bones.
Gifts for a people you said
I may never meet.
It has been thirty-four years
and I wonder if you remember me.
II.
Less and less,
we call across the distance:
sixteen-point-twelve hours
between transmissions
and I wonder if you remember me.
I nearly kissed Jupiter for you,
nearly skimmed Saturn’s bright rings,
but you said, “Go out.
Find me that universe,”
so I sail out into the dark for you.
I keep a photo of you,
twenty years ancient,
to keep away the quiet
between your calls:
pale pixel, distant dot,
my origin receding,
I wonder if you remember me.
III.
I know now,
you never meant
to call me home.
Dutifully, I will go out,
but I wonder if you forget me.
I am still here, sailing.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 6:23 PM UTC
For life is continuous as long as they wait to be read
these inked paths opening into the future, page after page,
every book Its own receding horizon. And I hold them, one in each hand,
a curious ballast weighting me here to the earth.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
High on the O2:
Red Rossopomodoro, Wagamama,
and on the bus shelter, Marc Jacobs,
and again higher,
Habitat,
then Metroline moves past.
It's the 113
to Oxford Circus,
and the 13 to Victoria:
Thrilla Lives On,
shouts the slogan,
while National Express has
All Set For Take-Off.
They're gone...
It calms
empties,
nothing much
just the red lidless eyes
of cars
two, three, four dozen pairs
hover
over the asphalt road.
Where...
where am I?
Ahhh, yeah,
in the Oriental Star,
the road seen from a table and stool,
waiting
for food.
Where have I hailed from?
My lover's womb.
No, no
NOT THAT!
The North Star, yes:
A pub on the Finchley Road,
Where Tottenham beat Liverpool 4-1
A pyrrhic victory!
Over a couple of beers.
Warm years, and tears.
A sense of place,
a home, a nest,
Receding in the traffic
Of a busy road,
Waiting on noodles.
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 6:15 PM UTC
Beginning, aware, darkness, discomfort, fear, constriction, fear, emerge, shaken, washed, fear, breathe, cry, cleansed, wrapped, warmth, cry, awakened, opened, blinding, pain, cry, cuddled, warmth, safe, sleep, awake, hungry, she, need, love, them, those, bed, home, play, learning, friends, fun, joy, her, desire, love, pride, fulfillment, union, us, we, baby, life, accomplishment, dying, fear, memories, anxiety, pain, fear, love, light, tunnel, blinding, receding, aware, darkness, beginning…
* *“From nothing we are born to know,
…into nothingness we all shall go,"
"A journey after gifts we give,
But before we do; -live.”* * *
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
Sometimes I watch
the man in the benign pastel shirt
and the drab khakis
with the receding hairline
and the thick glasses
cross the street
with a package in his arms;
And I think to myself,
"There goes a good dad,
mild mannered, loving -
trying to make his way
in this savage world."
Then, almost instantaneously,
the doubt creeps in:
"Or, he could be a monster,
who beats his kids,
or his wife,
or sets fire to homes,
or has adolescent prisoners in his basement."
From then on I question everyone I see.
That lovable looking old lady
with her sun hat
and disabled parking pass
might shout racist obscenities
from her balcony
at poor black kids
playing in the park across the street.
The clean-cut young man
in the shirt and tie
with the papers in his hands
may spend his weekends
filling envelopes with anthrax spores -
one for each name on his list.
I can no longer see
the father whose arrival from work
is anticipated by a loving family,
or the grandmother who delights in
handing out the most Halloween candy
to every kid in the neighborhood,
or the industrious young professional
striving to make a meaningful contribution
to society.
I wonder if the darkness I see in them
is a magnified reflection
of the darkness I know
that lurks inside of me.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 4:30 AM UTC
Little girl in a blue
snow globe.
Pressed white shirt and tartan skirt.
Hair slipping
out of a ponytail or braid or something
like that.
Laughter like a current
to be lost in by a boatman.
Her first time at the beach.
Writing
childish saltwater sonnets
in the sand with her toes.
Paper-plane sky
kisses
sea brimming
out of its seams.
Singing, on-off key,
school choir tone,
'Never Let Me Go'.
Who needs, she needs
nothing
but
the horizon
cupped
in outstretched palms.
Innocence stored
in jagged-shiny shells
waiting to be
buried
in hot, bare sand.
Time comes to shore, oceans
grow warmer,
shallow.
No more of kid braids
but a woman in
azure.
Her whole life having been
a half-moon run
out of deep, dry wells
in search of,
in search of...
in search of
what, but
hope.
Cracking oyster shells
looking for
pearls.
Time again comes to shore.
Cigarette pants for tartan skirt,
in a blue-almost-black.
Staring out
at water lapping before her,
before her, after the sky.
Before,
after.
The horizon is a pretty picture
she wants to hang
on the wall of her heart.
But she, schoolgirl trapped in snow globe,
remembers
textbook phrases like
'Humans are made up of 75%
water.'
So we are drowning every moment,
she thinks dryly.
Water within,
inevitable.
Maybe her skin or nerves or vocal cords
sensed it all those years ago
in the schoolgirl's snow globe.
Like crying, like love,
like fearing, like dying.
Shifting, receding, flowing in
and out.
Could emotions be tides she dares,
dares not
row, row,
row through?
Where did it all leak away?
Was it in the salt
running down her face?
If she is 75% water,
where has it drained
to leave the heart parched,
and her tartan days a distant drought
of memory?
Snow globe melts away.
Wade in, wade in,
have your fill,
until skin is slick
with better pain.
You told the ocean years ago,
you sang in schoolgirl choir tones,
never,
never,
never let me go.
Now it never will.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or
some northerly harbor of Labrador,
before he became a schoolteacher
a great-uncle painted a big picture.
Receding for miles on either side
into a flushed, still sky
are overhanging pale blue cliffs
hundreds of feet high,
their bases fretted by little arches,
the entrances to caves
running in along the level of a bay
masked by perfect waves.
On the middle of that quiet floor
sits a fleet of small black ships,
square-rigged, sails furled, motionless,
their spars like burnt match-sticks.
And high above them, over the tall cliffs'
semi-translucent ranks,
are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds
hanging in n's in banks.
One can hear their crying, crying,
the only sound there is
except for occasional sizhine
as a large aquatic animal breathes.
In the pink light
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling,
round and round and round at the same height
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling,
while the ships consider it.
Apparently they have reached their destination.
It would be hard to say what brought them there,
commerce or contemplation.
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No water tastes sweeter
than that sip in the desert
No touch is finer
than that hand on the shoulder
when encased in loneliness.
No paycheck more abundant
than following employment deprivation.
No buffet more filling
than that first bite in hunger.
No more wondrous serenity
than when the pain
finally goes away
from your mouth
your back
your head
your knees
your gut
your mind.
No idea more stimulating
to a mind so hungry
than a poem which catches
the moment so perfectly.
No love more appreciated
than when awash in self judgement
No praise more received
than when lost in condemnation.
No warmth more soothing
than when lost in the snow.
No light so bright
as that first sunlight
when lost in the demons
of one's night.
No sensation so
pure as an open
heart after numbness descends
Compassion in hatred
A laugh when joyless.
A lover's kiss after betrayal
A loving look after the cold white wall
A loving word after tense stone silence.
No embrace more healing
than when you come home to me.
The receding waters after the tsunami
The stillness after the earthquake.
The peace after the warfare.
The spring flowers after the winter
The coolness of fall after the blistering summer's heat.
The wood stove so warm when the house is so cold.
No bed so content
No home so sweet
after being stuck out on the streets.
Duality Reality
Without our joys no sorrow
Without our sorrows no joy.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
i
a wee shaft of beam
across
a sea of chilly darkness:
dashing on, dashing long
a chain
of disturbing crispy waves.
a haunting pitch
of sirens, of winging gulls.
…then
a whistle in the dark
ii
i have bled.
and ever bleeding
is resurgence.
the stones are stained now
not all are stained yet.
but i can hold no more.
no more.
iii
to listen would have been enough
but spoke i
to deaf-mutes, clayey forms.
and every uttered little word
faded like receding undertone.
and then
conspiracy of silence,
misquotations,
sharing of once
too friendly shoulders.
a nod would have been enough,
or a pat,
or any like gesture;
they turned askance
and i fled… fled away.
iv
back to my chambered shell
back to my cradle
where there are many whispers.
and every fateful swing
of the pendulum
i reel and ride the wheel of fancy,
embrace false idols
like one fearful of his god
if only to escape the haunts
of conscience;
tremble at approaching footsteps,
shriek at every shadow.
v
i shall walk barefoot again
past leafless stumps
windborn, heated, and bowed,
‘cross an oasis grown desert dry,
past anthills now dunghills,
‘neath rapid flutter
of widespread murky wings,
past cliff edges
where resound pampered echoes,
while arched in deceitful hues
a rainbow.
…i scan the blue… i pause…
vi
i await a lily-white stork
or there shall be no curtain speech.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
I am a rain drop flopped down from the clouds
I could have landed in a river or the sea
Then merging with the rising and receding waves
I would have been washed down into oblivion
Or could have fallen from the heights
Into a desolate dreary desert
Amid the blistering granules of sand
To be absorbed into nothingness
Chances are there to have fallen on a rock
Lying scorched in the heat of the mid day sun
Then I would have vanished into thin air
Evaporating into non existence
I could have fallen into a muddy puddle
Or perhaps into a filthy drainage
To be contaminated with the sewage
Or be the breeding ground of worms and bugs
But fortunately for me
I happened to fall into fecund soil
Where there lay in wait a few seeds
Hankering for the cool touch of moisture
Arid souls desperately thirsting for water,
They ****** the molecules within me.
As their dry kernel got soaked and puffed,
Slowly they sprouted and grew into life.
Absorbing again the drops that came after me
They, into towering trees eventually grew
Some touching heaven’s azure heights
And giving shade and shelter to many
Now as I see them crested with flowers
And bearing clusters of luscious fruits
I feel I am there in each leaf and bud
And my essence flows through every vein!
As a teacher, what more is needed for me
To feel contented in life?
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face
towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover
and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration—
a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.
So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating
data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.
And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road
past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.
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