"roiled" poems
when you understand my poems perfectly then,
their utility is inutile,
their usefulness is, will. always be, in the
nth
*reinterpretation, a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth inner wired construct,
be pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
two lives (yours, mine), a paired wine tasting, we together,
believing in the greatness of joyous frustration
some say, as I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our at last armed embrace,*
when at last we understand our mutuality of need and salve...
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 9:47 AM UTC
words conveyed with a mutual clarity parity for communication
will end only when the world ends first
and the communitas is no more,and words, exist purposelessly
for there is no left with whom to communicate, precisely
but now, of this moment,
write words, sentences multiplied but circumscribed,
verses with mystical aura,
whose utility so suspect and multiple meanings hidden within,
taken by you for the specific utility you uncover and create
ah, to write of things clearly visible to all,
but possessed differently, by each reader, this is the greatest commonsensical commonwealth useful
for and of humans indexed by unique word tendons tenderly
when this passes, when literature no longer
can be messengered to 127 Persian provinces,
each the message same,
yet given up in 127 different languages^
when you understand my poems perfectly then,
*their utility is inutile,
the usefulness is in the* nth reinterpretation,
*a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth wired inner construct,
being pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
a lives paired wine tasting, together believing
in the greatness of joyous frustration
some say, I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our armed embrace at last*
p.s. Pradip, be careful what you wish for....a poet false...
9:15am April 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 9:29 AM UTC
I. Prologue
Splash words across: images on canvas.
Before Abraham was, I am:
the cubist of poets. Mangled and tangled;
Here thoughts emerge, in reverent perspectives.
The real world: how many dimensions,
depends on who you ask; Monotone
in my unidimensions. Filter. Baritone.
Coffee-brown is the best colour around.
II. Love
Here we sit by two-arms distance. To north,
to south. Facing opposing poles.
There is an attraction.
Here are images from the industrial world
gone post-industrial. Broken commodes.
Outsource your misery here. The sky can afford
a hole from on here. As long as
there's none in my shoe.
Sometimes, I roll over in waves.
Sometimes, you wave over.
Questions still hidden in the corners.
III. Peace
All that's passed remains flickering
green like the wireless router
silently at nights: recover, play it over.
Flush it all up. Splash it all around. Cubism.
Art nouveau. Portmanteau. Now fruck the world.
Neon shades rippling through the smoke
riding out dancing to metal clang;
Crazy laughter like that of an empty skull:
smoke the pipe, brother,
spread the peace around. 2013, stupid.
Idealism died in 1967. And many times since.
Repeats always a farce.
IV. Spirit
Only one man died for the poor.
Who called the dead to life.
All other stories are about barons and hedgehats:
while the millions were ground over
to oil the world. While they roiled the world.
How the poor die under the heels
of those that claim to love that man?
Disagree? Drone. Agree? The throne.
Yes, we can, brother, we can defeat this
****** corruption. Brother,
be not corrupt.
V. Prospect
A sigh of disapproval, soft in sleep.
I come and lie, back to your back,
waiting for love to seep over.
Yes, we can, brother, we can overcome
bigotry vile. Brother,
say not, mine, the only way ever.
Happy lovers day. Shout out aloud,
peans more to the meek women's rights.
Forget not, there's some in your sights.
Two arms' distance is about the right in the day.
There are two faces seen in this bubble,
formed at the mouth of the tooth paste tube.
Peace to the world, every morning after.
Every little home by home.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
Abandon's clay roiled, doubled what pulse
of life...in tune and out of.
Pathological music derived from music...
ecstasy--whose recompense is a sound
loss of selves.
Multiform unto archetypal gods--Dionysus
first among, Apollo last among...eviscerated,
trophied, slathered upon these rotund
Grecian ladies and gentleman.
Hallowed names depart the incontinent
circle, forgone the synoptical scarlet lettering
of name...transcendence.
Torrent upon torrent of ambrosia down the
throat...skyward runoff of chins...scribbled
down the primordial bloom of ******
O sylvan gathering, crowns of laurel graduate
thee from materiality...a shuddering
beauteousness--broke shafts of light clash
lovingly from luminous head to head.
Here...the extenuating circumstance of
consciousness appropriated quoad sacra.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
i cast myself into the sea
an anchor mooring an empty vessel
to a body that never asked to carry
a weight heavier than its own,
the waves roiled,
the moon called out
the sea called back and
i cried out beneath the waves,
the night was quiet.
i cast myself into the sea
the moon slept on the surface,
i called her harbour and jumped.
her craters swelled and burst
into the night, the stars collided
and i sank beneath the waves,
opened my mouth wide
and swallowed a star whole
as the sea swallowed me,
i tasted salt,
licked it from the corners of my lips,
wiped it from the corners of my eyes,
the moon rippled back into place,
i reached out beneath the waves
and watched her shrink.
i cast myself into the sea,
i thought the moon would swim after me
i found a siren instead,
she beckoned me into the deep,
took my hand and led me
down, down into the trenches,
i felt the moon in the currents,
she reached out to me
and i shrunk.
the night was quiet.
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 4:24 PM UTC
they say a watched *** never boils
but my mind certainly does
and i watch it all the time
it's never out of my sight
yet it's constantly spilling its contents
in a roiled turmoil
all over my consciousness
the result is a reduction
of my state of mind
of my perspective
either a concentrated awareness
or a flavorless sludge of grey matter
it all depends on the heat applied
it all depends on evaporation
a proper chef would be attentive
a saucier of good stock
choosing quality ingredients
maintaining a simmer
avoiding a seethe
controlling condensation
distilling even pabulum to perfection
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
Do not abort words from love's womb;
she will choke herself
because she could not be a mother.
Stitch lips together. Let silence,
nothing,
be purity.
Words end.
They
are hot and furious, oozing
sores relishing in their own
blood.
Organisms,
dull black embryos, eyeless
until
roiled on red tongues;
spluttered, screamed, snaked
out into being.
They heal themselves to death by the hemlock of Time.
Dying is a definite thing - words are not
immortal, not greater than us.
Not love.
Autopsies reveal varied, unwanted truths:
either
heart splintered too swiftly
or
poison turned flesh to gore,
cell by cell.
Do not abort words from love's womb;
you are wrapping the umbilical cord
around your own neck.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
She held him within her. A coiled mosaic, whirling on the precipice. His frame shook tumultuous, his skin the colour of autumn grey. The wetness from his eyes spilled against her soft fur. He pressed his lids tighter, as if to keep his tears from the world. Warmth pooled beneath their paws, a thick ichor that smelled of iron and salt.
The dusk receded, and he breathed his last.
Night left the world a husk. A slumber, cessation. In the still, she felt a chill gather within her, cruel and implacable. The forest stirred, with a restlessness only the dead knew. The barrows shrivelled to their skeleton frames. Death lurked in the furs of the pitch beast, in the mottle snares of the witherfang.
She ****** them all.
Her howl tore through the air, bright and gleaming. It thundered beneath the earth, reverberating through the bones of the long deceased. How had she once felt pride in that sound? A bitter rage roiled in her blood. It twisted the vessels of her body, and set her muscles to stone. She moved and shattered into a thousand shards, each one sharper than the last.
She grieved for two days. The soft contours she’d held his dying body against grew lean and taut. The hollows of her ribs had closed themselves around a seething stone, that filled her flesh bitter. She rose a new beast on the third day. Smarter, but crueller; wiser, but filled with rage; and with only one thought on her mind.
She would find the deceiver, and devour all he loved.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
Wild grapes grow on vines
From the trees next to the Fields
A bunch of us harvested the yield
Purple fingered in buckets
A Galvanized Antique
Wash Tub on Wheels
With the Hose at the Bottom
Filled up with The Make
A log of Firewood was used
To smash the grapes to pulp
As the Juice Drained out
Collecting in a Bucket
Pounding the pulp up
Taking Turns, Arms Ached
In the Back Yard, Sun Baked
As we plied our Log to Make
In the Kitchen 20 Lbs of Sugar
And gallons of Water Boiled
Watched and Stirring Constantly
Till the Syrup Batch Roiled
A 50 Gallon Oak Wine Keg
Prepared a Wooden Peg
A Hole drilled through
Coiled copper Pipe put to...
An ancient wooden Spigot
Gently tapped into place
The warm Syrup is poured
Yeast Added and then Grape
The Plug with the copper Pipe
Tapped into the Top of the keg
Coiled up Copper Stretches Down
To water, in a Redwing Crock
Halloween party we
Tapped some pitchers
A Light and fruity Vin
Sweet Pallette of wine
Christmas we Tapped
Merry Pitchers to toast
A Fine Full bodied Note
It made a Merry toast
For New Years we
Tapped the Last
The Marc of Dregs
Potent as Sweet Sherry
The Winter Wine
Tasted Fine
With Merry Toasts
For a Good Time
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
The roiled red water
Or blood should I say
Went swirling down
The drain
Down down down
Until it all but disappeared
As though
It had never been placed there
To begin with
But it had
It was there
She left the room
Left it all behind
But there was one thing
She did not see
One drop of blood
Left behind
On the white tile floor
At the point where
The grout and tile meet
That one drop
She had never accounted for
And who knows
Maybe the dog will come in
And lick it up
Maybe her brother will walk in
And accidentally
Wipe it up with his sock
Or maybe her mother will see it
And question it's existence
Or maybe it will sit there
Forever
Unnoticed
I will never know
And perhaps she never will either
But I'm sure
If she knew
That drop was sitting there
Right now
She would care
She would rush away
From whatever she was doing
And wipe it up
In hopes of covering it all up
Everything that happened
And with that one wipe
Maybe it would be gone
Gone forever
And then again
Maybe it wouldn't be.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
Elsie was a stubborn girl a willful thing at first
I watched her grow. My sister's daughter
My niece if you will
She had a way about her even then but time would carry change.
Today I can not place a moment .
something brought a change.
Elsie was an angry child.
She was meddlesome and vile.
She kept a vault
hidden. Deep.
Putrid and unkind roiled
about. An ugly distortion.
Why to this day.
Muted. Slithering.
An only child she loved her solitude.
sitting calmly with her hands folded
drifting to far off places with eyes
as hollow as a rotting stump
fallen long past. withered
weathered.
Elsie walked into the woods one day
seeking solitude. forlorn and forgotten.
A bird sang in the distance.
Elsie heard the song.
Now I am old and tired.
I have done all that was required.
made my mark however small
still and always through it all
I hear the mocking songbirds call
Elsie wonders there abouts
as nights grow cold
She still has not found home.
She will one day
no doubt.
dreams come
and go.
They
Tell
Me
So.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
stem cell words
from the cellular wall of the
poem birth canal
narrows, twists,
even double helix's,
doc-prof diagnosis
with perfect, absolute uncertainty,
denotes the presence of
stem cell words
*"all your writes,
gestating make-believe,
word smythe
premium cocktail concoctions,
gospel soul post-viewed
rocked and roiled
still and always,
unflinchingly personal
singing and simulcast
the unique
internal combustion,
that removes the pollution,
of your
unflinchingly personal..."*
mother necessity
delivery of a
Caesarian cut-them-out
says me
cut, excise them,
take them,
them newborn-baby stones
give them
a good home,
my DNA upon them,
my only Jacob blessing,
that they get
goodly tented taken
let them spawn
more and others,
will love them
better just for knowing
even never seeing them again,
still and always,
whatever they
write on,
still and always,
I'm in them,
they will be,
unflinchingly personal,
even if signed by
another's name....
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
***Water wind and sail
what of the ecstasy
of those who sail..
Those bright mornings
with water at peace
and those evenings
waves rough and roiled..
And the wind spirit
pressing powering and
yes destroying the sail..
The sail holding free
in a moment's haven
poised right there
mid terror and peace..
They know quite well
ecstasy arrives in
becoming the Sail...***
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Through the roiled dirt I trudge,
Bearing life, bearing hope,
For weary souls brought down in vain,
Their time ahead both cruel and tainted.
Through the marshy swamps I wade,
Exhaustion etched heavy upon my face,
Searching for souls, for men of Grace,
To grant respite, some well-earned rest.
Alas, they cry, for mother, for wife,
For sweet child, back home, sleeping tight,
As to life they cling, with mine arms as their own,
To die another day, with me by their side.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
The wrapes of Grath adorn the path that slammer klingks had tread
when turning spades in everglades to flosticate the dead.
Along the way the snorbels bay at freebled sprutelned
that boogeymen had once again uphove above the shed.
The buildings tall that housed the krawl are pictured carved in stone
and all that’s left is now bereft of wrapes that might atone
for scabs that feed our wrinkled breed, distraught and lying prone.
Yes, flonk replaces merpeled traces deep inside, alone.
There’s no retreat from incomplete, so durbies never dared,
but streaped instead beneath their bed with franjent fangs unbeared;
they knew the past could never last although the trumpets blared,
for doogies, stripped, were ill equipped, no longer bald or haired.
Like cavaliers with gougejent spears, well triggered for a tiff,
slank vankulures with silver spurs embussed for grimp and griff
(no question why, for “we can’t die”, the oft regleated riff);
with little fuss the blunder bus krunged glimpfly off the cliff
and fetid breet of grim defeat gave Grath its final whiff;
the catapult had one result, all life lay lazelled stiff.
The plastic waves that washed the graves, now homeland for the rutch,
though faring worse when quenching thirst with warples in the hutch
were nonetheless, as frunks confess, so pleasant to the touch
exturbing sinks that watered wynx and onetime life as such.
Like burning blotters slurping waters, skindles sipped their fill
from koozing cracks between the tracks inhumed beneath the hill,
then spawned the spores of Grathic wars that profit from the ****
their victory tales, like crimson crails, reside in dung and dill.
Those scrilly clouds that cowed the crowds neath radiation snapes
left little less than watercress beneath their coffin’s drapes;
yes, those unborn cannot adorn the pallor of the prapes
so scrundlemun tinge bibberun, we ones who reap the wrapes.
Yes, now-abandoned hetzelspan were once in time embroiled
with merikained that firps extained until the weather roiled.
What more, perchance, can happenstance inflict upon the koiled
when pendlesnips are in eclipse and wrapes of Grath are soiled?
Jul 1, 2021
Jul 1, 2021 at 5:07 PM UTC
"Don't come any closer" she said
pulling a sliver from her heart,
the one she kept on her filament wrist
hand upraised, shaking but sure
a pinprick of light glinting in her fist
matching the spark shining through the hole
once filled with an object sharper than her pain
pull them out so you can forget
so you can remember
what it's like to breathe
what it's like to cast yourself
like the night sky
she lunged, a streak in the dark
everything roiled in a chaotic ink
except a twinkle one could balance
on the tip of a needle
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 2:24 PM UTC
a tall masted sailboat plods its way
across the picture window, under power, moving slow, 5 minute mile,
seagulls trail behind, periodically dive bombing the roiled wake, thinking, surely, men’s finding machinery may better than their own,
we,
taking anything to make the new days poems & troubles easier
so it goes, the interplay between man and a natural world,
so it goes, finding fish, our sustenances, a dance perpetual,
so it goes, divining spirits sensing a vision, bring me music,
a spiritual so apropos that who can doubt God’s existence?
**”With the water
Sweet water, wash me down
Come on, water
Sweet water, wash me down**
**Tried my hand at the Bible
Tried my hand at prayer
But now, nothing but the water
Is gonna bring my soul to bear”^**
so the birth-day begins, sunrise poems & troubles sure to follow,
in serenity commences, perhaps a sunset bookend to match,
but in between, surely poems & troubles, all of life’s stuffing,
signs and guides, surely, at least, the day’s poem is completed...
—————————————-
^ Nothing But the Water (II)
Grace Potter and the Nocturnals
Sep 11, 2020
Sep 11, 2020 at 8:05 AM UTC
Hardly, my friend.
The Dharma shrieks
a diamond radiance
from my heart.
I do not fear
the turning
of the wheel.
I revel in it.
I made this world;
creator and arbiter.
I control my destiny
by controlling my self.
I choose how to live,
where to live,
with whom to live.
I know what I need
and take it.
I make my desires
into my truths.
My karma is strong.
It is not my karma
to surrender, ever.
My other lives
roiled with war,
death and destruction,
but never surrender.
What to fear in this one?
Only fools fear death.
Death leads to the Bardo
and the Bardo leads
to another try
at conquering life.
I sit where I am
and I choose who I am.
My heart feels
the circle turn
and I exude its
diamond radiance
once again:
action in inaction;
order in chaos.
I make my freedom here
in the still spoke
of the spinning wheel
we call life.
Let the Universe
look after itself.
I have other worlds
to conquer.
~mce
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
The rain pelted down angrily on rusted red corrugated zinc. It pounded it's message home on a tropical night. Thunder rolled on massive cumulus wheels.The oceans roiled to deep but still he could not sleep.
His favorite lullaby had failed
A tropical concoction. to no avail. and so.
With fingers clasped behind his head and staring at the candles dance on wall and ceiling.
No answers came calling though wished upon, no squall brought mournful musings... Nothing to cling to till dawns awakening..
A vacancy there. His stares unending to pierce the roof and ceiling again to see the heavens in eyes of mind....A vacancy still. no takers.
minutes turned to hours. Ah but wait.. no the wind now lashes pelting drops a harsh tattoo and cascade.
Sleep in it the bed you made.
Come quiet morning
Come with the sun come hither. The guttural croak. Croak and response of the plague. Frogs in swamped places now boast and make merry and willfully taunting. a sing song of nature.
goes on ... and you with laced fingers and no answers..
Patience
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
The image is indelibly
Engraved in my mind’s eye-
Like the black and white
photography
of the night that Bobby died.
Bobby, lifeless, bleeding out
upon the kitchen floor.
Is there a doctor in the house?
Where is the rule of law?
There were then two Americas
They too were black and white.
Evil times bred evil men.
Do you recall the night?
That summer there was rioting
And violence roiled the land.
It might have been much different
with a Kennedy in command.
The saddest words a poet writes
And lets escape his pen
Is that sad speculation
That asks what might have been.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
The sheer power of your words
the cascading beauty of shimmering
images crashing upon my very being
erodes a deep pool of peace
where I float finding respite
from the triage of living
lay down upon a spread of softest down
on shore nearby perfumed
with blooms of memories shared
fascinating, lovely, thorns and all
an exhilarating walk along jagged cliffs
built from volcanic eruptions;
emotions buried for years
beneath the surface
given fiery breath and freedom
their peaks frosted with
gentle cooling snows of perspective
rolling meadows of gently whispering
reads roiled by imaginative breezes
subtle sweet-grass intimations
soothe an overheated mind
and balm the inflamed heart
this is the world we have created;
rejoice, and be glad in it.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
Passed the time searching,
Tracing the circles
Of this tired path I’ve worn in the soil.
Eyes touching faces,
Skimming the places
The crowds that have swollen and roiled.
Red brimming eyelids,
Sleep stolen violence;
I’ve curled up with nothing, away from the light.
Drift off to no where-
Found you were somewhere,
Sought then to flee there: off into the night.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC
Our tongue-tied minds are
interlaced with the heat of the moment
Fill my mouth with your saliva and
be pleasured by the roiled and rolled ridges of my tongue.
Thoughts dripping through my teeth, Unable to speak them
As her warm breath burns gently into my skin
Her tongue dances between each thought
Hearts palpitating for the next sentence
Drowning in her saliva, choking on paragraphs
That have yet to be moisten by her
Soft voice.
Tell me you love me
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 2:56 AM UTC
why it gets more solemn around ten at night
the busy people are not around, how
so many different reasons and sights
get roiled around turned over upside now
turned over and studied like squirmy things
by a botanist in a lab or in
my brain dissected like a lab rat prone
flat on my back my tail taut my ears
droop, right then, take a specimen and find
to find it all is how the time is then
too early or late or impossible
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC