"resettles" poems - Hello Poetry

there is this thought that swarms between my fingers and my door handles. there is this notion that all things connected are intertwined. and these things, as fruitful as they may seem, are false. a figment in my own perception of how i think we should rotate. a perception of integration that, in a few words, can completely derail reality from desire. there is this idea on the sides of my thumbs, calloused from thinking of it too often: an idea that one receives what another wishes to be given. we are loved the way the ones loving us yearn to be loved. the affection we receive is that of a mirror of what they want. this callous hardens with each moment until it becomes a wall. an animation of something staying perfectly still. we speak so clearly in our attempts to tip the scale one way or another. but there is the swarming of these moments where what you give is what you get. one, simple, pure moment of equality. a golden ratio of intent and regurgitation: we place our hands out, opened wide, full of our own bits to the flame and we receive a hand full back. no burns, no blisters, no empty handed response. a simple passing chance that allows us to neither inhale or exhale. you needn’t air in this moment, you needn’t the sense of left, of right, of inside or out. because in this numbing sense of bliss there is a revival of passion. and passion, that is the idea. that is the thought. the hive that replenishes each unit of coming and going, the wall that resettles at any given chance on either side. but also the notion of humility. on the sides of each thumb, the tips of my fingers are walls of dead skin that are devoted to this intent. they are constantly pushing against it, forcing passion to overlook the rest of what’s left.

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Feb 19, 2013

Feb 19, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC

helena-1

swarming

there is this thought that swarms between my fingers and my door handles. there is this notion that all things connected are intertwined. and these things, as fruitful as they may seem, are false. a figment in my own perception of how i think we should rotate. a perception of integration that, in a few words, can completely derail reality from desire. there is this idea on the sides of my thumbs, calloused from thinking of it too often: an idea that one receives what another wishes to be given. we are loved the way the ones loving us yearn to be loved. the affection we receive is that of a mirror of what they want. this callous hardens with each moment until it becomes a wall. an animation of something staying perfectly still. we speak so clearly in our attempts to tip the scale one way or another. but there is the swarming of these moments where what you give is what you get. one, simple, pure moment of equality. a golden ratio of intent and regurgitation: we place our hands out, opened wide, full of our own bits to the flame and we receive a hand full back. no burns, no blisters, no empty handed response. a simple passing chance that allows us to neither inhale or exhale. you needn’t air in this moment, you needn’t the sense of left, of right, of inside or out. because in this numbing sense of bliss there is a revival of passion. and passion, that is the idea. that is the thought. the hive that replenishes each unit of coming and going, the wall that resettles at any given chance on either side. but also the notion of humility. on the sides of each thumb, the tips of my fingers are walls of dead skin that are devoted to this intent. they are constantly pushing against it, forcing passion to overlook the rest of what’s left.

1

Warm sheets Cocoon Encompass Soft sheets Between my toes Tossing Turning To settle Deep breaths Low sighs Slowing Heart Beat Stretching to A rising sun Body creaks Resettles Deep breaths Low sighs I awake

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Apr 6, 2011

Apr 6, 2011 at 6:47 AM UTC

becky-gold

Sleepin' In

Warm sheets Cocoon Encompass Soft sheets Between my toes Tossing Turning To settle Deep breaths Low sighs Slowing Heart Beat Stretching to A rising sun Body creaks Resettles Deep breaths Low sighs I awake

19

She wanders at the edge of her existence, her mind long overgrown with wild nettles. Her heart’s lost in an opalescent distance where the moon spins into cobwebs as she listens. Her heart beats like a war drum, then resettles. She wanders at the edge of her existence and stumbles on a winding path that glistens with blooming garden beds and bleeding petals. Her heart’s lost in an opalescent distance to reach a rose-gold sun that slowly christens the day into a burst of blues and metals. She wanders at the edge of her existence, the willows bowing at the sun’s insistence. While waiting to see where the shadow settles, her heart’s lost in an opalescent distance. She recites epics to her heart, but if it listens, it remains concealed among the moss and nettles. She wanders at the edge of her existence, her heart lost in an opalescent distance.

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Mar 25, 2020

Mar 25, 2020 at 1:08 PM UTC

everhartleigh

Searching

She wanders at the edge of her existence, her mind long overgrown with wild nettles. Her heart’s lost in an opalescent distance where the moon spins into cobwebs as she listens. Her heart beats like a war drum, then resettles. She wanders at the edge of her existence and stumbles on a winding path that glistens with blooming garden beds and bleeding petals. Her heart’s lost in an opalescent distance to reach a rose-gold sun that slowly christens the day into a burst of blues and metals. She wanders at the edge of her existence, the willows bowing at the sun’s insistence. While waiting to see where the shadow settles, her heart’s lost in an opalescent distance. She recites epics to her heart, but if it listens, it remains concealed among the moss and nettles. She wanders at the edge of her existence, her heart lost in an opalescent distance.

19

What happens when You stay up too late And your chest feels empty still You look up by yourself Into the inky blackness And see the soul of the sky Staring back at you And a million other tiny eyes Silent Watching Wondering about everything And I can't help but worry, too While I'm trying to sleep Of all the little things Like the day I won't hear You breathing in my ear And it cripples me. I wonder When's the next time it'll rain And when my well will run dry How hard it must be To start a war A real one Among men with guns And options, opinions There's a million on my mind All the time And I lit the fuse for every one Sometimes when you look at me I think I'm dreaming I used to think our ribs maybe Were separated sometime in creation And we were puzzle pieces Meant to be In this big picture But other times I think that maybe my heart strings Are more attached to that Pearl in the nether Than the home under me Or the key in my hand And it's not your fault I'm disconnected Someday maybe we'll visit a tomb Just maybe And you'll feel how the wind Can suddenly rush through A plain stillness And how the dust resettles And nothing changes The way the emptiness is pressing So loud you can hear the blood Behind your ears And maybe then you'll know How it feels to be illuminated Yet dead at the same time But not for lack of trying And I think that maybe We're both the same An old set of catacombs That seemingly never intersect Yet somehow If there's a shout loud enough They echo into each other And the whole place hums We feel the same and somehow My soul is still on its own plane Am I selfish Or simply nonexistent And can I really truly Love from this far away I think the moon would know How to love this deeply Yet spend so much time watching But I'm so small And I wonder all the time If that's something I was ever meant to fathom

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Jun 30, 2017

Jun 30, 2017 at 2:46 AM UTC

roaming__

Taking Notes

What happens when You stay up too late And your chest feels empty still You look up by yourself Into the inky blackness And see the soul of the sky Staring back at you And a million other tiny eyes Silent Watching Wondering about everything And I can't help but worry, too While I'm trying to sleep Of all the little things Like the day I won't hear You breathing in my ear And it cripples me. I wonder When's the next time it'll rain And when my well will run dry How hard it must be To start a war A real one Among men with guns And options, opinions There's a million on my mind All the time And I lit the fuse for every one Sometimes when you look at me I think I'm dreaming I used to think our ribs maybe Were separated sometime in creation And we were puzzle pieces Meant to be In this big picture But other times I think that maybe my heart strings Are more attached to that Pearl in the nether Than the home under me Or the key in my hand And it's not your fault I'm disconnected Someday maybe we'll visit a tomb Just maybe And you'll feel how the wind Can suddenly rush through A plain stillness And how the dust resettles And nothing changes The way the emptiness is pressing So loud you can hear the blood Behind your ears And maybe then you'll know How it feels to be illuminated Yet dead at the same time But not for lack of trying And I think that maybe We're both the same An old set of catacombs That seemingly never intersect Yet somehow If there's a shout loud enough They echo into each other And the whole place hums We feel the same and somehow My soul is still on its own plane Am I selfish Or simply nonexistent And can I really truly Love from this far away I think the moon would know How to love this deeply Yet spend so much time watching But I'm so small And I wonder all the time If that's something I was ever meant to fathom

79