"searchable" poems
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!"
(from the libretto of Handel's Semele -
opera.stanford.edu/iu/libretti/semele.htm)
think of your ears as an
ever alert, high pitched,
sensory tuning fork,
an aural radar, searching for that
acute, oblique,
perforating and poking phrase,
that lost airplane of solace
buried and too well hid
in the vastness of
empty, characterless searchable seas
that rarely yield up their
comforting finery
when discovered, tripped upon,
instant recognition pleads
"write me down,
write me up,
delve me,
determine me,
make me more!"
t'is a thrumming vibrato
interfering with mind,
that phrase, that phrase, that phrase
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!"
content coursing through the eyes,
piercing veils of hum drum dumbing down,
a life spying drone eliciting excitedly
a high value target,
an unexpected mission,
camouflaged amidst the
chit chat droning of the
choking ordinary and commonplace
*murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own
tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life,
You
murmur me again to peace*
even the words
be prepared to sacrifice, surrender,
but promise me that
the Justice of
-just-
thy tone,
thy inflections,
will gentle
the infecting turbulence
of being a plain, tried and trialed human
let me not
catalogue the onerous,
the burdening barbell weights,
we carry for no purpose
Give us
our daily bread of a singular
phrase~prayer~poem,
our verbal bond, modest sequest,
honey oatmeal, cut up strawberried
jewel,
give it, me this day,
my daily soothing
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!"
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
Eyes there are...searching the Unknowable
Face, as for the inviolate intimacy of
reflection.
The momentary consequence of existence,
as image concerns image...desolate
perception has gotten lost amongst these.
Faithless certitude where from what may
be put to light and plucked from it...for
that which is not seamless stands opposable.
Thus...reflection encourages transparency,
relinquishes fortitude, this our disparity
is searchable.
Were that seasons would quarrel amongst
themselves, what is known of a year would
be cast out of time.
Eyes there are...searching the Unknowable
Face, as for the inviolate intimacy of
reflection...space upon the deep of space.
...Perforated by light that is its continuum...
eyes there are searching the Unknowable Face.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
Ad astra
1
From the city I know you were from,
building up the perimeter in summer – it was plenty searing.
Must when I found the town already, triggered and almost accomplished,
searchable signs for searching parties involved like grass on the lawn,
scraps on an empty lot – when in summer it got very hot
and your salt smelt of the sea crushed in between my territories, start the word.
Flesh deems it so in frame, walking with us this very evening crafted
by a waking remoteness.
2
When it rains, build this city from here on – relieve it of its terrors.
The memory of an old cathedral being burned down to the last cross,
the volume of prayer genuflected within pews, or anything that was hieratic. Rain in the
afternoon was what your entire ocean meant to me, crossing its span of promise,
sure of its weather. Rasp the skin tight like gears fine-tuned. Borrow its heat when
it drizzles. Do you remember my face when you pass by familiar pavements, stalls,
hospitals drenched in prognosis? The even flutter of a bird? What does this question seek
but your truth – like an elastic map stretched to infinite directions.
3
Here is where you were named darling. Taut your name had it belonged to someone else.
Sharp were your features. Your definitions smooth. Your textures visible with difficulty.
When you wore denims rising from the cuff of your knees you showed
me a blotch and other fraternizations. Moles as variables. Your body as graph. My senselessness,
somewhat a trying delineation. Thousand fingers mesh altogether to formulate rescue,
mind a garden of salvage enough for two. Or underneath the sphere of a body,
neither rain nor sun could stop to flourish me completely. Yourself full of
symmetries – the universe cut inside and out, trimmed to lasting – ubiquity, inhabiting the temporary.
I transact with this darkness yourself containing light, like a window to your home
when you’ve moved on to a different continent, I myself staring right into as if the whole space,
in search for a singular glint I could make up for a cluster
to make an elusive thing such as you walk backwards, from the entry, just before the guardhouse, to meet me.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
Foot steps upon the height of a hill
a mole down a lane in just a mile
as I escape in the dense of the night
with each step traced close to yours
If the midline was a graced venture
would the sparkle fade and frown?
would the lonely rainy day awash?
would the wonder grow in thunder?
As the shadow get displaced in hues
supposedly trapped inside neat seams each a fixture of unknown secrets
set in unfounded, yet searchable folds
If such a time comes, my dearest
My embrace will be coat you wear
all the words of this love will live
and carry us home to our bed
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 12:37 PM UTC
Maybe soon
your name won't be
searchable
in my brain.
A forgotten word.
As if the two syllables
aloud
were unheard.
But,
let's say,
my eyes meet yours
on the platform,
one day.
It would be no easy feat,
to maintain a
calm, steady
heartbeat.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
as a child
the happy child
had no notion
of a childhood
he knew of ghosts
because things moved
whether he minded them
or not
he was haunted
by visibility
and cared for
in theory
by a woman
nightly moonlighting
as a man
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC