"responsive" poems
I’d rather write than speak
My pen is always responsive
My ink doesn’t judge my mistakes
My paper doesn’t argue
My lines never cross me
My sentences never disappoint
And my words will never leave me
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 10:36 AM UTC
1445
Death is the supple Suitor
That wins at last—
It is a stealthy Wooing
Conducted first
By pallid innuendoes
And dim approach
But brave at last with Bugles
And a bisected Coach
It bears away in triumph
To Troth unknown
And Kindred as responsive
As Porcelain.
23.6k
The prologues are over. It is a question, now,
Of final belief. So, say that final belief
Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
I
That obsolete fiction of the wide river in
An empty land; the gods that Boucher killed;
And the metal heroes that time granulates -
The philosophers' man alone still walks in dew,
Still by the sea-side mutters milky lines
Concerning an immaculate imagery.
If you say on the hautboy man is not enough,
Can never stand as a god, is ever wrong
In the end, however naked, tall, there is still
The impossible possible philosophers' man,
The man who has had the time to think enough,
The central man, the human globe, responsive
As a mirror with a voice, the man of glass,
Who in a million diamonds sums us up.
II
He is the transparence of the place in which
He is and in his poems we find peace.
He sets this peddler's pie and cries in summer,
The glass man, cold and numbered, dewily cries,
"Thou art not August unless I make thee so."
Clandestine steps upon imagined stairs
Climb through the night, because his cuckoos call.
III
One year, death and war prevented the jasmine scent
And the jasmine islands were ****** martyrdoms.
How was it then with the central man? Did we
Find peace? We found the sum of men. We found,
If we found the central evil, the central good.
We buried the fallen without jasmine crowns.
There was nothing he did not suffer, no; nor we.
It was not as if the jasmine ever returned.
But we and the diamond globe at last were one.
We had always been partly one. It was as we came
To see him, that we were wholly one, as we heard
Him chanting for those buried in their blood,
In the jasmine haunted forests, that we knew
The glass man, without external reference.
17k
Infinitely and often nightly but very quietly
I creep into the garden shed
and make a bed among the flower pots
where those dainty blooms with purple spots
spot me
and open up their eyes to see who sits among the rakes and spades
and somewhere in those dappled glades
my eyes will rest upon a cur-ved apparition and entirely of an auto responsive
suggestion
I will greet her with a midnight smile taped on my lips
and when my heart has done its forty skips and my body settles down
I invite her to come a little close and sit beside me by the oak tree
she
smiles in a light to brighten any night and any day I know would be proud to say
go with the moment it is yours to own
but on my own trapped in a shady place
I face the fact that
this place in the garden shed is only pictures in my head
and I retreat
beat it back indoors where the thunderous snores of all my many days
come back to haze me in some juvenilish way
it's the way of it
it is the way and I have bitten off more than a piece or two
and flown too close to sit upon the heat
of the sun
burned my bridges
burned my ***
and never learnt to hold my tongue
but it is the way
and one day the way will become oh so clear
the potting shed that's in my head will disappear
and in its place
the face I look to meet
will greet me
deferentially I shall shape my tongue to fit around the words I want to say
It is and always has been
this way.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
Fingers loosely interlaced,
caressing the flesh
cuddling the palms
brimming with pristine emotions.
I feel subtle touches
tender, warm, responsive.
Certainty intertwined
commitment gently placed
a promise of keeping knitted.
Something runs deep through the veins
affectionate racing pulses.
With hands clenched
and walking side by side
we vow a journey of acceptance
forever and for always.
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 3:47 PM UTC
I.
While raging tempests shake the shore,
While Ælus’ thunders round us roar,
And sweep impetuous o’er the plain
Be still, O tyrant of the main;
Nor let thy brow contracted frowns betray,
While my Susanna skims the wat’ry way.
II.
The Pow’r propitious hears the lay,
The blue-ey’d daughters of the sea
With sweeter cadence glide along,
And Thames responsive joins the song.
Pleas’d with their notes Sol sheds benign his ray,
And double radiance decks the face of day.
III.
To court thee to Britannia’s arms
Serene the climes and mild the sky,
Her region boasts unnumber’d charms,
Thy welcome smiles in ev’ry eye.
Thy promise, Neptune keep, record my pray’r,
Not give my wishes to the empty air.
6.7k
#*Come after me, O glorious Divine Possessor.
Conquer, shackle, and entomb my straying,
faithless affections in Your love once more.
Sweep me up into Your strong and jealous
embrace till my heart is fully bent toward Yours.
Have Your way with me until it is all I desire,
until You are all I desire, Lord Jesus.
Unveil me, uncover me and unbind me
before Your penetrating eyes, the perfect gaze
of You with Whom alone I have to do.
Awaken me until I am wholly abandoned
to Your pleasure, completely responsive
to Your touch, utterly enraptured,
enthralled and entangled with You.
Break me for Your glory, sovereign Lord.
Pierce my soul to its deepest hidden parts
and pour Yourself into me until You have
totally claimed me as Your own possession,
Your willing captive, until there is no delight
in my heart but You and Your delight.
O Holy One above, set me to burning!*#
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC
I take her frame in both hands,
she lets me go for a spin.
Chassis built for performance,
responsive to every move,
I steer her around the circuit.
Following every change of direction
with timing and precision,
she lets me hug the curves
just long enough to feel her power;
not long enough
to lose all control.
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 6:30 PM UTC
electromagnetically
feelings occur,
responsive to going ons,
pineal gland awakens the senses.
and almost every woman has heard it
"you're so emotional."
so electromagnetically aware
and we don't remember this,
now,
the womb,
the beat maker,
she tunes the
energy of the babe.
mothers wave of
waves fractionally
lay a deep foundation
of the babes waves.
I tell my children
if they can't find me
to look in their hearts
I reside there…
my rhythm, my beat, my heat
lives on.
my womb
charged that spark
that started the parting
of molecules
fractionally
creating its imagine
time and time again, (as we do)
until, begin again,
a new life.
rest your head upon my chest
child
for a recharge.
in our civilized world
we send mothers to work
in a make believe cycle of need.
babes heart searches
for mamas tone
she only cries short
cautious of overspent energy
first dose of sickness.
and EVERY woman has heard it…
"you're so emotional"
notably more so
during some part of her
moon cycle.
so obviously the moon
is more electromagnetic
than we guess.
and women are more emotional
because we are the heart
of the species.
we co-create the heart
of the species.
we require the emotional
antenna
to summon the essence of the heart.
we didn't come from a rib…
our ribs vibrate the
harmony of life through our time!
our hearts beat
the pulse of the
sun
and the dark side of the moon
and infinity.
we are electromagnetically
inclined to emotions.
systematically processing
the energy of existence.
perhaps the first title I will accept
a claim upon my being,
the feminine sensitive.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
Father is a verb.
- Let me explain:
Father's Day; and
Father Christmas
have tried to convince us,
but don't be fooled:
You can, may or will father,
depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.
It only works in the transitive;
you can't father alone,
only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort
when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume
drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard
with jokes on recycle.
[insert joke here]
Yes, father is a verb.
It's something we each do,
despite the hour,
it drives right on through
the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten finger nails
to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation.
It turns manliness
into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength
with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.
Be sure, whoever you are,
it works in the singular:
I can father;
You can father
(I'm not talking *** here;
that takes a partner.)
But also,
- it works in the plural -
we can father;
and they can father,
because, you see, in this village
it's an joint activity:
we father (and we mother)
collaboratively.
It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "LATER!".
It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter;
sometimes active:
directive, protecting;
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening;
...holding, and, hugging;
it responds to need, you see,
but works best proactively,
works great
sacrificially.
For example,
though it cost him dearly,
God Fathers us
and through us daily.
And one day, suit pressed,
He'll proudly walk
with the bride of Christ.
And as Father of the bride,
He'll host the party and blow the price;
(- BIGGEST - bar-bill - EVER)
And we'll be sure to save at least one dance
for Father.
Oh yes, you heard,
Father is a verb.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
One gorgeous Spring day
we gathered on my deck,
a few friends and I,
to sing and play
some beautiful music
loved by us all.
My home, on a remote ridge top
of the Sierra mountains,
offered a panoramic view.
Not a single house
could be seen--
only the vast forest
surrounded us.
We accompanied our voices
with two guitars,
a flute, and a
small harp.
As we sang,
the air grew still,
and the tall, fragrant pines
encircling the house
seemed to lean in,
listening.
After awhile we paused,
to savor in silence
the sublime feeling
created by the music.
The harpist stood her harp
on the table.
Just then,
a gentle breeze came up
and the harp began to sing
as the wind's fingers
caressed the strings,
enchanting us all
with a heavenly music
unlike anything
we had ever heard.
Would that my heart
were as that harp,
responsive to
Your lightest touch--
singing endlessly
of love.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 11:22 PM UTC
“A man is about as likely to ask for help for depression as to ask for directions, and for much the same reason,” said Real, who struggled with his own depression issues. “It's part of the male code, part of masculine culture.”
~~~
when they ask,
I say, parrying fast,
how you doing?
to the persisters, I mutter fine
which is 100% correct...
been fined for the accumulated
made-mistakes, wrong forks taken,
the weight invisible but the
body sags, nonetheless...
you know they know,
you know their thoughts,
why doesn't he snap out of it,
after all he is a man,
he has always been
what we needed,
why can't he
just go back to the person prior...
this code, is not law,
ten times worse,
genetic and culture passed,
double ******
code so real, like the headaches,
the nightmares, that forbid equanimity...
not true,
we don't expect that of you,
thankful for all you have done,
but eyes betray,
a simpatico misunderstanding,
the instillers, can't take back
what they celebrated previous...
the signals everywhere, few ascertain,
cause the rule is never complain,
don't go near windows,
lest the sunlight diffused, offers no cheer,
but escape temptation ever on offer...
forgive yourself, someone intones,
but what infects my bones,
is non-responsive to the forget antibiotic,
which does not come in pill format
ask me for directions,
I will talk/walk you to your destination,
but when I'm lost,
I'm just a lost man,
who needs to do better,
forgetting is not in my DNA,
but lost is...choking on expectations
of being everyone's savior,
with no one to save you from yourself...
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:51 AM UTC
Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus’ train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.
Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water’s rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the Crowd,
How low, how little are the Proud,
How indigent the Great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some show their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation’s sober eye
Such is the race of Man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the Busy and the Gay
But flutter thro’ life’s little day,
In Fortune’s varying colours drest:
Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chilled by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic while ’tis May.
3.1k
My lovely dear friend
Responsive, compassionate
Warm wishes to you!
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander! many a time,
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls
That they might answer him.—And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause
Of silence such as baffled his best skill:
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
Into the ***** of the steady lake.
This boy was taken from his mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale
Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs
Upon a slope above the village-school;
And through that churchyard when my way has led
On summer-evenings, I believe that there
A long half-hour together I have stood
Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies!
2.6k
My jaw is frozen
Ice and fire creep up my numb face
Circling my eye with gentle hands
Tingling across my stiff lips
They call it 'filling,' but when I touch it
It feels invisible, empty
Unreceptive or responsive
Numb like dead feet
What a curious feeling
That numb is
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC
the attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
poem
is a strange animal
with lines
monosyllabically
short
and then
perilously freakishly faulknerically
long
but not to worry
the trick is to ***** around
with the readers' heads a bit
let them wonder
what's going on
get them used to
obnoxious departures
sudden jolts
of expression
devious detours into
obscenity, indecency
these are the
tourette's moments
of a poet's creative life:
a move to keep those with the
attention span of an infant gnat
awake alive responsive
some may expect poetry
to take them down
safe bland routes:
a snowfall enhanced by red robins
perched on a rustic fence
a lake with canoeing lovers cooing
in a shimmering moment
heartfelt elegies
quaint quatrains
hip haikus
but can these images
really keep you entranced?
well, can they?
it isn't like i didn't warn you
or the horse you rode in on
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
I am your Esclava.
docile.
responsive.
submissive.
You are my Maestro.
virile.
responsible.
hunter.
dominant.
Your belt is my Extasis.
sublime.
enhancer.
loving.
demander.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
And the demons gathered, robed in darkness; making enchantments- casting spells
And the night screamed loud- tears flowing pass
telling all what the shadows says
for out of the night, came a strange howl- eerie and uncanny
But the Demons hovered nearer
as the stars shined on them
meandering with deep glitters;
they cast a spell- forcing all men
to sleep in the dead of the night
and they sent nightmares of terrors,
to all mankind- inducing sleep paralysis
And the moon lit the dark skies,
with the shadows hunting men
still the Demons gathered,
making a wish; an evil wish
setting forth a journey- as they hover-fly
flying through those oikon trees,
hovering in one accord above
with their black robes floating
But they missed their pathways;
Embarking on a mixed enroute
Then the Angels flew in,
obstructing their responsive stimuli
the Demons attacked;the Angels subserve
In the midst of the turmoil,
The Demons pathways
they fly away; with all they had
The Angels took charge; breaking seals
And the Demons fell down flat
all with broken wings
The moon light comes sharper,
illuminating all sense of evil out of the night
Angels; with their signets breaking spells
And the heat was felt; as the Demons strengths gave way
Angels took charge.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
Gloomy grammarians in golden gowns,
Meekly you keep the mortal rendezvous,
Eliciting the still sustaining pomps
Of speech which are like music so profound
They seem an exaltation without sound.
Funest philosophers and ponderers,
Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
So speech of your processionals returns
In the casual evocations of your tread
Across the stale, mysterious seasons. These
Are the music of meet resignation; these
The responsive, still sustaining pomps for you
To magnify, if in that drifting waste
You are to be accompanied by more
Than mute bare splendors of the sun and moon.
1.7k
My thoughts are merely a tangle of non-conformant
chemicals in an ultra-responsive setting;
echoes of scarcely delayed feelings,
millimetrically placed and ready to be felt;
remnants of cromagnon desires,
keeping me occupied, unassuming and tame,
while life rolls on silently, reflexively and impressively,
with all its humiliating nerve.
Rumination is for cows, guppies, and humans alike,
and saffrons, sapphires and the snow all reason in their own way,
no less conscious than our total unconsciousness.
Like a rock or plant, man is authoritatively ignorant of his ignorance,
and in his metaphysical realism lives and loves and dies,
without a clue that he never lived, never loved and was perpetually dead.
Thought’s true thought is to block awareness
by darkening the place where true awareness lies.
We think therefore we think:
to god (I mean exact-Nature) no other valid reason exists.
We conveniently overrate rationality
in self-serving cycles of chronic urgency and folly,
leaving us continually stuck to our cyclic fate.
Life is Nature’s grunt or roar
(whatever and the same)
all just a sound, faint or not.
We are unsubstantial and chimerical animals by excellence,
and in the circle inside the box we live in, our fancy appears really real.
As a feeling awaits its chemical fate, in the millimetric second that lingers,
whole worlds are imagined, and our universe and all is perceived:
violence, joy, depression, hope, and unbearable pain are unleashed,
cities are wanted, planned and assembled,
while man, impeccably and in turns, plays god, king and beggar,
and true lives, true loves and true deities are born.
As man progresses (i.e. transgresses his own nature)
and as he overcomes thought, word and feeling,
he ceases to be restrictively alive: he is released, he is now free.
Thought stands alongside feeling,
without communication nor vibration,
and gradually and painfully amalgamate into a new corrosive mix,
directly eating into spirit, flesh, and understanding,
until our wholeness wholly disintegrates.
The world as we know it folds upon itself, layer by layer,
in an inner spectacle of perfect annihilation and renewal.
The chasm separating man from himself contracts
(eventually to nil)
and man plunges from the edge of this last plank (4).
As he falls, in mid-flight,
the ultimate metamorphosis occurs,
and an übermensch is born.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
responsive wordplay resizes
double entendre to single line
call blocked the writers
got more out by dialing 9
touch screens to text readers
read text and seem touched
the ringing in your ears
was from a cellular punch
I plan to limit my data
but I always over share
mastering dastardly dactyls
pushes my meter to bare
if you only think 1x
you might struggle to get the picture
take a 4G dose to flex
your brain with crack and fissures
lithium ironic that my low battery
turns hyperbole to hypo
I got you charged with flattery
alas, you're not my typo
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
Many a flower hath perfume for its dower,
And many a bird a song,
And harmless lambs milkwhite beside their dams
Frolic along,--
Perfume and song and whiteness offering praise
In humble, peaceful ways.
Man's high degree hath will and memory,
Affection and desire;
By loftier ways he mounts of prayer and praise,
Fire unto fire,
Deep unto deep responsive, height to height,
Until he walk in white.
1.6k
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy’s days,
Young offspring of Fancy, ’tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.
This ***** responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy’s wing.
Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return,—alas, never!
When drain’d is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?
Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown?
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?
Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes’ exploits how unequal my fires!
Untouch’d, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast—
’Tis hush’d; and my feeble endeavours are o’er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o’ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne’er meet;
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet—
The present—which seals our eternal Adieu.
1.6k