"resists" poems
Spring upon the rose and live on the flow—
delve into the fragrance that goes full tilt
on petals that never drift with the wind.
Let it be—without form,
without a visual show.
Let’s not forget the truth:
even in pitch-dark invisible moments,
the Moon puts up a show.
Believe it or not—around that sweet spot,
the artistic paragon, Paradise, may be the next stop.
The butterfly paradise slips out to fly,
wafting into the enduring scent of a paint so bold.
Lo—on its picturesque wings it holds every eye;
where it reaches, no one knows.
It’s on the other side of the pool—
only Queen Fathima knows that sweet spot!
Any pause is deadly, heavy-handed on that route.
Death is no more; it’s unknown now.
And time—ripe for beauteous sight—is on for good!
If only one can hold their gaze,
walking the secret alleyways of God!
Oh, they flower in the fire,
dip into the sea in a single drop of water,
and pan out to another world within this world.
This time, Moses resists not—
his eyes peep beyond the burnt Mount Sinai,
gazing through burnt kohl,
across the shaded pollens
of the Ultimate Burning Beauty!
When it’s live in the true terra incognita,
it could be beyond the paradise rainbow—
the one show the true seekers sought the most.
Before long, all the rest may fade into the kohl.
Godsent, the most beautiful feminine paragon—Fathima—
lifts the black screen off at once, casting her gaze
from every never-blurred, myriad fractal pixel.
All in all, even the never-known pi digits in toto
soak into the one true description of reality's show!
Be en route—
it’s only the chosen eyes’ wonder-show,
where the handsome swans of Paradise stand on their toes.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 11:17 AM UTC
Doctor Larch peers out the window,
Pulling aside brocaded curtains to hide
The grief that he will not show,
The rending emptiness he feels inside.
As his son Homer rides past the sunset,
Not knowing where he goes
But aspiring to see the wide world,
The ocean at Mount Desert,
Seeing wonder in the expanse
And worlds inside a circle of glass.
He has taken with him his heart,
A dark picture of frailty.
He finds unexpected work in an orchard,
Leisurely harvesting round, garnet jewels.
The nomads, dark and wary,
Ask him to read about death and stars.
There are rules for the workers.
And Homer finds that they apply
To no one, neither nomads or
Curious young men.
He sees in the errant father
The reflection of his own,
The man who made him good.
“You are my work of art”
He wrote.
Like an artist with his painting,
Who resists giving it away,
So Doctor Larch holds on to him
Hoping his adolescence ends
And he returns.
Finding peace at the last.
The lack of rules bring about a sea change,
Allowing forbidden love and pain.
He ventures out once more into the vacuum
Of conscience set free,
He devises his own rules about the womb
And how to help those in agony
But eventually…
With all the rules now open,
There is nothing left for him to do.
So he boards the migrant truck
Just as the pilot returns, broken.
He watches the struggle with a wheelchair
Sees his lover watch him with her yellow hair
Knows her future, years of sacrifice.
And he admits at last
That he has a purpose,
The train to St. Cloud huffs slowly away,
With Homer standing in the wet snow.
There is the old asylum,
The orphanage and home on the hill,
Almost black, with the sunset behind,
Homer begins the long climb.
He approaches slowly.
But then, a burst of laughter
And children from the door
Flock around him, dancing, shrieking,
Some holding him like an errant dog,
Who must be told to stay.
“Will you stay?” they ask.
“I think so,” he smiles in irony.
He is home at the last.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
Resistance is a **** stunting the possibilities of us, our nature,
and the sun that resides in us all.
When we let go
we always move forwards.
And when we hurt we grow,
we heighten,
to a place that isn't initially seen,
as holding on doesn't want to recognise
you're no longer there.
The illusion of resistance crumbles
when we empty our hands,
when our hearts tell our minds
Just let go,
here we regain the power of trust,
of faith,
and the wild playground of our lives
prove joyful again.
To extend out with all we have
knowing this reach has reversed equally.
Dropping the weight like a stone
surrendering in the sea of life,
expanding further still as we sink,
knowing that holding on to that
which resists so much
is not ours to be held,
we are not to remain stunted
in a state of tug of war.
life around us says so,
we are to learn and beautify
as we rise,
as we fall
We mustn't resist.
And so we are,
so we shall be
free.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
There's a mermaid that waits under the sea,
she waits in hope that a brave soul shall surrender to her and in doing so she'll rescue them in return and embrace them into her watery world.
The sea belongs to The Mermaid, she's delved the underworld, lives for discovering and has left the surface for those that are not ready to meet her yet.
Maybe it's part of her enchanting beauty that she is always so immersed in the intensity of the water,
the darkening depths of the sea, her own emotions, the womb of her world giving sustenance.
In my curiosity to go deep into the abyss I met The Mermaid and there she asked me to plunge to the depths of the sea with her.
The water was no longer blue, the rays of the sun no longer illuminated,
it was cold and dark and I knew that I could just about reach the surface of the waters again to leave, but I also knew I'd done that many times before.
I begin to sink but apart of me still resists,
my legs slightly kicking and my hands unsure as I struggle to know what to do.
'Let go' -I hear The Mermaid echo through the water,
her patient voice holds me, I feel safe but still I'm in conflict with all that I'm confronted with above.
My mind continued to battle here as my body naturally slipped down some more,
the deeper under water I went the more everything felt still.
I felt The Mermaid on the periphery,
in a distant part of me I think she's always lived, I've just not been able to trust in her.
Everything feels longer underwater,
time isn't of importance once you've abandoned your anxious breath.
you begin to feel apart of it all,
as though you're a small ripple of an imperminant wave and an untameable current bound into One.
This place feels like I've been here forever now, it's so cold it actually begins to feel warm. The deeper I allow myself to sink the less I seem to contemplate. The less I struggle to let go the more peaceful I feel and the deeper I slip into the unknown the closer I get to her.
I soon reach the bottom, the deepest place I can go and here I meet her where I always knew I would;
It's too dark to see so I wait in the unknown for her to show herself but she didn't appear outside of me, in fact she spoke through me and with my own inner voice I heard ...'If you do not connect to the depth of yourself then you'll never know how you really feel. Just as a Mermaid swims so deep she can no longer see.. You must swim too, even when It's dark and scary and you might not even know what you feel or you feel too much and you feel as though you're drowning.. You must trust. Trust in yourself beyond anything and you shall always find your treasure here...
...There's a Mermaid that waits under the sea,
she waits in hope that you shall meet here and to see without having to see. <3
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
The smile of the white bloom, in my crown
its fragrance spreads across galaxies of neurons,
none can fully imagine the scene, I haven't seen
it's stellar design baffles humans, resists exploration.
On single file pass days and nights, indefatigable
rainbows are made and unmade, making clouds
blush and hoping for bridges across them,
why, even the universe dances to the tunes we play
Ever at ease, I walk silently past the blue mountains,
of remembrance, mostly love created, a miracle!
At times a poet, a scientist,a cosmologist,or a mystic in solitude
finds the need to "stand and stare"wonder, speaks in metaphors.
Looking st the fireworks sky manages, I hallucinate,
an astronaut I become, who knows nothing about time
one wished to live in timelessness for ever and when,
that dream comes true, loses within and be nothingness.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
I live on the inside more than the outside.
But, I allow the outside to get in sometimes.
I let the outside slowly caress the inside and ****** it.
Come out for a walk with me, he’d say.
Words don’t matter here. You can be who you want.
The inside, she’s soft.
She resists the brightness, she craves the cave --
The land of mirrors we’re walking through that she’s so used to.
Where it’s just us and our words and the magic we weave with them.
Outside, we grab ******* we grab attention, we grab,
We don’t differentiate between the sinners and the saints
We take and we take and we take.
Just like the song, just like the song.
We’re not here to fight. But, the inside, she’s defiant.
I hold my insides and weep,
I weep for the the land grabbing
My body is not mine anymore.
I am a slave to the outside.
The inside pulls me back in and we bulldoze through the Land of Mirrors.
We’re not alone anymore.
We’re a lot of voices.
We’re a cacophony.
We’re a chorus.
We’re a choir, raising our arms to the heavens.
Take me out, dare me to fight
I will write;
I am inside and outside today.
Grab what you can, extra extra this just in!
We’re crawling out of ourselves and dancing on the streets
to reclaim what’s mine and ours and yours.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 6:54 AM UTC
Creep in the night
Resists as they might
to their bodies invites
to reap what they like
Prisoners of flesh
until their souls delight
His big black **** between her thighs
Her tight white ***** squeezes and he sighs
He wants to turn her out without a doubt
Teach her what real loving is all about
She screams out loud
he covers her mouth
The climb max raises
as the pressure amounts
Daddy doing it right
laying the pipe so deep
It may never come out
The pleasures out of sight
She’s so wet from being tight
He’s hitting her spots like a spot light
From the look on her face the pleasure is out of sight
He uncovers her mouth and she screams for her life...
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 5:53 PM UTC
I tied together
a few slender reeds, cut
notches to breathe across and made
such music you stood
shock still and then
followed as I wandered growing
moment by moment
slant-eyes and shaggy, my feet
slamming over the rocks, growing
hard as horn, and there
you were behind me, drowning
in the music, letting
the silver clasps out of your hair,
hurrying, taking off
your clothes.
I can't remember
where this happened but I think
it was late summer when everything
is full of fire and rounding to fruition
and whatever doesn't,
or resists,
must lie like a field of dark water under
the pulling moon,
tossing and tossing.
In the brutal elegance of cities
I have walked down
the halls of hotels
and heard this music behind
shut doors.
Do you think the heart
is accountable? Do you think the body
any more than a branch
of the honey locust tree,
hunting water,
hunching toward the sun,
shivering, when it feels
that good, into
white blossoms?
Or do you think there is a kind
of music, a certain strand
that lights up the otherwise
blunt wilderness of the body -
a furious
and unaccountable selectivity?
Ah well, anyway, whether or not
it was late summer, or even
in our part of the world, it is all
only a dream, I did not
turn into the lithe goat god. Nor did you come running
like that.
Did you?
6.6k
A part of me smoulders within..
When the world is serene
And the eye resists a lonely tear..
The loneliness embraces my conscience,
and the lullaby of memories lures me to the lane..
Where the mothers's lap complemented a nap..
Where the Dad's jokes evoked pathos..
The friend's smirk,
The brother's ****
The bickering girls,
The lustering guys,
The barbie attire,
The teacher's satire,
And the useless tinkling laughter..
And when I drag myself to the prevailing adolescence,
All I think for,
All I lust for..
Is the sweet lullaby of memories..!
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
In a white book, writing was done with tears,
And so we cannot figure out a single line;
Memorized and though about since early youth,
It eludes one’s wit even as one has aged and greyed.
When mind seeks it out, love turns up in the heart,
When heart pursues it, love is in the mind, escaping wit.
Regarded at close range, love dissipates,
Leave it aside and love turns sad and grieves.
When loving is intense, love resists the long wait,
Like a lightning bolt, it streaks across the dark.
The kiss that sears is a kiss given only once,
And when the river swell, only once will flooding rise.
Love that is timid is a river still and currentless,
No falls nor torrents, no tears nor unbearable loss!
But when love has dared, the heart is swept away,
Honor, wealth and wisdom, love will drown them out!
When love is yet a bud, it heeds an elder’s counsel,
Such is not yet love, for it still sees the light.
But when it bursts aflame, what matter the universe —
That’s real love, so lose yourself in it with all your heart.
When you balk at the threat of ill fortune and hazard,
Truly your wit is lit and your mind at dull alert;
Your love is cautious yet, you have not
learned to really love,
For once in love, the grave itself is heaven’s gate.
Love has eyes, love is never blind,
having learned to love, one’s wounds turn into blossoms,
Love is selfish and cannot bear to share,
It’s either you get it all, or get nothing at all.
“Mother has been watching me, so I cannot write..”
Friend, that’s a sign you have yet to win her love.
But when she dares write even at her very grave site,
She has come to love you more than her very life.
All you, young people. who are in quest of love,
Moths who are fluttering around the lamplight,
Once in the grip of love, danger you will seek out,
Ready to love your wings to the very flames of love.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
i lie facedown on the train tracks.
the gravel presses symbols into my skin,
but none of them translate.
home is a concept with too many rooms.
i sharpened my alibi
on my mother’s brittle bones
until it fit into a quieter mouth.
she didn't flinch.
the sun unthreads me one fiber at a time.
nothing resists.
blink
blink
blink
each time, the world returns
slightly rearranged—
trees on the ceiling,
windows in my stomach.
i found a way out,
but it only leads back here.
the platform loops
in the shape of an open jaw.
i circled it three times,
then laid down between its metal teeth—
the world doesn’t bite anymore.
it just holds me.
small, warm,
still breathing.
regret nests in the hinge of my jaw.
i keep it clenched, and
it doesn’t protest.
it flicks the lights off
when the rail begins to sing.
it knows the schedule better than i do.
the daylight plucks at my ribs like harp strings.
each note sounds like a name i was never meant to hold.
i buried the moon weeks ago.
she made it difficult to leave.
if you’re still listening—
the train is already halfway through me.
today,
i let the mouth stay open.
maybe the scream will crawl back in.
maybe it never left.
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
Prologue
casual glance at my notifications while driving even though
I’m all ready a bad bad boy, cruising at a sedate,
cruise-controlled 70 mph vs. the bureaucrat bifocals 55,
a remnant regulation of the Eighties,
all the while humming with Gilligan
“a 3 hour tour,
2 passengers set sail that day”
then execute a four lane 180,
gotta get highway sideway grassed ,
cause i’m gassed...
by a Poem Breach
of the poems promised by me,
to write of thee,
you, my best inspiration,
the list grows longer, faster
than the hours provided
pull over fast emergency for my composure breached,
my vision wetted, my eyes hit by an unplanned unexpected,
sudden summer thunderstorm
<•>
The Poem Breach
***once more into the breach thy words breeze through my chest,
like on a flamed stick, night roasting, toasting beach summer marshmallows,
that cut direct to the ineffable sadness that resides resists within,
that sticky, white mess,
a human heart melting
a thank you message that I’ve read before,
many times more than once,
how my unasked poem, a sun unique,
arrived at the
precise time and place,
to lift and even save,
how could I’ve know?
I did not know
but these messages collect on my chest,
unsought words of purple ribbon metal that make a
less burdened cowardly lion,
grown man cry,
do crazy things for it is a possible solution to his
age old quest
Why do I exist, is this my purposed plan, don’t understand, all
but the answer peaked and peaceful accepted in the breach unreasoned,
my port of entry, a gateway to the scales, a bridge it is, over a time-life river styx and unstuck, yet certainly always confused...***
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
thank you so insufficient
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
So this is melancholy
That bittersweet taste every time
We part ways
That deepest sigh I always utter
Whenever your lips touch mine
Because I know in a second or two
You will be gone
I have never looked forward
To our meeting
For you have always
Left me breathless
And wanting
This is insanely foolish
And I know soon
I’m about to face my doom
But every time
Your fingers
Trickle my spine
Or your breath
Suffocates me
Or your taste
Numbs me…
I find myself
Completely giving in
Until your whole being
Inhibits my system
Slowly poisoning my veins
Until my blood ceases to flow
And my heart resists pumping
But there I go again
Poisoned from the reverie
Of you and me
The car engine starts
I know this is goodbye
So long then
Until the next confluence
Of our thirsty mundane
Incongruent lives
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
We were told freedom would make us artists.
We were told freedom would set us free.
But freedom made us consumers—
scrolling, streaming, drowning in plenty.
Peak content.
Peak noise.
Attention—the last currency.
And we are broke.
Then came the machine.
Infinite. Bespoke. Frictionless.
The tribe dissolved.
The story fractured.
Each of us—
a society of one.
Do not mistake this for culture.
Culture bleeds.
Culture resists.
Culture divides.
This is mimicry.
This is slop.
Outliers cribbed, stripped,
and rebranded before the ink dries.
This is the singularity.
Not awakening.
Collapse.
Not tribe.
Not ritual.
The machine as tribe.
Self-satisfaction—tribe enough.
But listen—
creativity still breathes.
Not to be seen.
Not to trend.
But to testify.
To mark the ruins.
To scratch in the stone:
A human was here.
Do you remember?
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 5:12 AM UTC
smother my mother in my love
kisses to her armor, she can’t feel it
she even resists, but I keep repeating the steps
approach, appreciate, allow
kiss her cheek and bow
I don’t know how much longer I have with her
but I cherish each moment, each pocket of sunshine I savor
my queen, the empress
The shining example of a goddess
I thank god for her, for my family
I am finally understanding
May 13, 2022
May 13, 2022 at 11:21 AM UTC
No matter how much my body resists it, the internal dialog never stops, cant destroy it. with my cigarettes, or junk food, or my bad attitude, can’t make extinct the thing that’s possessed me.
right in front of you
like a worn out tune of blues,
looking like leftover food, but not so tasty.
it’s a dream of mine, and in time i will learn what it takes to
make the seed grow.
never know? doubt kills like
pesticide,
insecticide,
boys at columbine.
with vicious and preconceived certainty.
no humanity or humility, only cruelty.
like the beast of nature, (pardon me)
nature of the beast.
the nature of the beast
will never cease. like the internal dialog, never stops. can’t destroy it with my cigarettes, or junk food, or my bad attitude. can’t make extinct the thing that resides inside of them, that’s possessed them.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 3:18 AM UTC
I write of a feeling unknown and unnamed.
It eludes me, it flies away and hides,
Resists examination.
It is huge, it is all, it is everything.
A swelling scream,
A realised dream,
Warping the edges of reality.
Conventions crumble,
Analysis defied,
Ah, what to do?
It is bigger than the universe
And has no name.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
Alcyone, my heart is yours alone,
Though waves may pull me, tearing love from shore.
Beneath the storm, the sea may drag my body,
Yet love defies the tide, it fights once more.
Fate’s hand may tear my flesh from bone,
Yet still, my soul resists death’s sweep.
I will not cross where silence makes its home,
Not yet, my love. I vowed—and vows I keep.
You pull my body, drag me toward the black,
Yet love remains, though flesh may fall away.
I beg no mercy, ask no solemn pact,
For I am hers, I am bound to stay.
The tide may take, the wind may plead,
But I will not depart—Alcyone, heed.
Not yet. Not yet. Death calls, but I won’t go.
The sea may tear, but I am not undone.
A shadow lingers—whispered hands pull slow,
Yet love remains. I stay. My heart is one.
Alcyone, I call—do you still hear?
The tide may claim my breath, but not my name.
Not yet. Not yet. My vow will not disappear.
I swore, and I swear still. I’ll remain.
Alcyone. Alcyone. Alcyone.
I speak your name, though water fills my throat.
The tide may take, I hear death’s calls—
I will not go. I will not go.
Alcyone. Alcyone. Alcyone.
I swore, I swear, I will not fade.
If time dissolves, if fate decrees—
Still, my soul remains. Still, my soul remains.
Jun 3, 2025
Jun 3, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC
do you know
i fall asleep
with my hands
touching
together
but I notice the difference
as yours Are tougher
bigger
rougher
but i've never had the pleasure
of falling asleep with
your hands
though ive slept
cocooned
in your scent
do you know
i've never been very good
at confessions
i confess
i could draw
freehand
the shape of your lips
from Memory
(i could show you
where they curve
and bend
and they look like
the perfect destinatIon
for my life to end
killing myself,
to die upon a kiss
to die upon
your kiss
i'm killing myself
by even thinking this)
i confess
i could shade
the exact ways
your hair falls
dowN
by your face
(i could explain
the smelL of your hair
after a long day at work
it feels thicker
as it resists against
my hands
you dO that too
do you know)
i confess
i could describe
the wonders
in
your eyes
of
your eyes
so accurately
they would be seen
by the blind
(i'd rather not tell you
how i feel
when you catch me
staring
but i just
can't
help myself
i neVer want to miss
a single blink
a wink
no time to think)
i confess
words,
the words,
keEp
running
sprinting
dancing
prancing
in my mind
but i cannot find
an acceptable order
to confess them in
love in you i am with
one two three four five six
and, oh father,
there is no need to confess
for We have not sinned
he would not look
upon me
if i was the last to exIst
he merely
glances over to me
now and then
and, oh father,
you know
how i desire
These
tormenting
words
to go
he could barely tell you
the colour of my Hair
i could tell you
the colour of his
when he was five
milky way kid
do You know
me
am i
just a girl
who falls asleep
alone
in the backseat
Of the car
that old red polo
is not so appealing
anymore
and, love,
i confess
or
these words will die
on the lips
yoU leave
unkissed
i am in...
i cant
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
I lumber sluggishly,
dragging the weight of my body.
Every pound is tethered to me,
I can’t escape the heaviness.
I am stuffed into clothes,
encased in figure-hugging fabric
that looks better on the hanger
than my rounded, fleshy torso.
The scale is an unlucky lottery ticket
displaying a number
that I will carry around
shamefully like a scarlet letter.
I count calories like beads on a rosary,
making sure I shrink to conformity
critical of every extra curve
because to love my size is a societal sin.
Airbrushed beauty queens
and slender starlets
wear their size 0 like a badge of honor
in the battlefront of glossy magazine covers.
I’m crushed with the weight of the world I inhabit
a place that teaches girls to be self-conscious
of each pound that sticks to their body
instead of teaching them to be confident in their own skin.
I’m tired of micromanaging each nutrient that touches my lips,
to achieve a slender frame that resists my big-boned body
self love is not a one-size-fits-all
and I will radically adore every ounce that is tethered to me.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
A face that envisages the intensity within
The purity of his soul is visible in those eyes.
His words are a reflection of his honest heart
And his silence says everything he wants to hide.
When he wields the willow, he becomes a warrior
Desperate to give his last ounce for his nation.
He resists all temptation with ****** mindedness
And fights the enemy hard, to protect his team’s bastion.
His passion never lets satisfaction reach his soul.
He’s as harsh on himself as he’s on the opposition
Nothing annoys him more than his own failure
The past struggles have only elevated his ambition.
He’s an epitome of innocence and simplicity
But don’t get fooled by his diminutive looks.
For there’s a reservoir of fire inside his head
Which explodes when he’s provoked by crooks.
He bats for India wearing his tri-coloured gloves
Like his 1 billion compatriots are holding his hands.
Their love strengthens his grip, empowers his bat
And runs flow in abundance as like a rock he stands!
He’s a special cricketer, selfless, gritty and gifted.
But what he is on the field is not really his best part.
The person within is more precious, like a rare gem.
Beneath that stern and strong face, there’s a lovely heart.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 11:32 PM UTC
979
This Merit hath the worst—
It cannot be again—
When Fate hath taunted last
And thrown Her furthest Stone—
The Maimed may pause, and breathe,
And glance securely round—
The Deer attracts no further
Than it resists—the Hound—
2k
There was a fog that seemed to hover thickly
over the perceived salience of his musings
It was as if there were a veiled mystique
that left hopeful understanding ,
ambiguously obscured ...
His soul's cadences fell beyond the pale ,
like a reverberant iron bell’s clamor ,
drowning acumen ;
albeit , unmistakabe crystal clear allusions ,
scanning inwardly, rhapsody in his mind's eye
Illusive accord ,
beclouded by seeming stigmas
borne of the flesh ;
delicately sensitive nuances ,
misunderstood imperfections ,
bespoken utterance weighed heavy upon heart ...
In the hush of pensive repose ,
flow of soul streamed forth from its retreat within ;
bequeathed as if darkness
was magnetically drawn towards light ,
purging muted understanding ...
Assuredly seeking all questions with verve ,
accepting , that all answers sought
are not meant to be understood
A realization of those who wish to speak yet abide unspoken ;
the unseen mark of those that wished they had been loved ,
befallen the music of a thundering heartbeat ,
understanding a circle is vulnerable ,
only makes it stronger ―
hence ,..
it had been written
in countless misunderstood ways ...
Knowing he resists an inner-voice to endure silently
for a fear of that which remains indelibly writ ,
tattooed on introspective walls
far removed from the afterglow of light ,
where depth of soul yearns to be freed ;
heart speak hushed , deft words avowed
in enigmatic tongues ― Vayu doth whisper
soul's prevailing tides ebb and flow
from unseen depths , permeating
deeply within inner realms
The spirit of soul once steeped his heart’s intone :
"Spell words that bind together passing strangers
*Coalesce thoughts to inspirit those whom often walk alone
Append the goodwill of poetry, aspiring to bond individual
hearts and minds with words of love and light.
Conjure written spells to bespeak sincerely ,
a faith in unabated love*"
and yet , he will write it again and again ,.. searching beyond words
…words grasped from emerging thoughts
drawn in to the light
searching for other adept words
to recite yet another way ,
sketch another word-scape ,
written with the relentless inexhaustibleness
of an unstoppable awakening ...
Another winter dawn imbues a new day come to light
he will write it again and again ,
... finding another way to be set free ...
Harlon Rivers
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
I tripped over
the eggshells
again.
I’m supposed to tiptoe
but sometimes
they are scattered
where I don’t see them
or I didn’t think it mattered;
or they just appear
where a moment before
they did not exist.
So the path that least resists-
is taken.
Sometimes I forget.
(I have not seen them
for so long)
A simple conversation
turns –
There’s neither right nor wrong
but the eggshells emerge.
Decisions are made
on the spot
or not.
Depends.
To walk upon them
or confront them head on;
Turn my back,
(avoid confrontation)
or keep on track,
(Defend my reputation).
What will cause least disruption
in the end.?
I tripped over
the eggshells
again.
I could just walk on top
but then pay the price
of broken eggshells
in my life.
And start all over
or stop.
© 2012 Marlene Dunham
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC