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"recluse" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
0
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Paradoxical Tendencies
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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47
There's a chill in the air and wind 'neath your boots There's clouds in the sky and trees with roots If all were to fall onto your crying head, Would you carry it home or lie down dead? The strength you have defines your choice Will you whimper and cry or show your voice? Through sorrow and pain and happiness and joy You either run and hide from all those you employ Or show them what you're made of inside For what you do becomes who you have to hide Not what you say with fury or a gentle tone But the actions you take when you're all alone When you're down and out, almost recluse And you feel as if you have no use If you still get up and challenge yourself You will become prisoner to no one else There's a song in the air and dirt 'neath your boots A song that carries on down to your roots Back from the days of no chores or worry When nothing was done in any sort of hurry You can hear these words in the back of your mind And it takes you back to a simpler time These little moments, spontaneous and surreal Show you how you can always feel Feel good and joyous even through the worst When tired and hungry, they give you thirst These little moments are found throughout life They can break you free from worldly strife And these things define who you were before And change who you are to forever something more Harkening back to when you were innocent and clean Can make you try your best to better your scene Your moments in life are yours to keep When daydreaming or your lost in sleep The worst will come and so will the best The dark before the dawn always sets to the west You can succumb to the pain that comes with years Or you can fight back the stress and fight back the tears Through everything that comes your way Only you can change how you live out your stay Others will come and others will leave But what holds together is what you believe Strength is within and without you Within is taken while without is beside you Hold onto a grain of meaningless sand And notice how it's light in your hand Just for that moment it's harmless and vain But if you hold on forever it builds into pain
0
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
Strength
There's a chill in the air and wind 'neath your boots There's clouds in the sky and trees with roots If all were to fall onto your crying head, Would you carry it home or lie down dead? The strength you have defines your choice Will you whimper and cry or show your voice? Through sorrow and pain and happiness and joy You either run and hide from all those you employ Or show them what you're made of inside For what you do becomes who you have to hide Not what you say with fury or a gentle tone But the actions you take when you're all alone When you're down and out, almost recluse And you feel as if you have no use If you still get up and challenge yourself You will become prisoner to no one else There's a song in the air and dirt 'neath your boots A song that carries on down to your roots Back from the days of no chores or worry When nothing was done in any sort of hurry You can hear these words in the back of your mind And it takes you back to a simpler time These little moments, spontaneous and surreal Show you how you can always feel Feel good and joyous even through the worst When tired and hungry, they give you thirst These little moments are found throughout life They can break you free from worldly strife And these things define who you were before And change who you are to forever something more Harkening back to when you were innocent and clean Can make you try your best to better your scene Your moments in life are yours to keep When daydreaming or your lost in sleep The worst will come and so will the best The dark before the dawn always sets to the west You can succumb to the pain that comes with years Or you can fight back the stress and fight back the tears Through everything that comes your way Only you can change how you live out your stay Others will come and others will leave But what holds together is what you believe Strength is within and without you Within is taken while without is beside you Hold onto a grain of meaningless sand And notice how it's light in your hand Just for that moment it's harmless and vain But if you hold on forever it builds into pain
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48
the bane of my existence here now is all of the incessant noise.   the city encroaches ever outward, gobbling up the suburbs like the great big Blob contributing layer after layer of noise.   a new metro line opened last year disheartened the morning realized it was the trains i heard as my puppy and i walked so early.   trash trucks, back up beeping noises, leaf blowers, mowers and trimmers ... all conspiring to drive me mad. the birds and owls, snakes and deer, hawks and rabbits toads and trees and flowers, puppies all other creatures divine, tempering this man-made chaos this man-made hell keeping me hopeful that i will have some respite    some respite from this hideous cacophony, this man-made hell, in the future, not too distant. of course there are some benefits from all the city life but i prefer the silence the solitude of nature. the Taoist recluses who speak to me, whose poems paintings writings and silence are balm to my soul.   some day soon, i too shall join the recluses far away far far away in the mountains. but for now, i am only a modern day taoist recluse stuck in suburbia, doing my best, living in this noisy hell.
0
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
Modern Suburban Hell
The sun Is glad to see your face, Your unseen grace, Your Hidden space, Your Silhouette now covered in sun beams. It seems You've been Packed away for a very long time Its almost a crime how you've Shielded yourself from his hydrogenity. The sun Is glad to see your smile Your pearly whites And colorless lips Soft, Too cold, needing, Craving, warmth. His Golden fingers graze your cheek And Bring life back to your pallor. Who knew Living as a recluse would make you so blue, So unidentifiable? He Brings you back from the dead Pulling your soul back out into your flesh. Fresh And healed, At least Temporarily But it is enough, His touch, To liven your now tanning skin To Make you akin to his own: A sunflower Trapped in the dark 3 inches tall instead of 3 feet Now starting to grow beyond skyscrapers with his aid, if his light is what's causing you to Stand up straight His heat is what is reviving your heartbeat A Crescendo from silence to a slight pitter patter Almost as soft as rain. Almost as if crying. If you listen hard enough, You just might hear it wimpering, waking up from it's hibernation. It Wants to go back to sleep But he Refuses to give up his efforts of recesitation For he knows it isn't for naught, For he knows that it is working, Your heart stirring Beating Louder as you step further out of the door frame Let him Cradle your soul with his firey hands Let him Bring you back from the dead. You Look so much more alive when you let him work his magic on you. The world Has missed you. Looking around, Your mind starts whirring, Analysing The outside world. The Green of the grass and the Blue of the sky, All Graces of the solar angel shining over you, Shining into you. Giving you sight, Giving you life, Giving you the things you couldn't have before. Let his Golden happiness seep into your freezing bones, And, Turn them into torches And burn brighter, in the daylight Than you ever did in the darkness.
0
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 10:53 AM UTC
Silhouette in Sunbeams
The sun Is glad to see your face, Your unseen grace, Your Hidden space, Your Silhouette now covered in sun beams. It seems You've been Packed away for a very long time Its almost a crime how you've Shielded yourself from his hydrogenity. The sun Is glad to see your smile Your pearly whites And colorless lips Soft, Too cold, needing, Craving, warmth. His Golden fingers graze your cheek And Bring life back to your pallor. Who knew Living as a recluse would make you so blue, So unidentifiable? He Brings you back from the dead Pulling your soul back out into your flesh. Fresh And healed, At least Temporarily But it is enough, His touch, To liven your now tanning skin To Make you akin to his own: A sunflower Trapped in the dark 3 inches tall instead of 3 feet Now starting to grow beyond skyscrapers with his aid, if his light is what's causing you to Stand up straight His heat is what is reviving your heartbeat A Crescendo from silence to a slight pitter patter Almost as soft as rain. Almost as if crying. If you listen hard enough, You just might hear it wimpering, waking up from it's hibernation. It Wants to go back to sleep But he Refuses to give up his efforts of recesitation For he knows it isn't for naught, For he knows that it is working, Your heart stirring Beating Louder as you step further out of the door frame Let him Cradle your soul with his firey hands Let him Bring you back from the dead. You Look so much more alive when you let him work his magic on you. The world Has missed you. Looking around, Your mind starts whirring, Analysing The outside world. The Green of the grass and the Blue of the sky, All Graces of the solar angel shining over you, Shining into you. Giving you sight, Giving you life, Giving you the things you couldn't have before. Let his Golden happiness seep into your freezing bones, And, Turn them into torches And burn brighter, in the daylight Than you ever did in the darkness.
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81
It is only in the state of galvanization, do I realize what it means to be impervious in youth. I have a father who stresses to me this: "Happiness is elusive." This is the kind of statement that must be swished around in the mouth, only to be spat back out. "Happiness is elusive." It is cause for concern, really. I will do my best in order to refuse to believe it, to believe him. Happiness is achieved through discovery. I think that I may have once had a sister (in my recollection she was very pretty). I was around her whenever it was deemed possible to do so -- it honestly wasn't too often that I could. In the very nooks and crannies of my childhood, if I could fall back unto the natural sublimity of it all; I do recall that I had a sister. Her features must have been youthful, from what I remember she was no more than inexplicable. If it were not so ambiguous, I might feel more inclined to speak with her again some day. The past is a scary thing. I feel pain in thinking of the lengths behind me, for what I have cultivated is sour. Recently a good friend accused me of this: "Being a recluse, spiteful, selfish person." Her notion both confused and throttled me, and only afterward did she speak in such a fervently aural tone: "That is o.k., you're only human after all." This is the very comment that sliced my being into a duality, leaving me to write poetry in order to attempt to find higher acceptance. Wisdom is a well, funny euphemism for delusion; And in my youth I am impervious.
0
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
Wisdom is a well, funny euphemism for delusion
It is only in the state of galvanization, do I realize what it means to be impervious in youth. I have a father who stresses to me this: "Happiness is elusive." This is the kind of statement that must be swished around in the mouth, only to be spat back out. "Happiness is elusive." It is cause for concern, really. I will do my best in order to refuse to believe it, to believe him. Happiness is achieved through discovery. I think that I may have once had a sister (in my recollection she was very pretty). I was around her whenever it was deemed possible to do so -- it honestly wasn't too often that I could. In the very nooks and crannies of my childhood, if I could fall back unto the natural sublimity of it all; I do recall that I had a sister. Her features must have been youthful, from what I remember she was no more than inexplicable. If it were not so ambiguous, I might feel more inclined to speak with her again some day. The past is a scary thing. I feel pain in thinking of the lengths behind me, for what I have cultivated is sour. Recently a good friend accused me of this: "Being a recluse, spiteful, selfish person." Her notion both confused and throttled me, and only afterward did she speak in such a fervently aural tone: "That is o.k., you're only human after all." This is the very comment that sliced my being into a duality, leaving me to write poetry in order to attempt to find higher acceptance. Wisdom is a well, funny euphemism for delusion; And in my youth I am impervious.
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33
oh my sister, there are 77 dreams I wrote in a journal there is a glass of water I left on some patio there is a box of wisdom I buried at a dusty crossroad there is a beach where you are I can see you in the waves the razzle of the sand like a billion speckled stars and the horizon—black galaxy next time I see you you’ll be tan like Cary Grant but alive and without the baby turtles I asked for I’ll ask how it went and you’ll say *like a book like a dream like a starfish* are there even starfish where you are? if there are, please don’t eat them it would hurt your mouth until then look at the sun she is beautiful—even I a wannabe recluse poet can appreciate nature through my window Dewy
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Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
I won’t see you for some time but I’ll have you know I won’t be lost
Prowling through the undergrowth In our barging juggernaut, Ploughing the rolling hills of water, Which crease as the narrowboat sluggishly gliding past, Brushes the bulrushes like a tiger in the reeds. For four intrepid days Our film and photographs are empty to show, No sign, only missed whispers, Of the hummingbird blue blur. A darting flash cresting the morning chill, Regal turquoise stealthily steals Our attention, our focus, and our tiller Noses toward the bank hugger. And we have him. Small amber-royal fisherman, Eclipsing his heron heralds And the swans silent vigil In majestic lapis lazuli. Swift and sure he graces the water, Fisher King, Which bends beneath his dive. Resurfacing, his golden breast Mottled with silver minnow. There recluse in his exclusive spot, Fish foundering still in the ****** The kingfisher's poise frames his catch Aperture, shutter, captured shot.
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Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
Kingfisher
Her loneliness wears maroon,                  I am aware," to her yin, my yang," mine in deep purple echoes,                 the density that's her, in my presence. On an island of her own, she sojourns,                  where there is comfortable room for two. A happy recluse she is, ruminating,                  diving deeper in to the sea of consciousness. What does it really mean?                   we are wound around a "KOAN", working on it, wouldn't stop to think,  I flow                     with the insistent gravitas of the current, Through her the dense silence speaks,                      in voices clear,  heard within me. all beyond words, and in a far more                      subtle plane, than this existence.
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Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
Koan
If I could wake up tomorrow And be someone new I’d hope to be someone That didn’t care about you A person who wakes up And smiles at the sun Not a recluse That hides from fun Someone who looks in the mirror And values themself Not insecure Loathing herself I wish to be someone Free as a bird Not someone who cares What others have heard But when I wake up I will still be me Hoping and wishing One day I’ll be free
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Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 3:06 AM UTC
Be Someone New
*The crescent moon be my perch.         A bough from which I extend my arm. Careful fingers grasp my brush... And with it I shall fill the void with the universe.                                The crescent moon be my hammock. Upon which I lean fully into, to seek restful recluse.               Should my body start to buckle...         From the heavy hopes of wistful eyes.    The crescent moon be my anchor. From which I draw                 my inspiration and strength.                    She would cradle and sway me gentle...       When wilting hearts spill unto me the callous wiles of the world.     The crescent moon be my well.         A fount through which my palette         remains full with an                                  abundant array of silvery white.         Just so...                                  I could conjure for others,        what their hearts so desire. Just so...                       I could grant them                     needed solace and tranquillity. Just so...                                            I could infinitely paint for them the stars...*
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Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
Painter
I think with my heart; not my head in my hand or buried deep under the sand. Because when everything comes from the core, i don’t need to wonder any more. Thinking is not a chore: like folding laundry into a tidy drawer. But that’s what draws our glass floor, and causes us to continully snore. But what we chose to ignore, should be infact, exactly what we adore. Then maybe we’d ask for an encore instead of a 24/7 drug store. ________________________ To you, i may be a boar, but we must bust down the door. Stop fighting the war! Live for evermore( if we wish to soar). _____________________ But today our biggest sore may be the us marine corp. i hurt for their souls, scattered galore. it is i who they fend for, it is why their blood continues to pour. But that doesn’t effect you, because it happens on another shore. Your questions? i have answer for, but please don’t ask me the baseball score. Those fact are not in my houses’ decor, all forms of politics, i choose to ignore. __________________________________ You can call me a dinosaur, regardless, I am not a cannibalistic carnivore. _______________________________ I know you may ridicule, but i prefer to be the recluse, only coming out, when looking for a spruce. So, when i do explore, you will not find me with the busy bodies, you will find me with the mircoscopic spores. After all, it's we they provide for. After this adventure, i know they swore, they could create me a commodore. On our yaht, somewhere offshore. There would be no more war. just hugs, tugs, and kisses galore. Before, I was a skeptic, ******** i now believe holeheartedly in folklore. My faith in prewar, is now eternally restored. Because mother against man always out scores, that is why i look no more. Nature is my only mentor. ___________________________ now, i see myself as a matador. i can be anything, that is the underscore.
0
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
Ostrich to the Core
I think with my heart; not my head in my hand or buried deep under the sand. Because when everything comes from the core, i don’t need to wonder any more. Thinking is not a chore: like folding laundry into a tidy drawer. But that’s what draws our glass floor, and causes us to continully snore. But what we chose to ignore, should be infact, exactly what we adore. Then maybe we’d ask for an encore instead of a 24/7 drug store. ________________________ To you, i may be a boar, but we must bust down the door. Stop fighting the war! Live for evermore( if we wish to soar). _____________________ But today our biggest sore may be the us marine corp. i hurt for their souls, scattered galore. it is i who they fend for, it is why their blood continues to pour. But that doesn’t effect you, because it happens on another shore. Your questions? i have answer for, but please don’t ask me the baseball score. Those fact are not in my houses’ decor, all forms of politics, i choose to ignore. __________________________________ You can call me a dinosaur, regardless, I am not a cannibalistic carnivore. _______________________________ I know you may ridicule, but i prefer to be the recluse, only coming out, when looking for a spruce. So, when i do explore, you will not find me with the busy bodies, you will find me with the mircoscopic spores. After all, it's we they provide for. After this adventure, i know they swore, they could create me a commodore. On our yaht, somewhere offshore. There would be no more war. just hugs, tugs, and kisses galore. Before, I was a skeptic, ******** i now believe holeheartedly in folklore. My faith in prewar, is now eternally restored. Because mother against man always out scores, that is why i look no more. Nature is my only mentor. ___________________________ now, i see myself as a matador. i can be anything, that is the underscore.
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59
Stored up enough, but the energy now takes on its own purpose. If only I could draw; I'd create picture books on exactly what the ending looks like. Rough sketches left collecting for many months, before I ever once thought of putting color to them. The why, would be as mind trancing as tracing catch phrases into the many levels of dust accumulated. I'd write something so cliché, like, "With this oily finger I remove the collection of time." or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut through time." I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget where I left off, and distract myself again with writing. A small recluse emotion of mine objects viciously, but my attention to every words incentive laced meaning would leave the visual to again rest unchanged, not colored. So's the plight of one who likes to think himself an artist. There's that scandalous narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up, reminding you just how beautiful your words are, and how small in intellect those who don't get it are. Upon that shelf your pictures sit. I can only write as a narrator, because our "philosopher," "philanthropist of word volley, our genius of word play," is once again too caught up in the descriptors to finish the real picture. Not that this idea will stand the test of time, but I do believe more writers will commit suicide, selfishly of course. Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing so enigmatically that no one gets your "deep soul." While upon that shelf, within a fiber of your overrun writer's ego, there's a drawing begging to be finished, colored, maybe even shared. But just where does it reside? Did the alternate you place it in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found? If it's too early it just can't be worth it, can it? He'll have to learn to put down the pen, rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers, set up an easel, squeeze out some paint, and realize there are other mediums where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations. Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist, sweeping arm, no words, images are now your letter blocks to construct with. Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen. Stop being so foolish "Writer man," if your ego clings too sharply to words, simply remind it, "This could be another pen name." "...I love that idea, what would it be?" "Narcissist Ugly." "So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
0
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
"A Recluse Part of All of Us"
Stored up enough, but the energy now takes on its own purpose. If only I could draw; I'd create picture books on exactly what the ending looks like. Rough sketches left collecting for many months, before I ever once thought of putting color to them. The why, would be as mind trancing as tracing catch phrases into the many levels of dust accumulated. I'd write something so cliché, like, "With this oily finger I remove the collection of time." or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut through time." I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget where I left off, and distract myself again with writing. A small recluse emotion of mine objects viciously, but my attention to every words incentive laced meaning would leave the visual to again rest unchanged, not colored. So's the plight of one who likes to think himself an artist. There's that scandalous narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up, reminding you just how beautiful your words are, and how small in intellect those who don't get it are. Upon that shelf your pictures sit. I can only write as a narrator, because our "philosopher," "philanthropist of word volley, our genius of word play," is once again too caught up in the descriptors to finish the real picture. Not that this idea will stand the test of time, but I do believe more writers will commit suicide, selfishly of course. Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing so enigmatically that no one gets your "deep soul." While upon that shelf, within a fiber of your overrun writer's ego, there's a drawing begging to be finished, colored, maybe even shared. But just where does it reside? Did the alternate you place it in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found? If it's too early it just can't be worth it, can it? He'll have to learn to put down the pen, rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers, set up an easel, squeeze out some paint, and realize there are other mediums where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations. Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist, sweeping arm, no words, images are now your letter blocks to construct with. Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen. Stop being so foolish "Writer man," if your ego clings too sharply to words, simply remind it, "This could be another pen name." "...I love that idea, what would it be?" "Narcissist Ugly." "So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
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72
its the TV commercials the fake **** the campaign trail the welfare recipients psychotic shooters bible thumpers and athiests salesmen gangsters and special interests its junk mail the court system its the poor paying more the ignorant the scared the recluse the extroverts the sales tax the hospital bills zombie ammo beggars making more than me nuclear threats starvation animal abuse drug addiction half assery its the bullies the police its advantage in retreat the lies the masks the crys the laughs its all the ******** that ******* annoys me
0
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 12:14 AM UTC
Get it out
He peeps through the looking glass of life. Emotionally detached, a social recluse. Avoid eye contact. Avoid eye contact. Don't dare look at me! That's right you've seen him! But.... Have you actually seen him? Or is he just a figment of your imagination? For he's the stalker. Lurking about in the shadows. Spying on you from afar through those holes in the wall. A human CCTV system looking you up and down when you least expect it. Recording your every move in the memory bank. Voyeuristic tendencies with the inability to openly admit he's one step away from the psychiatric ward.
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May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
CCTV man
*Once upon a time, Not so long ago... There anxiously lived A lovely lady, Who was now in the know! You see..., her inspiration Was taken away from her, Forcing her lively spirit To slowly die. Her heart had broke, Beyond repair, When she finally uncovered That love Was nothing but a cruel lie. Her kind, gentle soul Was tortured, And forced into virtual recluse, For it had withstood Unbearable amounts Of mentally painful, Emotional abuse. She learnt That the more one loves, The more one feels the pain, A very sad ending to her fairytale; One that happens to many Innocent, loving souls, Leaving them all, Never to be the same! By Lady R.F. (C)2017*
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May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 8:58 AM UTC
Not All Fairytales Have Happy Endings!
Autumn flares out, its flame burst clouds strewn about misted cliff sides, loam whites of winter taking their place. A stiff willow breeze, ten thousand things withdrawn to burrows and immortal pine heights. First snows stream down, duckweed carpets of August fade, jade peeking through white. I embark on the seasons final sail in hardening ice waters. Til spring my sails will be folded, my raft in idleness. ~~~ Rafting on moon drenched river, avoiding cascades and crash of rapids and falls. Silvered driftwood a warning. Silent glide of mulberry oar through dark azure, another crafts sail in silhouette. From the deck a black spectre dives below, stillness follows splash, re-emergence, beak wrapped around a dazzling rainbow. From my raft dangling lantern sways, trout swiping at gathered moths – scatter and return, some from a far off realm. Some trout in the net, others not. Luck or the way – who can tell? ~~~ Dusk colour gorge sheathed in emerald blankets, rising into sheer cliffs of auburn cinnabar, all underpinned by the fathomless flow of azure clarity. Snowy Egrets nest in pine top heights clear of dust. On white sand shores gibbons howl towards squawking beach gulls, squabble over landlocked trout – debate without end. Peach blossom petals swirl on spring breeze over carpets of jade inter cut by king fisher blue zipping over duckweed. Oriole song weaves in and out of mulberry branches. In these vast and vague waters - coves, creeks and streams all one, a river dragon lives an undetermined existence. Mud stirs below, merely a catfish airing grievances. Red tail flares in dirt, my mulberry oar rows me back home.
0
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
Recluse (River) (Poems)
Autumn flares out, its flame burst clouds strewn about misted cliff sides, loam whites of winter taking their place. A stiff willow breeze, ten thousand things withdrawn to burrows and immortal pine heights. First snows stream down, duckweed carpets of August fade, jade peeking through white. I embark on the seasons final sail in hardening ice waters. Til spring my sails will be folded, my raft in idleness. ~~~ Rafting on moon drenched river, avoiding cascades and crash of rapids and falls. Silvered driftwood a warning. Silent glide of mulberry oar through dark azure, another crafts sail in silhouette. From the deck a black spectre dives below, stillness follows splash, re-emergence, beak wrapped around a dazzling rainbow. From my raft dangling lantern sways, trout swiping at gathered moths – scatter and return, some from a far off realm. Some trout in the net, others not. Luck or the way – who can tell? ~~~ Dusk colour gorge sheathed in emerald blankets, rising into sheer cliffs of auburn cinnabar, all underpinned by the fathomless flow of azure clarity. Snowy Egrets nest in pine top heights clear of dust. On white sand shores gibbons howl towards squawking beach gulls, squabble over landlocked trout – debate without end. Peach blossom petals swirl on spring breeze over carpets of jade inter cut by king fisher blue zipping over duckweed. Oriole song weaves in and out of mulberry branches. In these vast and vague waters - coves, creeks and streams all one, a river dragon lives an undetermined existence. Mud stirs below, merely a catfish airing grievances. Red tail flares in dirt, my mulberry oar rows me back home.
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38
Awake this day... And never fear. I believe... everything would be much clearer. This day more than most... For this day... And everyday forward, the sun would rise in haste to propose a toast... to the undoubtedly most significant people...  in my heart... The moon would pull on the tides... My thoughts and well wishes on waves they ride, racing to farthest reaches of your recluse. Just so this day you'd know More than most days would show... That my belief will withstand the fires of a hundred guns. That my love would blaze with the fury of a thousand suns. Know that, this day the planets and stars finally would inherit their orbit true. This day... And everyday forth... the universe would and must revolve around you.
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Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
Everyday Forth
lush cornucopia of greens and overlapping canopies. rays filtered through somewhat a broken lens. an arbour found which carelessly took root. calling out, inviting, offering sanctuary from the shrill calls of the turbulent outside. a harbour to which my heart had taken to. and had intended to stay. but such is the nature of man.      *no other man's peace           can be left unruffled.      no other man's cocoon           can be left unravelled.      no other man's haven           can be left uninvaded.      and no other man's trove           can be left unraided.* like before I'll have to go. and just like man's exploratory nature, I leave seeking another unfound recluse. inadvertently, paving the way for more to come.
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Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC
Explorer
I am an escaped prisoner from barred disillusion, A personable recluse fighting the illusion Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion. I wonder how it is that I find optimism alone, When collective pessimistic thoughts condone The woeful tales that howl and moan. I hear voices of people that aren’t there, Yet find myself in calmness aware Despite their tormented accusational affair. I see ideals living and thriving out there Even when apathy or indifference ensnare Battered hearts and worn out minds in despair I want nothing more than to ‘want’ so desperately I hold onto desire so restlessly, That I’ve tired the being of my entity, I am an anomalous paradox captive to the sea Where waters churn in active disharmony, Yet comfort as it may my tranquility. I pretend that I’ve already staked my global legacy As if my words, thoughts, and feelings, Have changed the world entirely. I feel everything as I believe it should be, Riding the waves of intensity In emotionally humble serendipity, I touch the stars in remote prose, Wandering the vast expanses without close, Wherever my mind goes, it goes. I worry about the future of humanity, As if I was merely here to watch observantly From some unknown eternity. I cry for those in silent pain With fake smiles of disdain Who dare not speak for thought in vain. I am a quiet observer of the human condition Checking and balancing sedition Though never granting my submission. I understand the fallibility of the mind, Gathering as many perspectives I can find, Theorizing everything to which I’m inclined. I say it’s all relative but it’s all relevant Prone to be dominated by the prevalent Missing the subtleties that are heaven sent. I dream when I’m awake through my ideals, Even when they’re still just spinning wheels, Hoping they gain traction as time reveals. I try to be better than the day before, As that’s the best way to keep score, When the world has us compared to others so much more. I hope my legacy is genuine, I regret nothing even when I sin, As time wears down my wrinkled grin. I am only human, to live and to die, That’s about all we can be or rely, And honestly this notion breaths me a sigh.
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Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
I Am Poem
I am an escaped prisoner from barred disillusion, A personable recluse fighting the illusion Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion. I wonder how it is that I find optimism alone, When collective pessimistic thoughts condone The woeful tales that howl and moan. I hear voices of people that aren’t there, Yet find myself in calmness aware Despite their tormented accusational affair. I see ideals living and thriving out there Even when apathy or indifference ensnare Battered hearts and worn out minds in despair I want nothing more than to ‘want’ so desperately I hold onto desire so restlessly, That I’ve tired the being of my entity, I am an anomalous paradox captive to the sea Where waters churn in active disharmony, Yet comfort as it may my tranquility. I pretend that I’ve already staked my global legacy As if my words, thoughts, and feelings, Have changed the world entirely. I feel everything as I believe it should be, Riding the waves of intensity In emotionally humble serendipity, I touch the stars in remote prose, Wandering the vast expanses without close, Wherever my mind goes, it goes. I worry about the future of humanity, As if I was merely here to watch observantly From some unknown eternity. I cry for those in silent pain With fake smiles of disdain Who dare not speak for thought in vain. I am a quiet observer of the human condition Checking and balancing sedition Though never granting my submission. I understand the fallibility of the mind, Gathering as many perspectives I can find, Theorizing everything to which I’m inclined. I say it’s all relative but it’s all relevant Prone to be dominated by the prevalent Missing the subtleties that are heaven sent. I dream when I’m awake through my ideals, Even when they’re still just spinning wheels, Hoping they gain traction as time reveals. I try to be better than the day before, As that’s the best way to keep score, When the world has us compared to others so much more. I hope my legacy is genuine, I regret nothing even when I sin, As time wears down my wrinkled grin. I am only human, to live and to die, That’s about all we can be or rely, And honestly this notion breaths me a sigh.
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54
its harder but its gotta get better cuz theres nothing left to go wrong im chained to the system im ashamed to say that i am but theres no way around it thats easily atained so light up my world with all that you have i won't it for granted like i had in the past ill carry it along like a new life brought to the world and ill cherish, ill care for ill look after, and nurture its easier said than done to walk this big wide world alone im never a recluse i will always need you i just want you to need me to for all that you do what can i do for you theres nothing i want more than to give back something in return
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Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
Nurture
They used to call him the young genius now they call him the old recluse, holed up in his shack on the Mad River, A garden of grow in the back corner, Always a **** for me and you. He sits out on his little patio those bottle fed cats all running around chasing ghosts this way and that. Pink camillas white roses silken dried out hydrangeas, Spirits in the faces of the flowers. Red berries the bird's bar a bar fight breaks out every evening. We visit him there on Friday afternoons sun setting sun high in the blue sky. He finger ****** his way through life, Where ever he stopped, People's lives changed, He, searching for the words to heal others pain until compassion fatigue set in, Now he can only relate to others in small quantities of moments too much pain felt from without within. He is like his river, a madness, always different/always the same. The sanest person we ever knew. Just watch your eyes, though, with a look he'll see right through you, All your secrets will be revealed. The young genius the old recluse if you need some healin' go ahead and see'em, He'll give you just a hint, Even if he's not feeling, He'll take you down to the Mad River's shore give you a glimpse of you and bring you back home again for more. Shaman's on their way have nothing much better to do and nothing else to prove.
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Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
The Shaman on his way
I know no matter what I say or do.The words will sound so very hollow.For I am forever a stranger to you.Just a name in a sea of others.Fellow yarn spinners.Snakes and thieves friends and brothers.You cannot read the truth from a lie.The recluse writter the drunkand just another guy.A page filled with words andempty meanings.A seedy downtown theater that shows the best latenight screenings.My face is unknown but my soul is already there.Blind are the truths of a scetchy past.So I remain forever a stranger toanyone who may care.Beautiful eyes that go unseen.Shadows on a clear night.So is my nightmare and how is your dream?I cant say I'll ever know the uptown citys respect.Im more of the twisted citys slums and back alleys favorite reject.I remove the ******** to expose thethe gritty side of what to me is brutal and true.I ride through the darkest part night.To remain forever a stranger to you.
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Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 5:14 AM UTC
Forever A Stranger
Bitten by a spider at the oddest hour. His whole body throbbing with his own pulse. All his insides are charred but sleep is not a willing companion. The eternal coronation, death as his champion. Sweating through a thin veil of details, begging the question, begging for recognition, even the most elegant logic is an ugly thing. In delirium, he tears his journal apart- that's how an artist starts. He is ugly, he is crude, he drank some poison down in Greenwood. he becomes quite faint when struck with the quaint notion: that even the heavy handed blacksmith has finesse, and feeling too.
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Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
Delirium of the Recluse
Red, and it's my best colour My favourite mood Smooth with lust and passion But remember to take time Recluse and resign In crimson divine Rest your body And your mind Teach your soul new things Retreat to your sweet tooth With sister shades of beetroot Magic promotions of your moon-tide Emotion hurling joyride Relax as your muscles un-hide Find your knots and dots And plot as you breathe the outside Paint yourself in feelings of taboo Slip sleepy into daydreams Ego embrace as you create A silhouette that forgets she is you
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Mar 29, 2021
Mar 29, 2021 at 9:04 AM UTC
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