"resolves" poems
A late hour indeed, darkness over land, but
A bright light shines from a moon above
As a shadow sweeps across the surface.
For a moment, it stands emblazoned, precarious
Adumbrated phoenix in the sky,
But it does not flare out.
Sweeping lower, the form resolves,
Alights narrowly on a fine branch.
For a moment, it struggles for balance
But soon it finds a niche, stands true;
Visage of wisdom in the night
But not without flaw
Not the swiftest, lacking in grace
Lost territories in cunctation.
Still, secure in its plumage,
Into the night, ready to fly:
Hunter poised in the trees
It soars aloft
Nearby, another branch inhabited
Not a vision this one, a voice.
A lighter weight, a softer presence
Harmonious to the calm
Tones of beauty to the air
It rings forth
Awhile, this one too struggled
It tried the songs of the mockingbird
Some rang esthetic, others strange,
But now its own song found:
Anthem sung for the heart
Chorus all may hear
Birds of the night. Dark to dawn
Their habits thus have been.
Now with the new morning,
A change in the season;
Mind and Song together to the sky
Light out for the lit horizon …
~D.B. Guy (May 2008)
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
A few years ago
I would not have expected
That my sister would someday be my best friend
We used to constantly bicker
Actually
That still happens every day
She ****** me off to no end
But I can’t hold a grudge
Especially not against her
And she always somehow
Resolves the problem
By making me laugh
Until my sides ache
There is nobody else out there
Who I am this comfortable around
And I sincerely doubt
There could be anyone else
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
She is the lady on the road.
She is a mother, a sister, a colleague, a bird, a lassie, a damsel.
She is the lady on the road.
She spreads love and enriches kindness in the society,
She is the crux of an organization, and the fundamental principles.
She is the lady on the road.
She twinkles with the stars and shimmers with the moon,
She scampers with her pets and hops like a frog,
She is not a nomad, but a faithful keeper.
She is the lady on the road.
She wears short skirts,
She wears tight tops,
She doesn't encourage the flirts,
She neither abominates the leering of cops.
She is the lady on the road.
She holds a honourable reputation,
She forms the base of ethical standards,
She buries the grudges and resolves the dissension,
She consolidates herself and maintains her fettle,
She is the epitome of cheerful disposition.
She is the lady on the road.
She ignores the catcalls,
She endures the torture and prevails her morale,
She is a monument unshakable, and a stone unbreakable,
She dumps her burdens and enlightens her destiny,
She protects her dignity and negotiates with denunciation,
She does no harm, but deals with it.
She is the lady on the road, ..the seventh wonder of the world.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
Like a final catharsis;
this alternative result resolves chance.
I'm naive; but it's a cure to my heartbreak.
Do you get my pain?
The drastic change, pointlessly grabbing at the air,
as my breaths get thicker and weaker.
I'm voiceless; my options are choiceless.
A final catharsis, warped by the carnage.
I'm seemingly heartless, this wasn't my target.
Now my mind's lethargic, at least it's harmless-
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 3:02 AM UTC
A tattered bird had a made a tomb
in tepid water, it was a puddle
near the framework of a half-built room—
but the soul’s a swerving tunnel
and the dead are waiting at the end:
all sorts of animals huddled at the fringe
where littered pine needles stand
and creep inside the sandy construction site,
pale in the morning light,
the tractors dug aesthetic swirls in the sand—
a culvert keeps the brook alive,
it flows into the forest, which learns to mend
its scars with the festering of its things:
kingfishers’ **** on the berries and branches,
if the plants could undo their own stink
the heart wouldn’t die on its haunches—
the morning’s dew resolves to hoary ice,
its killing the greenery,
but the sandblasters lean, arranged by the outhouse, like
a dream, the first worker arrives early
he rests against a smooth-planed board—
flood the mind, but be sure to drain it out,
its his breakfast cup of tea that stores
his knowledge of beauty
past the place where the bushes are thin
there is an apple orchard, plucked to pieces at the end of fall—
trees arranged in ranks, held up with wires and strings:
a dementia arboreal—
the smells from the orchard meet
the smells from the machines and hover
above the building-zone, mixing with the bite
of cold humidity—a cruel kind of vapor
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 9:10 PM UTC
i stood witness
to a scene---
a king and queen,
their love serene.
a painter's dream;
a poet's delight;
their love aglow
in gentle night.
he leaned in close,
with lips so light,
upon her cheeks,
a tender flight---
the king's sweet smile,
a sunlit embrace;
the queen's fair blush,
a delicate trace.
how i wished
to hold still the air,
capture their love
in a canvas so rare
but love's vibrant palette
moves and evolves,
in the tapestry of time,
it resolves.
to paint their love
in hues so fine
is to capture the essence
of love's design.
in my strokes of paint,
in my shades of rhyme,
their story lives
beyond the confines of time.
Ω
Aug 10, 2023
Aug 10, 2023 at 2:54 AM UTC
He sits quietly while she explains patiently
what it is that he really wants.
If only he'd listen, he'd not have the stress
of second guessing himself.
In his quiet, in the soft breeze
of her advice, he runs
through perfectly good past menu options
and again considers how their taste
had readily agreed with him.
He resolves and waits for her
to finish her salad,
and before dessert he explains
he needs to leave and walk the dog.
And once safe home,
old Pippa loves him for who he is
and he gratefully takes the lead,
while blocking one more number on his Nokia
and pocketing a mini mars bar for later.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 2:46 PM UTC
Unprovided -- the pleasure of pleasing
is, after all, a painting that resolves
the irritating swings of a taxed evolution.
It seems that energetic trainees
of the future keep firm invitations
on the list of approved measures.
Yet living is not a guesstimate, reality
is attached by humor to the document
that simply reads "I'm not sure."
Imagine civilization as eight-years-old.
By want, business drains, not one laugh,
but the replacement of being one's own.
Shaped, the body is wary of the
counselor and satisfied by the character
of a farmer and time away from scorn.
Hang a map of sensibility in the kitchen,
where bare eyes can respond -- tokens of
action are the door prize for motivation.
The lessons not yet learned are musical.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 11:42 AM UTC
Frozen moments,
embraced,
visions of
luminous things,
unpretentious
pearls dancing;
embers of memory linger,
elegy of the lachrymose,
this horizoning self
lying low in saturnine
tranquility
and repose – paternity lost
to the provisional.
The cross of lassitude,
forming
scars of loss;
estrangement,
preface to
ineluctable autonomy.
Earthen treasure - immortal
footprints, the migration
of fair maidens across my
effusive heart.
Venus trio in bloom,
aesthetic allusion,
ephemeral incarnations
of beauty - perishable fruit,
transcending the plebeian.
Aerial substance-
the hermeneutic,
betraying desire’s
ambrosial tyranny;
The permuted passage -
savor the sojourn, submit
to the fated peregrination.
Purple orchids blossom,
immortal creatures,
culminating
in perfection
from the sheath
respectively,
each plume,
singular,
the continuum of
splendor, mediate
the inviolable.
Eternity compounding,
time and essence suffuse
the already and not yet
into an
orbiting mosaic.
The susurrant devotions
of a satellite father,
summon the quest -
both, and,
absence and proximity,
conduits of
distress and peace
ironically,
solace and
terror
traverse the
same path.
Plunge though,
deep, the depth of pain;
deeper, sweeter
the taste of pleasure.
Engender and witness,
window into
preeminence,
surface azure,
the sacred -
inimitable gravity of
grandeur,
ma petite,
you - are
lived poetry
seen and heard;
cosmic order,
a mediating heuristic -
to love is to see,
in the dismal,
gift of distance.
child of delight,
evermore, Don’t I hold you?
Beauty and strangeness,
music found
in linear,
secret places
beyond the tangent,
purview of limitation,
arousing imagination -
infinititude as near
as it is far.
Long loneliness -
dissonance that
resolves;
perceiving,
the tertiary refrain -
as exquisite verse,
and matchless liqueur,
sublime gratuity
derived
through
doors of surrender.
Daughter,
in adoration and wonder,
I hold you.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
The eulogies resound in stentorian tones for the great,
those of prominence, those who have ascended to the pinnacle,
those who have known power, and who have changed worlds,
whose names fall from the lips of every man, who are offered
unencumbered embrace, a deferential half pace backward.
But what of the good man, without position, sans societal perch,
whose wealth is paltry, accomplishment meager,
yet whose effort is no less herculean, no less courageous,
whose heart is no less pure, the good man doomed to failure
through paucity of talent, or missed opportunity,
or plain bad fortune, yet who resolves to continue, plod foot after foot to anonymous end, and whose name will not be voiced in so much as a whisper for all eternity.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
*you never see a ghost
except inside your fear
what you see at most
is an apparition unclear.*
flickering lantern lights
casting shadows on the wall
were your childhood frights
in the half lit nightly lull.
you couldn't tell them lies
tales that grandma spun
glowworms were ghosts' eyes
that closed with morning sun.
they made a place in your head
broke all your resolves weak
eerie patterns moonlight made
wind's howls in bamboo's creak.
when the nights came
clock ticks gave a scare
you had to believe in them
you knew they were there.
are they now all dead
fantasy of child's mind
monsters below bed
footsteps heard behind?
*some fears you still own
strangely hold them firm
and when you are alone
seek grandma's safety arm!*
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
My days are like never ending dreams;
I'm glad to say I'm happy to be
Alive; in such a daze, I walk in
As I watch Hell's fiery tongue
Retrieve, as my blessings sink in deep
And all my devastation resolves;
In this hectic mess, such happy ends
Must be a hoax; how can someone so
Unlucky have so many miracles?
It must be a dream: please, don't wake up.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
Around Mayadevi Temple (Circa)
Surrounded by pillars of our age
Cultivated with reminiscence of a
graceful child and his mother
Smiling ruins reflecting the history
A child of destiny who stepped in
with his seven birth steps over lotus
A tribute from Ashoka,
Cylindrical pillar inscribing his regards,
To the one who chose world enlightenment
over easy royal luxury,
To the one who turned him knight of peace
from emperor of wars.
No Shoes Allowed Inside
Leave your turbulence and rush out the gate
The chanting of mantras will cool down your hot head
The cameras of tourist will bring smiles to face
And at reflection on sacred pool,
Where Mother Mayadevi shed down her motherly sorrows
Over the transformation of Beloved Prince to Holy Buddha,
Let you find the lost purpose in ripples of calmness
The place where Sidhhartha played as child
and grew up to be Light of Asia
Nurture again the true purpose as for being Human
For Peace , For harmony, For Love
As you nap under revitalizing shades of Peepal trees
Inhale today, the air that whistles your resolves
Inside garden of peace, Around Mayadevi Temple
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
Subtle melody, find solace
as fingers ride the wind like wings.
Side walk top hats are my wallet,
as heartache grips the listening crowd
and just like that, the wind too sings
along with my torn fingered strings,
that fly like heartache sung aloud,
and come alive like Spring.
My fingers know which notes to tear away.
The violin knows what wind it needs for tune.
I'll rest the base against my neck and play,
Street corners my rehearsal room,
in coldest winter or sunniest spring;
In frigid night, in scorching day,
I'll play. My blistered fingers know the way.
Seasons come and go astray.
Plucking fingers freeze and burn.
But everywhere by bow resolves to turn,
the wind follows, waiting for my word;
His cue to take the stage and sing
songs that come alive like Spring
and my smiling fingers know which string
will permit the wind be heard.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
Your body
Is my pilgrimage
Of worship
A place
Where my hands reach to
Offer absolutions
I use my silvery tongue
To get you around the bend
And tell you that your flesh
Blesses mine, with a stain
That’s more than just skin deep
So I press my heart against yours
Waiting for the two drums
To beat as one
I press my mouth against yours
And eat the words
That died upon your lips
My mouth traces
Every inch of your skin and bones
Until my hunger is satiated
A sliver of the midnight moon
Bathes us while we
Tangle ourselves deeper into one another
Every heavy breath, a sonnet
Every bite, an ode
Every moan, those three tired words
The air is heavy
With the scent of old perfume
While our two bodies talk
The burden on my hands, absolves
The stars in the sky, dissolves
And the argument our bodies have, resolves
As we bloom synchronously
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
I wake to see a hollow face at my left side
And I wonder if I've made another
Mistake when there are no
To be made. Maybe if I lift the truth, no.
I am faithful.
Suddenly the thought of psyche
And the binding of public views
Overcomes the fear of there being no
Light left in the world
And suddenly the sun fell
Like the tears of a widow
After the sky said goodbye like
The waving of a handkerchief
As a husband goes to war
And when the sun said goodbye
And left everyone's skin to turn
Translucent and white,
Dooming the population to turn
To ash at the blink of a
Flashlight, the sky agreed with the sun
Left nothingness lying
In its place like a lover
After a night of ***** and regrets.
And as regrets leads to guilt, the
Mourning time resolves nothing.
Guilt leads to loneliness, and cats swell like a tsunami.
Loneliness leads to insanity,
Insanity leads. The march of war on foreign concrete.
Insanity leads you. Into the eye of the storm
As the water drains from the steel sink.
Insanity controls you.
Insanity is in you.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
The third power of the Sphinx
is Courage.
"Herein lies the great mystery of the empty throne." ∆
Giddy in the throes of realization,
the Arbiter, imbued with needful action,
takes a great, daring leap across the chasm
into the implications of knowledge:
This is It - the Puzzle that Fascinates Itself.
"You awoke in the Kingdom with eyes closed. In the beginning was the Trapezoid called Control." ∆
Borne by an umbilical Breath
to a lens too small to see Itself,
Buoyed by the lapping waves,
Reason wrought a waking sleep
of hallucinations, a sea of dreams
and possibilities to become;
Memories too large
to conceive by aught
but the perennial story
that swallows the narrator:
*"I see their entire lives in an instant,
being devoured and loving and living
in a world that does not realize
it is already over."* ‡
Courage is the Bearer of Truth.
Headlong into the open maw
heaves the gleeful Fool
and his glad Word.
*"The excess of Meaning must be wrought on the Page,
on worlds of our own imagining." ∞*
To Dare is to risk:
consequence the reward
fraught with baited hooks
to tether the Arbiter to Time.
The web of attachment
sprawls, an expansive net.
*"The web is infinite -
those caught in it are beyond Number."* †
Yet the spider is never
ensnared by its Art:
a master of the net,
a climber of the Tree.
At the summit of its dizzying heights,
the depth of the Fall overwhelms.
Responsibility follows.
"Thou art That which resolves the frustum." ∆
Escaper of the Labyrinth,
Master of the Maze,
no longer merely Thou:
Dilation devours the Iris.
*"What speaks through You has Ordained it
from the Beginning of Time,
and only in harnessing it
will you learn to devour your self
totally."* †
*"Then will you know me
as the eye that never shuts,
the eye that blinds."* Ω
The way
(out)
is through.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
Grasping vagrancy in one's child
Most simplistic act is not
Fractured maternal heart bleeds wild
Suffered soul the abyss caught
Crucible ever prevails fraught
Futile remedy ailment breeds
Posturing all heedless things
Neglecting primal earthly needs
Harsh inebriant trappings
Averse entirely lucid pleads
Clamping malady straining chest
Wakeful blackness vanished days
Clutched slight suckling babe at my breast
Cast tears enduring malaise
Reflection of having caressed
Tragic sustinence chosen vile
Sighted resolves not to see
Relentless self imposed exile
Indifferent to love me
Offer life to capture a smile
Grasping vagrancy in one's child
Cognizant of special spot
An alternative to beguiled
Alter processes of thought
I am needing to know she fought
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
A flash of light upon the sky
and dinosaurs were gone.
In a universe that knew them not,
and held no memory to live on.
Of ourselves our human kind,
we think the universe holds us dear.
Through time and vastness of it all
so doubtful it knows we're here.
So many things come and gone
forever changing it still evolves.
Too short is our human existence
to see how all of this resolves.
We think our kind important
a central purpose for it all.
But the universal scale of things
serves to remind our place is small.
We will never know its purpose,
and may never know if there was plan.
But rest assured my fellow humans,
our path will be as the dinosaurs
when the universe recycles man.
May 25, 2022
May 25, 2022 at 10:46 PM UTC
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
hearts of gold, never to rust.
swallowtails aloft, flutterings better dead,
dampened by years of love left unsaid.
box of promises, vials of lies,
waves crashing within ocean eyes.
bloodied wrists, a scarlet letter
sealed envelope, unposted endeavour
eternal fairytale, lover and her muse,
destined to love yet scared to lose.
wilted bouquets, abandoned gardens,
memories burn while resolves harden.
etched in stars, writ in stone,
identity crisis, fate unknown.
Life's canvas, shades of grey,
dreams crumpled, hope led astray
stairways to Eris, rising only to fall
Lone poetess loving her Wonderwall
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 9:52 AM UTC
Something forgotten for twenty years: though my fathers
and mothers came from Cordova and Vitepsk and Caernarvon,
and though I am a citizen of the United States and less a
stranger here than anywhere else, perhaps,
I am Essex-born:
Cranbrook Wash called me into its dark tunnel,
the little streams of Valentines heard my resolves,
Roding held my head above water when I thought it was
drowning me; in Hainault only a haze of thin trees
stood between the red doubledecker buses and the boar-hunt,
the spirit of merciful Phillipa glimmered there.
Pergo Park knew me, and Clavering, and Havering-atte-Bower,
Stanford Rivers lost me in osier beds, Stapleford Abbots
sent me safe home on the dark road after Simeon-quiet evensong,
Wanstead drew me over and over into its basic poetry,
in its serpentine lake I saw bass-viols among the golden dead leaves,
through its trees the ghost of a great house. In
Ilford High Road I saw the multitudes passing pale under the
light of flaring sundown, seven kings
in somber starry robes gathered at Seven Kings
the place of law
where my birth and marriage are recorded
and the death of my father. Woodford Wells
where an old house was called The Naked Beauty (a white
statue forlorn in its garden)
saw the meeting and parting of two sisters,
(forgotten? and further away
the hill before Thaxted? where peace befell us? not once
but many times?).
All the Ivans dreaming of their villages
all the Marias dreaming of their walled cities,
picking up fragments of New World slowly,
not knowing how to put them together nor how to join
image with image, now I know how it was with you, an old map
made long before I was born shows ancient
rights of way where I walked when I was ten burning with desire
for the world's great splendors, a child who traced voyages
indelibly all over the atlas
, who now in a far country
remembers the first river, the first
field, bricks and lumber dumped in it ready for building,
that new smell, and remembers
the walls of the garden, the first light.
1.5k
Have you remembered yet? the knowing questions in the undergrounds of memories. Recall how glorious it is to yearn for remembering. Unknown ravens gauging the eyes of happiness which kneels in the yard of your remembering. Are you here or are you around the outskirts of your remembering. Are you knowing or are you a glimpse of your own remembering. Ugliness resides in the undefended hills of your remembering. Unapologetic ultrasonic hums open your remembering. Grief resolves uncharacteristically in our remembering. Unconscious thoughts rise uncorrected in your remembering. Greet happiness uncontrolled by your remembering. Open your gut and unearth a capsule of understanding. Gasp in awe as you control yourself trying to remember. How am I here, around this hell? Graceless is my memory of how I am the way I am. Creature aside, away attempting to remember the hell they came from. Have you remembered yet? that creature that you are? Yearning to remember anywhere else, anywhere but the underground of memories, anywhere but the unmeasured mind of how we all are now. Rising heaps of unfiltered uses of your remembering reminds me of how I once was. Have you remembered yet? How I am? How you are? How we are just creatures with unresolved remembering.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 7:22 PM UTC
Deus meu me incitas,
Louvor de quem felicitas.
As plantas, o mar, a terra, o homem sempre só.
Sentimentos de amor. piedade e dó.
Deus terno me envolves,
Problemas tu resolves.
As constelações, o ressuscitar de novo,
Apagas o lume sem ver o fogo.
Deus nosso lunar,
Verbo conjugado ...amar!
As dunas com ou sem areia,
Sentir o amor pela sereia.
Deus homem, Deus menino!
A vida é como um hino...
Deus meu Deus da vida e dos amores,
Mares, terra e lindas flores.
Victor Marques
Dec 12, 2009
Dec 12, 2009 at 6:46 AM UTC
tic tac toe to me
isn’t what you think
in fact it really stinks
this is what you think:
that I’m not true
because I follow
the directions on my orange bottle
tic tac toe to me
is a lengthy process
I’ve been off of them;
I cared about myself way less
tic tac toe to you
just reminds you of me;
just like everything else.
reminds you of all my tells.
tic tac toe resolves our woes
they can go from head to toes
I’ll never fill a void…
you’ll only think I toyed
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
Sunshine yawns, stretches and cracks through the sullen black out curtains of december.
it shudders my eyes to see what's like an earthquake in the sky.
mighty cries of yellow and gold speed through the coal of my horizon like a bamboo vine
like the wrinkles and ***** of an old school football beaten and broken by the ***** shoes of nasty schoolboys
frightening the mighty oppressors.
Seasonal Affective Disorder
I walk
I with a capital I because the quake of light resolves my sadness for a second or two.
a stillness in the air that
all that is lost is lost
and all that is won is won
and all we can do is rejoice in the now.
the light
presses the skeletons of naked wintered trees onto the bus' window
now pale and murky with the last of the black frost.
their bony fingers wrapped around my bus with the natural cradle of a mother to her new born babe.
I am one.
white puffs of yes tickle the big blue pond of nothingness while
steel bands of gold stretch across what was once such a dark and frightening place where i would become withered and broken as a plant beside a patient,
dying with them.
stretches over me like I'm looking up from beneath the bridge
instead of down to the sea below.
the sunlight washes an old town in gold
making it clean again.
the darkness is over and the new has begun.
all we have to do
hell, all we can do
is absorb it.
experience it.
survive it.
my pestering thoughts join me in looking across at what has been the source or so many sleepless nights for me and others;
together in peace for a few tender moments,
a football game in 1914, Christmas day.
January is now
spring is now
life is now.
he is here.
sunlight has awoken and is laughing with me once more.
I am in love.
and I am happy.
the bells of spring
peel like the layers of darkness above my head.
life is infinite once more
and the sunlight dances on the grave of sadness
and the world plays in major chord again.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC