"recline" poems
What we have named Fire Escape
(an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail)
had made picture geometries in my west window
well-framed and flat--set foreground and background
in two dimensions, as the sun hid,
and my round eye opened.
What we have named Fire Escape
was flaked-paint brown orange, as if
first it had been born of a flame
and then had taken up living as metal--
tempered itself into usefulness,
which I should trust now, in case of the yelling
and the engines.
What we have named Fire Escape
was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane
for the sparrows I saw this morning
which flitted and wildly played
within, rising up
arched and back again.
Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs--
a tunnel entrance or ducking posts,
or highway bridges to clear;
the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots
each following each, going under.
No sparrow would ever crash.
And what is this I remember now?
How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay?
As if to offer me, with a little turn of head gesture--
a thank you, for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say
I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit?
Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast.
Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages
from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined,
to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less.
That morning, with the very last sparrow gone,
I remember that nothing in my sight moved,
save an American flag at a distance in the wind,
with its one red-white striped wing
waving toward the cold north,
as the white church spire,
framed in open quadrilaterals,
held its position.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 5:18 AM UTC
The end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
9.2k
The blood comes dilute, as if to refute
What is, or was ever at all
To challenge the must,
The is and the thus
The ever, the will, and the Fall
The Winter, the Spring, the Summer that brings
A freedom, an illusion anew
A time to recline--in dreams and unwind
The idea that you can, that you will
The will, O the will, O the untempered can
Of worms which one opens and finds
Full to the brim, before and again
"Reality"" which tries to unbid
The self from the mind
The meaning from line
The reason from rhyme
And the is from all time
Separates Us: from passion
From Trust.
From belief in ourselves
From love
From true wealth
From magic. From tragic
At least in true measure
Dulling the pain,
But denying the pleasure
The Roar and the Ring
A Hell of a Thing
To make the time pass or
To fill up Your Glass.
~D.B. Guy
August 15, 2011 12:11AM PDT
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:39 AM UTC
Lying beneath trees in the heat of the day cannot possibly be compared to any other pastime: to watch the light toy with the leaves, shining bright and brighter in the ever-changing gaps in the leaves turned dark by the shadow. The interplay between the light and the leaves in ever-ongoing banter and they hate to quit their game when the sun moves too far beneath the horizon for the light to reach above the boughs and must return to its source. The wind plays a part in the sport as well, when it rustles the leaves and causes a sparkle in the variance of illumination. Tortoiseshell patterns scatter along your limbs and features and tumble off the cliffs of your sides into the grass you recline on. The filter of light casts playful interlocking patterns of light and dark impossible to decode without the proper encryption, forever lasting while the world speeds past their lazy game.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
Joy murmurs above.
We crave patience.
Twisting the top off each other's head.
Who first insults permission.
Applying our hands as cups.
No longer dull to the vapor of how we feel.
We recline in long verse.
Spudders of interruption.
The rush of anticipation.
Pressed against the couch.
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
Opening up to you without cease.
Frequent sips of red wine.
Tilting you over filling my cup.
Eager to sip in weighed sway.
I hear and smile.
Feeling the effects.
How you laugh.
How you smile.
It's funny how time flies.
Leaves in Spring.
Blown away, scrunched up in the crinkle of your dress.
Rustic brown & red accented in black.
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
There's no alternative.
I'm an alcoholic.
Pursuing sip after sip.
Civil in how we converse.
Neighboring bold taste
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
breaking ice in my mineral water
lime spritzing the air and
dripping down my fingertips
as i twist it and sip its tang
hot sunlight radiating on my
body until the sweat glistens
at even the slightest movement
the rustle of well-worn pages
his sharp Adam's apple
rolls ever so slightly with a swallow
of the sparkling glass
the bubbles, like tiny diamonds
the hiss of the sprinkler next door
and the squealing chortles
of the neighbor kids running in it
chocolate melting on my tongue
chair squeaking when I recline
Happy is as happy does, but
I'm thankful happy's mine.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
How will we progress today?
Will we risk life attending Mosque,
Or have an affair with our spouse's boss?
Will we take the dog out for a walk,
Step on a landmine, use plastic straws?
Perhaps we'll play with our kids today,
Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray?
Will we defy authority with a righteous tone,
Or leave our tail tucked, like a dog with his bone?
Will we gauge goods today for our Vegan menu,
Or show a distention as millions today do?
Will we drive around town for cheaper gas,
Or choose our pickings from picked-over trash?
Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages,
Or attend a visitation in a tortured MADD rage?
Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class,
Or sit solitary watching the hourglass?
Did we place our script at the shiny drugstore,
Or wade across water to Jordan's fair shore?
Will we question the teacher at our kid's school,
Or play Avatar falling off our bar stool?
Did you set a reminder on your AI phone
For chicken delivery to your suburban home?
Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites,
Proclaiming your station in life gives you right?
Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book,
Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook?
Will you take out your family,
Are you last on your list,
Will you reciprocate a handshake
Or raise a gloved fist?
Our words can't bind all our wounds,
Few are born with silver spoons,
We're not wrapped in silk cocoons.
A metamorphosis is coming
To this world of gloom,
A rousing group flight,
And it can't come too soon.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 9:36 AM UTC
May the Angel of sadness recline on your shoulder
The face betrayed grow larger and ever bolder
The pain of age creep into your bones
While the ghost that haunts you
Sing her sorrowful song
Casting anguish and silver star dust into angry winds
Let that paid for in blood begin
No path to follow
No sanctuary in which to hide
In the desperate stillness of the night
It shall be as the as the dark words were spoken
The curse of life
The gift of hatred
The token
May the Angel of regret wear now the wedding band
The cold demon of revenge caress your wretched hand
These gifts are given deliberately with spite
It awaits you
The desperate stillness of the night
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M Darby 2/25/2016
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:54 PM UTC
Breathe.
Warm caress against your skin,
tendrils of love embrace you.
Playful whispers and
whimsical sighs take us
on a journey of
love.
A breath of passion
enriches our lives
as we breathe in unison,
keeping cadence with the sounds
of nature.
We are surrounded by life,
by love,
by desire...
our flame adds to summer's
heat.
Relax, my love.
I will encircle you with
a rapture which takes your breath away.
Remember, my love...
exhale. Let stress and pain
emit from your body as my adoration
holds you.
Recline in the arms of
my devotion
and remember to
breathe.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
I've abandoned a withered state, fumbling
Toward your ecstasy - opening windows to
A brave new world: What a scene to behold!
My heart has calmed consuming life’s tonic -
I'm filled with attraction, alike an alchemist
disposition to discover their personal legend
How far, do thoughts travel? Become aware,
we’ve covered only but a few hours of sleep
The vicissitudes of motion - by faith we move
At luminal speed, ’til visions dawn and we’re
Before a sky clearing moon
Shall we recline in that loft above?
While it be suspended in the fetal position?
Or tarry until morn’ when reflections are reborn
From spurts of spontaneity, to cycles of growth
Apprehending blessings so as to appreciate the
distance of our obstacles
For camaraderie's had since severed –
And authenticity perfidiously pilfered –
And liars became prosecutors of liars
Pregnant with delusions of grandeur
Freedom is the temporal prison for
Revolutionaries wails of conditions
Psalms of sentimentalism provoke
An emotional tug of war, conscripting
another soldier of love – wearing a fig
Leaf of inhibition and foul remains of
passed transgressions...
Where to turn to when you’re cold?
Intransigent echoes give no warmth
I’ve fallen into the (d)earth of sanity
Erstwhile
Fumbling
Toward
Ecstasy
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
If trees be poems by the earth
In avid joy I read each one
Florets writ in fragrant verse
Inked with beams of the morning sun
In shade, a fruit, a whiff of air
I rest beneath wide branches spread
A cavort of emerald canopy
Bestows comfort upon my breath
I lean against the bark, recline
And think of how it stands in time
Through tunneled years it's stoic trunk
Stands proud against frost and rain
Drops it's leaves to nakedness
Till spring dresses in green again
On but an arm, the koel sings
'Tis home to birds that weave a nest
Haven to sojourners ache
Clasp around, hold close to breast
I trace the names of love engraved
Now forgot; asleep in graves
On felled bark my soul I pen
On papyrus the past I feel
The murmured songs of sentiments
In susurrus as branches kneel.
Nymphs would hide or fairies entreat
With fireflies in silver light
Creatures tip toe on their feet
Lithe, in the darkness of the night
In engraved lines meaning I see
What better song, what poetree?
Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky - Gibran
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
~
*It lays silkenly sweet against
sun kissed skin
tiny straps, perhaps strapless
delicate linen softly draped
tender tiny tucks and nips
delicious bows tied at nape
It cascades around curvy hips
‘round a waterfall that slightly drips
sprightly colors all wink as
they whisper and swish
full of giddy and laughter, they flirt
away gloom, rain and mist
Teasing touches wraps around thighs
dancing daisies pause as I walk by
serenely skirt and brush past
with a soft wispy cushion sway
plump full, recline, pause to chat
on a sultry summer’s day*
~
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 9:34 AM UTC
There is a hollow in her hand
That needs to be filled with mine…
A beach of powder white sand
Where we cheerfully recline…
There are two lovely lips
Aching for a tender kiss…
A cliff top where the wind whips
Up a bracing breeze, sheer bliss…
Warm tints nestle within her hair
And seemingly skip with pleasure…
A buttercup meadow so rare
Where we picnic at our leisure…
Right in the centre of her chest
Her heart beats a rhythm sublime…
Wherever we are, that place is the best
As long as I’m with her each time….
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
days crawl by
and humidity stills the air.
the black flies are late this season,
though around here, most things are.
below the gnat line, girls like me
seldom get to die easily,
perfumed powders
masking the scent of illness,
flushed cheeks and damp foreheads donned
as our feeble bodies recline on fainting couches
to delicately languish away. we know that
there’s a certain beauty to decomposition,
to fungus gnats invading potted soil,
to fruit flies nesting in sink drains. we know that
rotting is a clock that never stops,
tallying each unflinching, humid second while the
days crawl by.
Jun 22, 2023
Jun 22, 2023 at 8:04 PM UTC
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter’d far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mus’d the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the ***** to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
“Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!”
When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever’d breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, ’twould soothe my dying hour,—
If aught may soothe, when Life resigns her power,—
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my ***** where it lov’d to dwell;
With this fond dream, methinks ’twere sweet to die—
And here it linger’d, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch’d beneath this mantling shade,
Press’d by the turf where once my childhood play’d;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I lov’d,
Mix’d with the earth o’er which my footsteps mov’d;
Blest by the tongues that charm’d my youthful ear,
Mourn’d by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplor’d by those in early days allied,
And unremember’d by the world beside.
2.2k
how can i ever forget
those penetrating moist eyes
before we bid our final goodbyes.
ringing in my ears now,
are mellifluous incantations
flowing from the synchronized lips
of brahmin priests at this open air temple.
here,
i, as budhanilakanta
adorned with marigold flowers,
recline on a celestial snake,
pondering the blue print
for the next cycle of creation.
one hundred eight lamps
are waved in arcs
as salutations for me,
witnessed by humble devotees.
a spectacle to match
the fireworks of the Milky Way.
but it’s your chosen silence for now,
which resembles the night sky.
as i search for a melody
deep within me,
your face is the pure dawn i seek.
your haunting voice,
the raga, i yearn to hear.
can’t we immerse in the simple joys of human life?
can’t we just add a few more chapters to our cosmic love story?
© 2023
Apr 29, 2023
Apr 29, 2023 at 11:33 AM UTC
The end of our journey
on the horizon's center;
the last stop to this asylum
in the midst of winter.
Darlings of destitution painting
****** distractions on the latex;
the essence of ambition covered
within the toxic keepsakes.
Cold doors keeping out
the warmth of affections;
our bodies wrapped tightly
within the canvas of preconceptions.
The thumping of our minds
beneath the crumpling distress;
ideas illuminating our perilous
potential. ****** beads of sweat falling
into the darkness.
Crazy notions spewing
all over the floor; the
filthy piles of wasted
time is growing.
Insanity within this circle
of trust; our dreams mislead us.
No windows to expose the sun as
we recline towards amnesia.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
She looks out the window
At the thick sheen of ice
That covers the road.
People huddle and shuffle
In great huffs of warm breath
As they try to move on in their lives.
They try to ignore their wobbly legs
And shifty, slidey, slippery feet
On patch after patch of ice.
They've got great things to do
And many places to be,
So they battle the weather
That is set to defeat them.
But she sits amongst pillows
With fuzzy blankets and cocoa,
Content to let the world go on outside.
She'll just recline at the window
Reading her poems with satiated sighs.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
A dozen years, the length of feline days:
compared to human lives it may appear
the cats lose out. To be a human pays.
I think on this, and on companions dear:
Successive cats whose whiskered lives touched mine
Have lain upon my lap— do you suppose
Their tiptoe through the years is but a sign?
I measure out my life with kitten toes.
As they and I pursue the hilly ways
that fill our lives, "Beware! The end is near!"
"Your death is nigh!" or some such friendly phrase
will tell me that it's all downhill from here.
And soon the slope more steeply will incline,
And drop away as quickly as it rose.
You trace the arc? My life is on the line:
I measure out my life with kitten toes.
Though now, my cat, we feel the sunshine's blaze—
your windowsill is warm, the skies are clear—
yet still I feel the sun's all-seeing gaze
remind me of the coming day, I fear—
the coming day I cannot feel it shine,
and on my face the smiling daisy grows.
I only have the one, where you have nine:
I measure out my life with kitten toes.
Prince, lord of cats, may endless meat be thine!
O grant that thine immortal princely doze
may evermore upon my lap recline!
I measure out my life with kitten toes.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
When
cheaters and liars
rise to the top of the polls
When genocidal speech
wanna be torturers
let their goals unfold
advocating killing relatives
Something every drug lord knows
When words don't mean anything
Images are everything
When words and images disconnect
When words don't work
It's what we call psychosis
in the psych biz
We're all thinking
That can't happen here
A cousin they call Germany
Refined
Civilized
Educated
Defined art
Music
Ethics
Found out exactly what every **** head
knows when you go too far
There's gonna be advanced window patrol
Getting out the duct tape
Wrapping up the house
Can't let any light
in or out
You may end up in leather restraints
On a plastic sheet on a metal bed
America better call the crisis hotline
Stand in line for same day services
5150/Legal 2000/72 hour commitment
Being a danger to self and others
Rapidly becoming gravely disabled
Hold on, I'll write that Hold now
Bring out the atypicals
Risperdal Zyprexa Serequil
Take an Ativan
Take a Zanax
**** it take a ******
If you don't come back down now
Find the ground
You'll be okay
In a decade or three
The suffering of course
Will be burns in the third degree
Psychosis can be unkind
All civilizations have their day
Incline
Recline
Decline
It can't happen here?
Chaotic brutality knocking on the door
You gotta know what's in store
We need an intervention
Breathe it back on in
It can still be okay
Reality check
Words sometimes mean something
And people sometimes mean what they say
And though
Images dissolve
Evolve
Fracture and split
Those that are seeing and hearing
What's going on
are holding their breath
Wondering how crazy it's really all gonna get.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
Late summer a lofty pause. At work I am absent from myself; from any conviction. The vegetation has reached to its fullest and covers the vision. Memory free of concern. As in the work of nighttime to morning, so memory of other seasons is dimmed. We wish to retreat at length and recline to watch the season's sunset. Not yet the descent into the urgent. A moment sent to you so silent, it is punctuated with the song of cicadas, chyrp of crickets, so nourishing for you have only to lift your eyes to see.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
from the void
the mountain speaks
the beat goes on
in these desolate peaks
moss covered stacks
of sea floor and mantle
embrace and fold
in metamorphic tangle
stunted fir clings
graying roots exposed
a rocky, barren life
is all this sapling knows
snowcapped elderberry
scale the crevice
where bear and wind
make raucous passage
avalanche chutes
gracefully recline
in verdant shades
to the waterline
lie in the meadow
to calm the chatter
make still the noise
to blunt the clatter
upon the coming
of soft night
undress this silence
angel mine
*I came to a point where I needed solitude and just stop the machine of 'thinking' and 'enjoying' what they call 'living,' I just wanted to lie in the grass and look at the clouds.
-Jack Kerouac*
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
birthday, birthday
22 years spent in orbit
looking for the treasure in golden moments
hoping i am deserving as destiny’s unfolding
tired of withholding, fasting from my motives
birthday, birthday
sunken thoughts from the optimistic ship
smiles can only get you so far, as far as this
recline into decline into the abyss
growing is the acceptance of this
Mar 6, 2024
Mar 6, 2024 at 6:57 AM UTC