"ruminates" poems
For all the earth in the world,
For the varied chunks,
shapes and shades
of brown, keep an eye out!
There, somewhere in the dirt,
Next to the writhing worm,
Gasping at pockets of sunlight,
Green life ruminates, and
pushes, pushes up,
through the soil,
intrepid, unlikely.
It abandons its old husk house,
what little safety it knew,
and, daring to dream,
thrusts itself into existence,
and feels the day's cooling kiss,
a multi cellular masterpiece,
when yesterday, there was only
dirt.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
Here in exile thy is separated
Thy kin folk shall see not a sight of me
Ousted from thy friends not feeling sated
Another door hath been opened for me
Others took this wretch into their welcome fold
Thy cast to the winds of segregation
Treading a path on a road so very cold
Thy must suffer in vast alienation
With hopes of returning back to kin
Thy outlook is uncertain this is so
Will their arms accept the one of much sin
All is in the air maybe the signs say no
Thy ruminates on the outer border
Shall past friends give thy an entry order
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
His mouth puckers to the side,
his brow furrows when aware
an assumption crawls around
in the wormwood of his mind.
Every misconception,
unrecognized at first
swells within, until
his error bolts forth
like lighting on the prairie
breaks the swelter of
a summer day.
Meditations sooth his disquiet ,
perplexed by her perfection
he searches for scars in blossoms,
and defects in tree leaves. His mouth
grows dry as he mumbles
"there is no perfection."
If he finds a flaw
upon her cheek,
or a birthmark
on her shoulder
will his love fade?
Eyes staring ahead,
his mind in a trance,
he ruminates phrases
" stay open," "remain tolerant"
wait for flowers to bloom,
rains to come and
her to remain
incomprehensible.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
I have something to say
but my thoughts scatter
like crisp dead leaves
abandoned by their trees
obscure as ominous clouds
concealing the sun
my wounds bleeding all over time
but these pages remain starkly White
as I’m choking on a mouthful
my mind ruminates
on every last tormenting word
that continues to remain
Unexpressed
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 12:43 AM UTC
Indian mother, small daughter, dowry troubles
kerosene poured drenching them
soaked rage, soaked rags
match struck, flames then death
wrenching
Two crumbs amongst these intransigent
slices of village culture
lost, burnt alive
never even at the table
A slice of life lost in a furnace
fueled by ignorance
American daughter, guilt filled
flees the home that loves her
drug fueled journey, on a treadmill of fear
for the running never ends
needle slices, a lonely son away from his mother
****** coursing the blood vessels
A slice of life, a slice of madness
English man sitting, ruminates on his slices
some with honey, some with not
pens a few lines
reality served up, tough to swallow
late in life, at least he’s realized
he’s the breadwinner and the bread maker
each slice cut, just the way he likes it
a sliced of life, a slice of love
each one chewed to perfection.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
when I think of regrets in this life
there are more than I could count on both hands and feet
regret is natural and normal and healthy
but some of it is not
the kind that creeps up on you day after day
when your brain isn’t fully involved in something or a conversation and so there is space to fill with memories, ideas, or a bunch of nonsense
or all of the bad things you’ve ever done in your whole entire life
I’m not sure if I’ve ever really told anyone or said them out loud even
the past ruminates in my conscious
waiting to bite me in the most random moments when I least expect it
several sentences in and I still can’t get it out
the words are there right behind my lips but I can’t get them out
I might die one day being the only one who knows
Jul 8, 2022
Jul 8, 2022 at 10:50 AM UTC
Ever untouched by prying eyes
Your incandescence knows no price
No quantity of gold could wager
Your glimmering translucency
For beauty sits through frosted glass
It knows no mirror image
In sunny spells it lights the way
Just possible to distinguish
At night it sits upon the lake
Which ruminates inside your head
To change you but remain unchanged
To glow when couples wed
You are the anthropomorphism
Of waves on a summers day
You are the moment two opposing
Paths conjoin in harmony
In the instance your cover’s blown
Your reflection sits untampered
For that instant your delicate soul
Lies naked, conserved, unhampered
For all of this I sit in awe
As viscous silver streams
Carve channels at your feet
Ejecting precious molten metals
Which ignite with scorching heat
I find the strength to sit up
Then rise up onto my knees
Put out your hand and pull me up
I feel so deeply of your beauty
I cannot help but smile
When I think of your gift to me
It strikes me that time has passed
Since the sun shone to illuminate
Just how grateful I am to have an
Opposing path through frosted glass
A flower to my unkempt leaves.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
*One who feared LOVE
Called it unattainable
One who pondered LOVE
Pressed a rose in their books
One who ruminates LOVE
wraps it around a wick and calls it a lamp
And there is one who contemplates
Puts fire of LOVE
Burns heart to inequable use
LOVE
Serves many purposes
Warmth, care,
Compassion, touch
Companionship, feelings
And above all
LOVE loves...
But humans sold LOVE
In the bazaars of wealth & age
Education & gender
What an exorbitant cost to humankind?
Oh.. divesting LOVE to stupidity!
Fortuitously,
You told me
"Wander not far & wide
In quest of LOVE anywhere
So here I stand
Within YOU- my LOVE"*
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
Pollinating a red flower in a frenzy, a blue butterfly ruminates:
"This act,a prompt, nature coincides with time,is hardly appreciated"
"You tickle me, in a way I haven't known ever,Yes, I love it"
twitching involuntarily the flower seems to hold on to that moment.
" After all, we couple in the interest of posterity, let's not forget"
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 1:04 PM UTC
the boy has a match
in his back poc ket. hovering
janky steps
sheathed by fluffy ice
chest reverb erates
as a single rain drop
trickled in pinful loop...
theforestwaits
Undisturbed
not wanting to be burnt but he rations
not wanting anything at all.
in destroying one makes something
whence once
there was nothing. he
s t r i k e s the match aflame and alive,
l
o
w ering it fit to spread
and surely cause his life some havoc... havoc...
havochavochavoc
HAVOC
H A V O C
havoc;
he ruminates the meaning of the word a while
and settles
on it being better than boring old nothing.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 11:32 PM UTC
CeLlAr DoOr
cElLaR dOoR
cELLAR dOOR
cellar door
Cellar Door:
The most beautiful comprised set of words in the English dictionary
Why?
It could be the similar endings or how the shapes of the C and D are parallel
It could be the double letters in each word that are located right in the middle of both
Yet it could also be the way it, so easily, slides up your throat and escapes you mouth while it still ruminates on the tip of your tongue
But I personally believe it is not the letters or the sounds
It is the mystery of that one "Cellar Door"
What lies behind the "Cellar Door"?
Where does this "Cellar Door" lead to?
Can you imagine the beauty of this "Cellar Door"?
The perfection of this word is that of which the eyes cannot see and the ears cannot hear
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
The Panther scales above the infirmity of the jungle
like a reverent vicar, in her mouth
she clutches an infant. To some this is
the most intoxicating world—so long as you don’t mind
a little ruse, how could there be a day in your whole life
that doesn’t consist of a flurry of happiness?
Below, game lopes abundantly as the ocean tributaries,
each frolicking along a distinctive course, not that
she ever really ruminates over them, or anything else.
The panther has never had to digest a fable,
though her existence propagates an analogous terror.
When predators raid her hearth, they remain
ephemeral, irrelevant – her insatiable hunger the only story
she has ever managed to revisit.
Your skin will never feel her eyes. I cannot say
she is wrong. Piously she prepares her supper,
with its meager, undeveloped vigor, erupting
a contented roar in the conversion of its properties.
She exists the product of her kind, the natural order her excuse
as she scales back above the inconsequence of the jungle
again, to do the same thing
(as I’d longed to do something, anything) perfectly.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
It is generally supposed we come to this place
As a just reward for treachery and traitorousness.
Indeed, nothing could be farther from the truth;
Most of my compatriots her have blindly hitched their fortunes
To some flag, some shining dogma, our fates sealed
Through an unwillingness to be sufficiently self-interested,
The refusal to abandon ship once it became apparent
That the experience upon the rocks
Would be neither enabling nor ennobling.
My own case is illustrative of the rule;
My father, noble sovereign ascending to the throne
Via parlor tricks and the rustic embrace of folk legend,
(The fornication resulting in my birth brushed aside
As some accident of mistaken identity or enchantment)
Is celebrated, beatified really, in song and legend,
Yet I, who pulled myself up by my own bootstraps as it were,
Winning his queen’s hand and defeating him on the field,
Am consigned to this unhappy place in perpetuity,
Suffering demons who hiss ******* Usurper!*
As they put me through my paces
(One takes their rebukes with a grain of salt;
They are all mad, the likely result of dealing with this glut of madmen.)
As I noted, the presence of myself and my brethren in this place
Serve as a testament to the merits of fidelity,
Which we commemorate daily, some days several times
(I confess it seems more than a touch silly,
But the necessity of creating distractions
Trumps other concerns in a locale such as this)
By staging caucus races, each participant addressing
The ******* in front of him directly,
Paying it fealty--My liege! My liege!--which is answered in turn
By a cannonade of noxious farting
(We assume the smells to be offensive,
As the atmosphere here is somewhat deleterious at all times)
All to the great amusement of those sprites
Who observe our machinations,
They in turn guffawing madly and urinating downward upon us
While we, as the acidic waste corrodes us, also cackle like lunatics,
Fairly shouting Ah, the gentle rain of Heaven--thank you, Lord!
Though, oddly enough, our laughter at times
(Most likely due to the aridity of the atmosphere around us)
Seems to catch a bit in the throat.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
Some aspects of the world
vary...
Yet many tend to forget
the rhythm the world
ruminates.
Cyclical vibrations
rotate--
dance off and on
simultaneously.
Everything arrives
and leaves
and arrives
and leaves
again &
again
& again.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 4:24 PM UTC
I sit alone on the pond’s ghat in this rainwashed noon.
Her ripples dead
She ruminates once more
In the deafening silence of the crickets’ buzz.
*Came the men to splash upon me
The women within me bared shame
Frolicked the boys in me carefree
Made me alive in their joyous game!
Swam on me hope’s stretched hands
Sunk in me the broken heart
Left over me the girl her hair strands
At the end they all did depart!
Now I must wait for the sun to set
To drown my memories of the noon
Dreaming the stars to open heaven’s gate
Wrap me in night’s ripened moon!*
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
He reaches for the other pillow
but finds no head resting there
looking pretty
ready to kiss
and he feels bad.
She awakens from dreams of him
but there are no arms
reaching out for her
just the rumpled sheets
that witness only sleep.
Each heart breaks sometimes
remembering the precious few moments
when they could embrace
like normal people
and they cry.
And they both keep weeping
feeling so sad and heavy
with anger at the situation
at the other
for not trying harder
to be there.
He ruminates about how
she never does talk about
where she wants to put her piano
and she complains to herself
because he no longer counts
the days until their next encounter
and has so little to say
on the phone.
Each one is obsessed
with worrying about the other
and neither takes
the time to wonder
if the distant partner
also feels the sting
of the empty pillow.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Almost like clockwork,
the bone breaks. This time,
an arm, a warning
against the things that hands
can do. Cut it off not at the disease,
but at the root.
We hope, this time,
that we were quick enough
in the amputation.
That the disease has spread
no further than the floor
upon which the phantom limb jerks.
Last time, it was slow,
an infestation below the muscle
until the patient was screaming
for morphine. We had to cut
the lower leg first, but the thigh
was already prisoner.
The neuroscience department
has been working overtime
on all the brains we lobotomised
before removal. We’re thinking
that’s where it ruminates,
dormant, like a volcano.
The infection manifests
differently in everyone.
In some, it cries for attention,
and we cut the throat.
In others, it’s violence,
and it ends up killing itself.
There’s not much we know
and even less we can name.
When they brought my body
in, they called it loneliness,
and cut out my heart.
The wolves ate well that night.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 8:46 PM UTC
O Sappho, prophet of the page
To whom the Greeks devote their age
Humbly true in gentle words
Full of spirit, passion stirred
Poetess, in mind embeds
A fulsome flame of luscious red
On glistening isle, on Lesbos' shores
Sappho ruminates, adores
Rendering the usual world
In to magic truth unfurled
Written cross the sky in stars
Sung in time to ancient lyres
Her descant rings in metaphors
The earliest of troubadors
Enamoured of the wise, sublime
Conveyed in verse that transcends time
A most dutiful and diligent scribe
Gifting us, the reading tribe
Her vision ascends to immortal throne
Throughout time it sparkled, shone
Inspiring the future sages
To lust for verse and give up wages
To be a poet, that's her bliss
To see the sunshine as a kiss
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC
He's seating beneath a big block of stone
On a place where art lays and unfolds
Staring at the passing traffic
Watching at the reality dancing before him
As if he's guarding the ruins
Of the old world crumbling behind
Like the sun slowly fading at the green bay
I can hear him constantly switching
Radio stations on his cheap phone
To pass time, to pass eternity
But never seem to find the song
He's used to dance with in his youth
And now in his twilight amidst
The setting of the great tropical sun
He ruminates on the rising edifices before him
How everything had changed
The thatched roofed houses
Have now become towering cranes
The tall grass have become steel fences
The muddy earth now paved
I can see in the old man's static gaze
That he is wishing and hoping for something
Something he can grasp with
His calloused and wrinkled hands
Something his old frame can lift and hold
Like a moment, or a memory he can be proud of
Until the last of his august days
Yet he found what he's searching for
The last minutes of a ball game
I can hear the ecstatic crowd roaring
As the game dribbles to its end
The buzzer sounds over triumph and defeat
Then the old man closes his phone,
Drinks from his jug, and fixed his things
He looked at me as he stood
Then walks away slowly, losing himself
Beyond a sea of concrete
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
Mirrored in stark, cold symmetry
Branches shake and entwine in a delicate whisper that ruminates from a place unknown
Our names were called to a white path with the fluttering sureness of a snowflake
Closer we cling in deep breath
Feet shaky on firm ground
Cotton clouds shape and form in a ever changing grey sky
Within dreams of elegant falling feathers and wings
We pray for help through this raw Winter
And there, in each other, we see it
Through every bitter sense and every sweet harmony of the Robin's call we find it
There is beauty
Mirrored in stark, cold symmetry
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
What's the price to pay,
An eye for an eye?
This question, it ruminates
Echoing off the sound in this quiet isle
Nothing quite like the enemy
Just like you want to be,
Clearly
Soul too shallow
I was your remedy,
Now I'm just another enemy
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
Sometime never around around the corner, with Bukowski's eyes and satin skin,
She waits.
She ruminates the fierceness she will make someone endure while waiting.
Fierceness that only shows it's true nature after safety has been suggested.
Suggestions that come freely, not when asked.
Questions that lie when posed before the wrong ears.
Illumination is only the first letter of a word used falsely to spread truth.
Honesty comes at the bottom of the whiskey bottle, lonely and hurt.
Soon, the nature of her honesty will no longer wait for any other to acknowledge it, but instead, adopt a life of it's own.
Soon.
Soon.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
an optimist calls this a sunny sunday morning
coffee, cats, colson whitehead’s latest
a pessimist ruminates on gaza
the ukraine, sudan, republicans
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 10:03 AM UTC
We are the visible manifestation of a much deeper design.
Like the tip of an iceberg most of what we are is out of view.
Science tells us that only four percent of what makes up the Universe is visible to us, ninety six percent is unseen and unknown.
Science calls the ninety six percent unseen, dark matter and dark energy. They call it dark because they have no clue what either is.
Like the tip of a sharks fin if viewed by the unknowing would give no hint of what's below. Our lives, rules and being are ruled by the tip we see. All that we think we know comes from the visible four percent! A deeper dive would
illuminate ultimate reality, and all that we are and know would change.
It's the blind leading the blind in the world of the visible, and, we can only see a fraction of the visible. What then, in fact, do we really know at all?
When the corporeal turns to dust, when the four percent ceases to exist the ninety six simply ruminates and corporeally manifest itself some time/place else.
This is all just postulation you see, unlike the word of others who'll tell you how things must certainly be.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 1:48 PM UTC
here comes silence,
as my mind drifts
into midnight wonders,
and ruminates the memories,
now that we don’t talk
it has been a month,
and 21 days,
i may have met new guys
but yours is still the notification
i’ve been waiting,
and asking for.
Apr 26, 2024
Apr 26, 2024 at 2:20 PM UTC