"reticulated" poems
These words...
They traverse the fine line between earth and sky.
They dwell not, surface-deep in the dirt.
They be haloed not, as the chorus of heaven.
They're just murmurs that swim intangible.
Like reticulated wisps of smoke.
Incapable of materialising...
Or take definite forms on their own.
They only await to be carefully selected,
rearranged and harnessed into a jar...
Before being sealed infinite with a title.
Be quiet and still...
For you will hear them.
Milling and floating in the silence
that exists between your heartbeats.
Listen close...
For they are fragments of you
and the universe.
They're thoughts and feelings that come awake
as you slumber.
*Awaiting to be selected...
Awaiting to be rearranged...
Awaiting to be harnessed...*
By you,
the conduit with a pen.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 10:35 AM UTC
Because beauty lies in minerals and chalk,
and outlandish tinctures remedy physical faults
with pastes and goo,
the daily ritual of painting flesh,
disguising ourselves from a social stigma,
compels and consumes us
Obsession over minute details,
driven by the incessant narcissism
of a portentous society,
coerces us into proclivity,
so that each day we worship a virtual image,
mere reflected light
Because of all the reticulated bones and fat and blood,
sustaining life-functions and supporting the capability intelligence
which we rarely take steps to refine,
and of the independent, incognizant cells,
working ensemble circuitously,
the web which imprisons it all is most beautiful.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
Exchanging
recommendations under flickering lights ! we transpose the nature
? of our insect-like movements
$
with the slick of our collars,
our dull-shine badges.
Eye
makeup
arrayed in sheens
to blow your eye's burn
away
back into
the cold of space,
where you belong
the skirt of the star's burn,
to sear you (un)clean
without alarm.
with a certain sweltering silent charm
Somewhere, saturations swell
in non-
casual ******** singsong.
Klarity is substantiated.
Forgive a whiff into cigarette dust.
Into reticulated (t)rust.
✙
How many leaves
connect
to form the tree's glow?
I'm sorry for asking
now
*I must go*
...
Forbidding madness
with a
keen
brow-
bent
glare
ballroom harpies
chase you backwards
down
a
flight
of
stairs
.
.
.
*what is this caution
here cushioning me
porous like bed foam
harm eating me slowly*
?
smirking consistent smart
a loneliness for hatred
.
.
.
Tear me up for what is holy in me
crumpled 'piss-poor' regard, it's a satin-shure smile
I am churning and I know (not the exit)
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
Reticulated souls interwoven into a thousand yesterday's, folding all together in ways we cannot even say.
How many lifetimes spent in webs of emotional reverberations, always with the ones that contribute to blessed revitalization.
Where the paths cross we may never know, yet once found instant connections grow.
Out of thin air as if never a day was lost, always there like a rock covered in moss.
Deeper still are the emotional bonds held, as no matter the distance feeling are always felt.
A group of soul mates sharing lifetimes without measure, eternal universal links among the greatest unknown treasures.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 3:33 PM UTC
Greetings David,
I am employed by Fletchers Construction to be the Plant Coordinator at the Wellconnected Waterview Twin tunnel project underway beneath Sandringham in Auckland.
My wife is a hardworking Senior Nurse @ Ascot hospital in Greenlane.
For sanity, about six years ago, my wife and I bought a lifestyle block butting on to Egmont National Park @ 1250’ elevation. We built a beautiful alpine lodge, cut tracks down the heavily wooded escarpments, built bridges across two streams, reticulated roof water between tanks to a boulder built fishpond then to a shallow, stone rimmed lake which empties down an escarpment to the stream.
We have planted hundreds of trees and shrubs on this property, rhododendrons of beautiful form and colour, magnolias, a forest of silver birch, oaks, tulip trees and acers.
The property is a wonder of swooping hills and dips which, from it’s elevation, looks out over the grey Tasman sea toward Tasmania. Egmont looms in it’s white, pristine splendour over our left shoulder and the close, dark Puhakai range rears abruptly, spectacularly, betwixt the volcano and us.
Growth here is slow because of the climate, the 300 inches of annual rainfall, the short summers and the depleted volcanic ash soil.
I am 70 years old, my darling wife considerably younger….we both want to see our plantings grow to significance within our lifetime…
Thus my request for access to your wonderful fish fertilizer.
Respectfully
M.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
Reticulated blue hues of thread reach ever so desperately to thin ropes of red,
resisting the event horizon of my soul. Consuming all of your beauty into a point of singularity.
Indescribable to those beyond the lens.
For mere words were never accurate enough to escape.
Encapsulated here
rest memories and dreams,
the strings which connect us to the past, present and future held linear by time.
The strings which captivate me like gravity seduces the fabric taking her away.
Forever deeper, forever closer.
But at singularity there there cannot be this separation of time;
the past, the present and the future.
There is only a concept, a promise, that is
forever.
Forever will time cease to exist when I am with you.
Forever will gravity pull me closer to you.
And forever will I try, desperately, to search for words expressive enough to escape this black hole of which I call a soul.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
The giant beast sat straddling two highways
legs apart and thin cobwebs of power for miles down
a street as far as the telescope could see,
at each interval a bulb burst bright dangling
in the dark where street lights cast a yellow pool
around the thin pole
reticulated at each junction.
So do powerful men
cast shadows instead of light
across the nations pools of people discussing
dreams of freedom with electricity and water
and food and clothing
The presidents palace came alive at dinner
at dusk under glass chandeliers
suited and booted, gold plated walking stick,
just two kilo-meters from the seething slum.
Diners and hangers-on stood to toast the success
of themselves and the power they ****** out of electric
dams and bridges and diamonds from the dust
of backs of workers toiling
in the pitiless depths of mines
straddling another highway
where the rows of buckets, mud and slime
and grit mingled with the sweat and pain of daily work
for a two dollar night.
Oppression depression counterbalance.
Sipping champagne while the workers
squelched in grime
did not make a difference to the people in power
as all they wanted was to keep the lights on
in the national interest of greed.
Will someone pull the plug please
will someone pull the plug
will someone pull
will someone
Will?
Nothing left of it?
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
pieced panel ceiling-aloof, unaligned/
broken bottle drunk neck.
loose leaning retribution-painful and stern/
paradise as senial.
enigmatic electric violense-warmer, lonelier/
painted process of elimination.
aromatic angular pilot-slim and simple/
stupid half-witted brain.
faraway friendship-slightly stable/
hopes for the future.
obediently originating psalms-studied and preferred/
crack-pot simplification.
readied and reticulated-never worried/
worn'd through and through.
satiable sanctity-calm, cool/
collecting mindfully.
angular and semiconductive-angles, man/
prospective deafness.
nuisance noose brain-heavier still/
cloud nine.
idiocy-simple/
fragmented head.
trivial temptation-fighting demons again/
old moldy records.
youth in riot-pure and satanic/
enslaved and emboldened.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC