"refueling" poems
Conversation opened. 1 read message.
Skip to content
Using Gmail with screen readers
in:sent
Click here to enable desktop notifications for Gmail. Learn more Hide
1 of 184
QUIVER ALL-MAXIMIZING
SAMUEL DAVID <[email protected]>
3:38 AM (56 minutes ago)
to Daniel
SOAR OWNERSHIP
/ UTTERANCES OUTLABOURED PILGRIMS/
By the creditor at cyprus and on other grounds:
The counter-cedar Venice much unparalleled ever pursuant kindly indigenous street streams far above strange beneath the string ...' Dream castle before the 'Requiring much quill 'Peanut lieutenant great ones of the machinery citation / Worth pillow following purposes invasion with a rainfall bombardment epistle the pearl earning era: Closet by sessions pursue arithmetician diaries ' anchor calculus cumulative arrows propellant / Squadron in the field-refueling ' division visions ...' Upswing within the meaning axle conversion processes proofs / ' Electron icons ' Creation wireless reticence circles: Moon ship's amnesty crest reckon 'flaskbone SpurZebra...' Preferment goes by relieves and affectionate 'Oil The Self-graduation Outpouring / Vagrant above ant strides : Rodrigo peculiar ends demonstration/ Forego the-Outward acclimation : Upon all civility citizenry civil-rises other low less losses below yonder / Phrase of prose -possessions cuss ion syn chronicutensils 'asylum systems beyond stems : Preeminence blown 'being ht-thence quarries hijack travels history/Wherein of plant hours ' spicily spoke ***** Pilgrimage dilutes noble companies 'ago-maximize promptly alacrity; Exhibition the underrating besought levels- of quarry / burden oxidation immune slaughter
Cheap Hill Chips
EMAIL: [email protected]
+2348131914240
Click here to Reply or Forward
0.04 GB (0%) of 15 GB used
Manage
Terms - Privacy
Last account activity: 49 minutes ago
Details
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 7:44 AM UTC
Sleeping
We are
Dreaming
Relaxing
Replenishing
Winding down
Breaking
Imagining
Exploring
Refueling
Breathing
Sighing
Sleeping.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
In memory of the seven men killed in the after fire room explosion in USS Basilone (DD-824) on 5 February 1973
We live in holes,
Each one named,
Bravo One,
Bravo Two,
Bravo Three,
Bravo Four.
There are others,
But none are MAIN,
The rest are AUX.
We work at pressure,
Six hundred pounds,
Eight hundred plus
Degrees,
That's Fahrenheit,
Folks.
People like
To visit
Our world.
Makes them,
Feel special,
They see a world,
They don't dare
Live in,
And they leave,
Before they
Sweat too much.
Come again,
But not too often,
Have a salt tablet.
We're the only sailors,
Who must
Use our gear,
Twenty-four hours
A day.
Try letting the fires
Go out
In the
Boiler.
See what
Happens.
The girls,
Topside,
Would miss their
Movie.
They'd,
Be agitated.
Did we use that
Word?
Well,
Have a salt tablet.
We say that
Down here is where
The real men live,
That all the rest,
Are *******
It's a lie,
But,
It hides how hard
Life is,
In the
Steam world.
It's six hours
Of watch,
Six hours
Of sleep,
Six hours
Of watch,
Six hours
Of sleep,
Unless,
Something
Needs fixing,
Or
We're refueling,
Or,
We're getting ready,
To enter port,
Or,
Something else
Is happening,
Then there's -
No sleep.
There's no sun
Anyway.
You wanna see
Sun?
Look through
The scope,
At the
Stack gas.
It's a world of
Valves
And,
Burners,
And,
Sight glasses and,
Pumps and,
Pipes and,
Gauges everywhere.
A new guy,
Wonders,
How to learn
Them all.
It's an,
Incomprehensible
Forest.
And then,
You get to
Know it.
Now some other guy,
Is the,
New guy.
It's often a
Rain forest,
120 degrees,
That's Fahrenheit,
Folks.
95 per cent
Humid,
Since you're visiting,
Come help us,
Find
Steam leaks.
But,
Keep your head
Down.
Steam is clear,
You won't
See it,
Before it
Cuts you,
In half.
We'll use brooms,
Instead.
Just wave them overhead,
Along the pipes.
Have a salt tablet.
The steam
Snakes all about
The ship.
They need it
To live.
Not just the
Wake,
But,
Heat,
Light,
Water.
All life,
Comes from
The boiler.
You'd think they'd
Appreciate
Us.
The Navy says,
It's worried about,
Our heat stress,
(It's only 120)
And our hearing,
They want us,
Out of
The heat,
More often,
Nice.
Who will keep
The lights on?
Maybe they'll
Start a new,
“Program.”
Do the paperwork,
And just
Keep us in
The hole.
We've been down here,
So long,
We can't
Hear 'em,
Anyway.
Have another salt tablet,
And go back,
To your regular job,
Topside.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 10:21 AM UTC
Magnetic Contaminations & Audiotronic Visions,
Sublimating Poetic Transmutations Of Her Catatonic Provisions,
Primordial Metamorphosis Of Her Synthetic Overtunes,
Revealing Self-Perpetuated Biotic Tunes,
Protoplasmic Sparks In Her Cryptic Eyes,
Condensing Into Labyrinthine Whispers & Mortal Butterflies,
Myriad Phantasms On Feral Nights,
Fervid Effigies Under Moaning Lights,
Phantasmal Echoes & Mystic Whisperings,
Catalyzing Crepuscular Skies Under A Moonlit Spring,
Spiritual Crafts & Her Supernova Screams,
Evaporating Molotov Solution Of Her Liquified Dreams,
Untouched Realms & Her Ecstatic Overflows,
Refueling With Fantasy Effects Of Her Verbal Glows,
Arcane Stains & Her Floral Clones,
Primal Profanity Raining Over Her Coral Throne,
Handmade Essence Of Her Still-Born Eternity,
Recklessly Serenading Through Her Lacteal Galaxy,
Hypersonic Dreams & Venomous Virility,
Tampering Her Ionic Revelations Of Exquisite Hostility,
Progressive Factuals & Her Motionless Serenity,
Invocating Her Violets Serving Blue Infinity,
Apparitional Mirrors & Her Immaculate Misconceptions,
Weaponizing Fireflies In Whisky Perceptions.
- 05:52AM -
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 8:22 PM UTC
dehydrated yearnings
for peace
something always stirs
like a cobra
hissing its burning blue venom
outwards towards the sails
through multiple voyages
of my mind
it docks in unknown ports
and knows not where to go
eternally searching
not aware to what to find
t i r e d l y racing
forward to some anonymous goal
losing juice but refueling
from some mysterious fount
within myself.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
1.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
In what chair was patience seated before we met?
At the long table where acquainted faces were eager to eat
we sat at each end, like king and queen and let the lines of empty dinnerware
and the cattail centerpiece divide our once linked gazes.
But I felt that wary stare peeking between leaves,
your gleaming mouth moving in vehement whisper, cursing yourself.
I see everything, but I pretend to know nothing as I place napkin in my lap,
looking past the guests beside me, into the kitchen door window.
You observe with intent, you assume my watch is bent to our friends.
Dinner isn’t ready, and everyone is restless.
I am quiet, and apologetic for the fellow who chose this venue,
because I know he probably feels no remorse, and only anger,
for the waitstaff spinning around the other tables.
Compassion isn’t a cell worth refueling for this company,
with large brains and demands, but space and time consuming bodies.
Our cups are dusty as our carpeted souls.
I see my fingerprints all over yours, through the constructed cold and cattail,
Clean, round spaces where I really knew
I touched you.
A lonely fool perked up, finally and thank goodness, drink is to be served.
How else would we last while our bellies rumbled with distaste and depravity?
I watched her pick her scabs and toss a pound of flesh to a neighboring plate.
It was yours.
You were too busy glaring at me with loan shark’s interest.
I am but a merchant who didn’t know what to sell and where to sell it,
but closed business when my ship found asylum on an island.
My visage no longer appetizer, you eat the poison on your plate.
It was an inerasable memory that the smell of cooked meat and spices interrupted.
But everyone was too drunk to remember we were hungry.
And I was too sad to order anything, anyway.
So I waited, glancing down, moved my napkin to wipe my lipstick off,
and on my lap, I saw,
Patience in between my knees, on my royal wood grained seat.
I look up, and once again, our eyes meet.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:57 AM UTC
“the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.”
<>
“Even nowadays, most of us have speeches from plays and films jangling around our heads, alongside things that have actually been said. Both contribute to what Michael Oakeshott called “the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.” Whether in verse or prose, there are some fictional speeches that, once heard, cannot be unheard. You find that you live with them.”
~from~
Things Worth Remembering: Nothing Is Lost Forever
By Douglas Murray 9/8/24
<>
the quote grabs the throat, a two handed grip,
but gentling, to ensure it does not go forgot,
or to the bottom the pile, or just another
never truly born, or premature to die,
guised as a drafty passing breeze,
a tickle too fickle, impersistent,
to be a poem unto itself
my thots impure, for I see, I believe,
that poetry is the conversation in all
we do have,
those that lyric wax when
one of the five big guys,
jive, sensory excited, the whiff, taste,
licks the visionary
of the need to be a completed
exegesis, a work to be telling
told
but I am old, my powers weaken daily,
the resistance training recommended,
by brain muscle, fiercer resisted
so reach for the quill,
blue lined sheet,
a cute puppy looking paper,
up for the “surprise” treat
just for extending a paw,
these humans so ease pleased,
you see,
here comes a poem
bout
poetry being bout every any,
even, the great creator struggling
to put out fresh daily,
new & improved work,
after a six day historic period,
that demanded a poem-alll-day entity,
entitled as a sabbatical day
of rest.
Here I too rest as well,
too many conversations need starting,
fires requiring verbal refueling,
and my own voice hearing a,
“get up, get out of bed,
drag a comb across your head,”
talk, and plant those newly fallen acorns,
**and let the conversations produce
giant oak trees,
and
a plenitude of poems**
9/9/24
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 2:09 PM UTC
The space in every word of a sentence
The silence between notes of a song
The rest after a hard day's work
Gap and stop makes sense
There is no such thing as nothing.
Even nothing must have something.
Sometimes, a stop is needed
A necessary halt for refueling the engine
A little brake to a steep corner
The travel becomes faster
Feb 22, 2020
Feb 22, 2020 at 12:27 PM UTC
the darkness spreads. from the chest first,
it hurts like hell.
it creeps into the blood stream, an ink with no removal.
paralyzes. blinds. constantly hitting dead ends.
tasting nothing but ash, head is heavy,
eyes constantly refueling.
darkness crawls upon the skin, no touch soothing.
no pain suitable. it disperses from fingernails.
until there is nothing left but a small puddle.
sinking.
that is all that is left to do.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
My body's a vehicle I drive
Traveling miles without refueling
Running off fumes from time to time
But still perpetuate the gas pedal
This road has thrown everything at me
Speed bumps
Crashes
Scraped side doors through tight spaces
Rear ends on both ends
Though I may have a rough exterior
My engine remains in perfect condition
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹
I’m this close…
to shedding the jitters
to breaking away from bitters
to releasing the heart’s flutters
I’m this close…
to refueling the fire
to freeing the repressed desires
to rewriting my memoir
I’m this close…
to losing the reins
to reducing to vain
to falling in love again
🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹
#badbookthiefpoetry
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 5:49 AM UTC
A phrase repeated in silence on the crowded
cracked sidewalks in front of the A&W.;
Sung aloud in dark closets by every child whose life began
by slipping away.
Not by the select few,
but by the faceless swollen tongues of the "never were."
For it wasn't a verse one could just grab out of the swirling wind.
Had it been that simple, it surely would have been ingested into the sweaty pores of the last kid never chosen for the play ground pickup games.
(and then the street lights came on)
I remember swinging from the chandelier amongst the post mortem passing of the dinning room chants in my parents' house.
Those words "yes you can" shouted along with the accompaniment
of old blue eyes on the phonograph belting out
"I've got the world on a string."
"Yes you can."
"No Dad I can't."
"I know that you can."
Perhaps some day;
however it has not been this day or any of my days past.
I've yet to feel the tremor of an accomplishment that never was.
I salute those that have reached past themselves
into and through
the blind happenstance of the heavy chained vale of betterment.
"However"
the world I cruise through
holds no more pleasure nor displeasure
then the shoes I wear.
Come climb aboard the club car of the tireless train stuck in reverse
replaying the same unforgettable years of regret
on the overhead screen.
What I will not surrender has been neatly placed back into the baggage car to be pulled along with the strength I give it.
The engine never needs refueling for it runs on my regurgitated
"what about me " tears of steam.
This train passes by with an endless clacking drone
although it's caboose has never been seen at the station.
Night falls, lights dim, windows empty,
and the conductor sleeps.
It's cargo is for me alone;
but it's to often shared with the ones that have heard it
until their ears bleed.
Replenished each morning I awake from my repeated dreams'
nightmare.
Hear me now for these word I speak have impaled my independence from tomorrow's, yesterday's.
AND SHALL DO SO AS LONG AS I GIVE THEM LISTEN
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
Maybe you are refueling what you once pumped into my fragile veins
Maybe I am falling for your eyes again
Maybe I am
I hope I am
I hope I am not
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
#I see you staring off into space, your trajectory
aimed towards a specifically-patterned constellation.
I am only the launch tower--
providing stability, support
aiding in your refueling and the replenishment of your supplies.
Star-patterned destinations are your calling
and, I am just the launch pad,
and its ever accommodating tower.
They say that a rocket expends fifty
percent of its energy just clearing the tower;
*It is the final destination:
not the clearing of the tower,
that your heart needs most*
and holding you firm, I know that as you lift off
I will even now be tempted to
reach out with one of my ever-sustaining arms..
that I may touch your gorgeous tail section
as you fly clear of me
But even in the doing of that,
I would change your trajectory
and the constellations would never come to know you
nor you, them
I am just a tower, love..
a platform, constructed solely
to aid you in your newfound flight into freedom:
a tower to love you
and hold you steady,
with a finely-built strength
until you are finally clear
even, of me.
#
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 6:06 PM UTC
They called him all sorts of names
For observing his quiet time
Little did they know,
That's his gas station for refueling
His navigation system for directions
His workout sessions for strength and agility
His chosen place of solace
His place of cleansing
His preferred workshop for revitalization
No way,
They would get him to stop his routine.
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 8:31 AM UTC
In the dark of my room,
I lightly tap the pads of my fingers
against the smooth keys
of my typewriter,
Hoping that the gentle reminder
Will awaken my subconscious,
And the words will come.
The gentle trails of incense smoke
Drift drunkenly around me,
Like a haze of memories wrung out
And overused.
I sigh,
Accepting that I may require refueling,
Recharging,
Replenishing of the nourishment
On which my work sustains itself.
I stall,
Grasp for any last resource,
And when I find nothing,
I sigh,
Finally conceding.
I need it to write,
And I need to write to live,
And though writing makes it hard to stand the noise of human contact,
The ugly distraction of romance,
The sweaty, ***** selfish people,
That I have to smile at and touch.
I suppose I have no choice
But to face the war zone that is humanity
And collect.
I rise from my little desk,
Gather my coat,
And prepare,
Begrudgingly,
To go out and experience.
In the outside,
I must laugh with others,
Hold a man or two,
Taste and feel and drop into every pool,
A pebble of disturbance,
And let the ripples unfurl new strings of words,
Lines and lines of poetry,
Bundles of stories,
Baskets of characters
Floating in on waves,
A long awaited reward
For an unpleasant,
Detestable
Deed.
Forging love,
Flowery romance,
For the sake of pulling and picking what I need
To color the pages of my work.
Back at my desk,
Weary from company,
My hands revive to complete my purpose,
The reason for my distress,
The thing that moves me,
But makes me want to be still,
What a suffocating paradox it is,
The unfortunate requirement of my condition.
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 6:50 PM UTC
i've been running
a marathon
for what feels like an eternity.
i'm at the one hundred mile mark
but
there are
no water stations,
no refueling tables,
no finish line
in sight.
how much longer will i be this way?
i'm so tired.
my body feels like lead -
weighing me down.
(my mind left miles ago)
will my legs give out?
will i be crushed under this weight?
will my body shut down?
(my mind already has)
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
Grinding along its age-old axis which knows of approaching death,
The world pivots on a baby’s breath.
The Rock beholds his baby as a plinth,
Its lungs lamenting the loss of a leisurely labyrinth.
Highwaymen hit the open road in rattling carriages,
Bibbed and drooling with mouths welcoming meat wedges.
In the mind’s meandering pathway
And the incubator cot’s cold corridors,
I sought to take away
Routine’s rasp and all of its bores.
No toy to be found. The whirling wheels left vapors
On highway tracks, chafing the skin of tarmac like sandpaper.
Only as the Old Bull lifted me from my minute home
And took me for a restful roam
Did I see the tempting toy in Guy’s den.
Now ground to a refueling halt, I skated to the highwaymen.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 2:45 AM UTC