"residues" poems
Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,
the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back
from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere
except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle
of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This
I try to remember when time's measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn
flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay - how everything lives, shifting
from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.
47.6k
Crescent orb radiates its crystalline sight,
languid lips coalesce like a tessellation,
the vexing vines wilder the incandescent-
glimmer but the burning impression remains.
Celestial bodies affixes a soliloquy amongst-
a halcyon tongue that revelate a rhapsodic-
episode.
Quiescent ambience rings a plethora of-
sentiments stinging on the mellifluous
lullaby. The lithe wildflower murmurs-
the euphonious recital of a sonnet that-
is unacquainted to the mind.
Luminous assemblies of fireflies retire-
behind the myriad of evergreen forest
as the insouciance wildflower approach.
Precocious primrose locked from the
scorching sensation of a wildflower
exhibited a lassitude facade like a -
waning lantern fiery on its final residues.
In the distant a wildflower and in
the presence, an idyllic primrose:
so scarce and so strange.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
Take your thoughts to the sink,
Pile them all up with the plates,
Grimy and greasy
Just like your mind
Which you can scrub all you want
With a sponge or a foam
Since there's no difference
Above sea level,
But the residues will remain
Staining your perfect little machine,
Robotic, malfunctioning,
Because manpower is always better
Than a cold bin
Where it is just you
Echoing your asking everything
Except for what you want
Because cowardice and pride
Are the oil of your psychomotor,
Running,
Missing,
Out on those
Who really don't need you in their lives,
Let alone
To do their dishes,
If ever, in case,
So what the hell are you still doing,
Waiting for the suds to drain,
Don't **** your brain
Like this,
Get a pen
And replace the dishwashing liquid
With real poison.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
Of ***** roasting pans and racks and island fog!
*if you love me, then you know poems wright themselves when standing, driving, bus riding, ********** and especially when
doing manly battle, ******* ***** dishwashing midst island fog
a passing remark goes noticed and summoned to a
Friday night feast, roasted fowl, wild rice with golden raisins and mushrooms, English spring peas, was it a Montrachet?
for dessert the washing up is obligation mine, a traditional desertion,
separation of church and state, her cooking a church in which I worship, she states eloquently:
“Unto Caesaria , Render Her the cleanup”
this is hand to hand combat, no dishwasher mechanical
can scrub like the human hand, and with body english,
water hot, but no gloves employed for this is ***** man’s work,
not for sissies, cleaning roasting pans and roasting racks
that are at least twenty years burnt and crusted with a blackened
finish, residue of other lovers and dinners P.N. (pre-nat)
array three kinds of sponges and some human & metallic *****
no one asking which came first,
the scrubbing away of life feasting residues,
or the poem writing that comes with pre & postscript sleepiness
when I say the dark stains and the grease buildup are
flavor enhancers, am beknighted with starry stares of
“how stupid do you think I am?” and sadly return to the
Battle of Agincourt, the one the American lost….*
but they do source poems that flavor life
2020
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC
The weighted press of measured steps on stair
accompanied by an echoed call to the familiar.
The first syllable of her name severed midway,
yet it tolled long after the utterance rang out.
The comfort of routine;
tethers of association
snapped under the strain of realisation.
A mocking gift from forgetfulness...
...she left him..
Mechanical body shifts
fighting urges to hesitate and listen to her vanished sleeping breath.
Vacant the cold bedroom,
the chamber harbouring her scent on fabrics, pillow and scantly furnished dresser top.
Each sniff raw as salt on opened wounds.
She left
and left him
only remorseful residues
from the harvest
of three years and five months.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
Nearing great compost pile,
that steamy heap,
insatiable hunger hits guts.
And I know fortitude for journey
is contained in wealth of
centipedes, predatory mites,
rove beetles, ants,
nematodes, protozoa,
and **** of wriggly worms.
Virgil waits for me, as he did Dante.
He takes form of a sowbug,
but with whole of worldly wisdom.
Shows me circles to which I will fall:
organic residues,
primary consumers,
secondary consumers
and further tertiary consumers.
An ancient pyramid decompositional
processes the scaling down
before the rising up. Each eating
excrement of another before them.
One I become with slugs and snails.
Invertebrates shred meat from bone.
Flies make airborne my bacteria,
carrying me off to feed birth of
future fungi.
I am reborn over and over.
Never more have I known
anything more Godly.
Intestinal juices of earth, enzymes
and other fermentation
taking me down,
pushing me out,
transforming trash of my existence
back to Eden.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
humans born a mess,
messengers carrying blank notepads, sheet music,
brought from within to the without
a baby-sized handful of historical residues retained,
garnered from all too brief a prelim existence,
arriving possessing hints of what may be
most emerging crying,
crying over loss of the womb security,
for seers all, all see unaccountable futures clouded
by an inevitable chance of rain
and death
all of us, no one excepted,
covered for months in **** stained fluids ,
a holy, ***** combination
of amniotic nourishment,
and our own waste
a hint of what is to come?
human then spends the rest of life
cleaning up after himself,
mostly with tasks of addition,
punctuating by the occasional cleansing of
elimination subtraction
making room for the next love,
labored birthing of a baby poem,
from your womb, midwifed,
haunting ghosts of three note tunes,
begging for a set of lyrics and a
great chorus everybody can sing,
a completion competition
going along, all along, to the goings on,
all our routes preternatural crooked,
lived a life of pretense, a straightened out life,
which is the nuanced, connected summary of our components
which are all curves, dots on a line
and the composition source,
the secret chords employed,
tech installed just prior to birth,
effacing glorious sadness, glorious joy,
the human building blocks,
with the certainty that
*everybody knows,
that's how it goes
everybody knows,*
only fools believe,
you'll live forever
but live at least long enough to sing and write of
a man cleaning up his own life's messes,
and perchance, after our absence,
leaving the world better for it
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
Shrooming in the last light
Gold ignites the trees
My gaze is the eternal compass
Of broken Time
Truth grapples with my mind
As I photosynthesize in the residues,
The residues of the last light.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
where shall I send my poems?
to my eyelashes,
for they beat irregularly
unconcealed and unconscious
like my poems
to my fingertips,
where they are released fluidly
they grasp, strained and staining, tapping breaths
like my poems
to my smile,
fleeting and happy weeping fortuitously
a lifetime of a whisper, glimpsed and gone
like my poems
to my brain,
where they are symmetrically born only to die ceremonially
a fireworks duration evaporating into a rich velvet
like my poems
like my poems,
none will survive me,
blemishes, pockmarks, beauty marks, residues,
in a flash bang born, in a flash bang consumed
3:08am dec. 9 2019
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 3:17 AM UTC
let it wash us away
like the floods of the new age
**** all the mistakes
leave only perfection
all true honesties
that leave their residues of purity
right down the leg
of each other
your body cries
tears of merriment
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 6:25 PM UTC
I’ve never seen eyes quite like yours.
So beautiful, yet so desolate.
I wonder what you’ve seen,
I wonder where you’ve been,
I wonder what you see in me.
Your charcoal pupils
and slate-gray irises.
I feel as if I could swim in them--
a pool of gray on a misty day.
Do you see your world in shades of gray,
I wonder.
Glossy with the residues of emotion,
your sad eyes have so much to say.
Do you see your world in shades of gray,
I wonder.
June 2012
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
One mile down the drunken river
I lost my mind in her midday yellow haze.
Residues of the river-wind-kiss lingered saline on my face,
Wild sun on the wild river scathed my skin copper,
And I glided upstream in blurred eye sweat
Losing and finding the river’s mangrove shore.
My mind in delirious mess wondered
What it was that wined the river, made her a swirling detachment,
Bearing all with the endurance of a drunkard
But embracing nothing like an all foregoing monk.
I dreamed adrift one more mile and then another
Till I was windswept and wined like the drunken river.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
Cold rains, wet and weary... seeping through the sky,
spectres pass ’long side me... bent, with collars high,
my visions are invisible and no one sees me cry.
Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
their monodies of emptiness pulse, bleeding through the floor.
House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
deuces in dissension... aces slip through cracks,
the Joker’s lost and lumbers by, alone, along the tracks.
Steeple steps dismantled... muted bells below,
ruins quake and tremble... frozen in the snow,
their pains implode within my brain while pale winds cruelly blow.
Prophets tumble temples... residues of tea
highways of no entrance... paths of destiny,
where phantoms haunt my nightmare dreams, tell tales of roaming free.
Foghorns moaning lonely... waves awash in sound
silver schooner sinking... swirling round and round,
at midnight’s stroke, the mainsail broke, and driftwood drifts aground.
Silent seas misshapen... moonbeams painted ***
teaspoons sifting ashes... fingers cold and numb,
an incandescent candlestick’s impaled the sinking sun.
Smothered fires smoking... oceans filled with ice,
lightning lashing windows... blades from paradise,
like tongues of limpid laughter licking wounds of sacrifice.
Flowing fields of flowers... silent harmony,
rolling river reveries... washing to the sea,
my love, she was my daylight bliss, she once belonged to me.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
i am good is a place
of peace and bliss
i am good is a place where
cells replace to their primordial
and i am good
is no more wonder
than when he says
i am good
when i learn
it’s as easy as
to swap
the not good
to its antonym
like within a time
as long as
a slip of the tongue
and i am good
once again
because of what he says
because of what i am
…
yes
we are good but
are you also good??
…
good is a place
not at the turn of an age / any age
in reality there is no age
there has never been a yuga
after Mahabharata
if you don’t want to
you don’t stay
in what has never been
in what will never end
there is no count for
one thing to end and for
another thing to start
no silly things like that!
there is no place
for a savior one
to show up
these are all residues
of a delusional mind
an anthropogenic
pollutant is expectation
that only awaits
and awaits
for a tomorrow
to resolve
a past! ?!?
which tomorrow?
which past?
no silly things like that
and
may you be
depressed by that!
always
a you
who values thisrthat
always
a you
who cannot be
whereas it
is one step
and not ahead
to here and now
to i
and no
no one can tell you
it is your path
it is your step
…
cause
we already are
and we have always been
here
enlightened in Satya
and we have always been
love
and
now
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
All in pieces divided in you
Falling in and out of you
To be in debt, to be in love
The time if I could control
Put together a deceit moment
Blessing of words and cigarettes
Your hands held my face
Your heart in my pocket
But I am all burned and dead
Cool, you're too cold to call me
My sweet, sweet memory
I will be lost and drowned
I will write verses all for you
To win your kisses while I sleep
Residues of your lost smiles
Catching on my ignited lips
Cause it will get dark around here
I will then hold on to your light
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC
The golden tinge of the shy sun
Peeked onto her pinkness
The youthful night was full of fun
Leaving residues on her face!
Whole night the storm blew
That no cover could protect
Denser the darkness grew
Hankering for a ****** perfect!
It’s still there the bed sheet
Spotless without a stain on it
Gone is the storm with its rage
Pinkness stolen, she has come of age!
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
Dedicated entirely to and for Marisa White
So many human cells,
trillions, not billions
staying alive, a constant balance
between losing and making more.
when young and growing,
like you babe,
like you babe,
making many more new,
than we lose.
when we "advance"
to advanced ages,
like me babe,
like me babe,
when old sick,
either body or heart,
starting to die,
losing more than we make.
new cells, no more,
past
tense,
yet, still have colorations of all kinds,
streaming residues inside yet thrive.
the youthful biologist,
you, know all this,
yet still needy seemingly,
for gentlest reminding,
by an inexorably dying man,
prime declining,
so care for these words well,
they won't come again.
for you to imagine a grain
inside you,
so wonderful envisioned,
that the yet uncorrected words
limbo, stasis,
are deleted from the textbooks
as yet unwritten,
on and of you,
writ by you.
I need
but one cell,
of your DNA,
freshly birthed this day,
a canvas of only you,
unsullied by pernicious infected hopelessness,
where, under the microscope electrifying,
I will paint with scalpel and brush,
away the limbo,
injecting the blue dye of
happyness,
to course through your red veins.
how cannot you see,
the potential vastness of the trillions
that awaits, so in need,
needy for coloration by a scientist~poetess,
when a lover good and true appears,
you will birth trillions
new cells in a new body, imagine that,
using only the brightest hues of your untapped potential.
which cell?
so many choices,
so many possibilities,
why that I leave that
up, to you babe,
up up up up up,
up, to you babe.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
The eyes behind a head inclined reflect a universe
Of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
Of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
Of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
Of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
Of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
Of ****** tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
Of life’s begin’ in utter sin and other things perverse,
Of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
While poets blind, in gallows’ rind, carve epitaphs in verse.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
*designated washer, scrubber,
some dirt, brown burnt fire marks,
impervious to edgy pads, now,
aged into the very being of our
cooking hardware
can only be removed
by human fingernail
as I scrape away residues of years gone by,
mine tears amalgamate in the soapy waters
beneath my bent head
for I cannot remiss/remove
the oldest, burnt,
bottom of the pan,
stains between us,
not with embraces,
nor with whimsy recollections,
certainly not with our
fingernails...*
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
salty
tears race down the side of my
freckled nose
which will get there first?
to
the point on my face
the sun has kissed
the most
temple
burns
eyes
drowning in fear
my skin
yearns for a minuscule buss of the sun
the warm wind on my cheeks
the sienna light of the sky
my head
residues upon a pillow
as if it’s been detached
and laid to rest
no longer apart of my nature
what if
the sun is our oxygen
and we spend all
our nights
searching
for a breathe of fresh air
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 1:34 PM UTC
Six years and I still shudder
I would close my eyes for a minute and see it
I remember the metallic taste of the silver ware
The agonizing muddying look of the concoction
As it swirled around in the poorly washed cup
I really doubt I would have minded much
You see, the water was too much
The cheap chocolate flavored powder too small
It made me think of Oliver Twist
Of the grave injustice on mortal men
I still have nightmares about the kettle
The way she would shake it with a vengeance
And turn it carelessly into the cups
The waiter serves me my coffee and I almost scream
I can see her trying to get all cups to be even
I suppose all of my nagging would be void
If we didn’t get to see the undiluted contents at the base
The way the black residue stared back at me; daring me
No matter how many times I tried to convince myself,
I believe that chocolate should not leave residues
I stare at the cup in front of me
It has gone cold whilst I reminisced.
It is all brown and smug
I wonder if this is how cold coffee looks
I call the waiter concerning the bill
My brain is messing with me.
I swear the chocolate drink winked at me.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 2:59 AM UTC
I haven't really eaten in days,
but I've tasted manna from heaven.
Dancing under overcast stars,
drinking the essence of oblivion.
I haven't really tried to be sensible,
or act the reasonable way of society.
But people don't seem to care anyway.
They hunger for a smile, a touch that transfer only...
Simplicity
Unregarded affection
Payless affinity.
And so,
I live
Still roaming the treasures of life,
spending the few grains of hope
left inside me.
To find residues of love
that I might steal
From you
and you...
Hapless people
you are but one brief moment away
from swallowing the answer
of love.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
I watch, at the
prairie of time
the unfurling of nature
the dissertation
of saints
and in the hinterlands
a bare cry of
entrance
barred into the heavens
whispers of the world
residues
of fate and light
and devils
grieving for their
sacrifices
and slipping
into the worlds of men
the partakes in
grey barriers
and lossy colours
periphery
the ancient coliseum
the warface of dread
and acquittals of
memories
moments in time
spinning on the axle
grappling onto thoughts
and endless flows.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
A whisper in your ear,
that stirs you, in your sleep,
like fingers of a dream, wind I am,
that caresses your high peaks
make you nod your head
in a sweet pleasure, not known before,
moaning softly wanting more and more,
permitting the flirty wind to take liberties,
his fingers wandering down
while you feebly try to stop,
in a half hearted way.
I am the transparent cloud,
that wraps your alluring curves
with the Kashmir shawl of fog
when the bleary eyes of lecherous sun,
fall on you and you want to get away
running fast from that humiliating moments.
The spring that oozes and drips,
at those moments of intense urge,
it seeps, flows through mossy brooks,
till it finds it way for true fulfillment
I am the fire you dream,the warmth in your
intimate moments,for the fulfillment in the alter,
all dark residues are burned, made pure
my joy know no bounds, when you become
my alter and I your holy fire burning warm and slow,
The breeze that undulates your globular fruits,
with gentle hands to give you goosebumps,
fills each of your blank page with the gift of poetry,
and sing your songs till nightfall and then crawl,
to your bed rolling over to my side not to sleep.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC