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Shivpriya Sep 2019
Love you my seawalls!

I feel empty of everything,
for whether it is a feeling which
would come out of some subjectiveness
or a conscious mental effort.

I don't know, how often I think about you.
It is some sort of concealed grief! The moisture
do gets produced from the eyes and the sobbing softness of heart has always so much to say.

Although the inner stratum seems to be
devoid of any feeling but there is a generous
flow of mighty support which encourages
me to keep moving forward regardless
of the hard knocks.

-You are my seawalls, I love your hands as they protect me from hitting hard to erosion.

Shivpriya
#shivpoetesspriya
Ash Duhrkoop Feb 2011
Are you alive?
Tendrils tickle the surface
And billows
Bloom from the core,
Ribboning thinner than
      those things which breach
      seawalls,
Seeping impermeable
To flirt with all sides of this vessel.

I saw in him the beauty
The same as I saw the beauty of
      suffused ink, mingling
In delicate patterns of fluidity and filament.
His release quivers momentarily,
Hung in fluid stillness, and
Flushed with a desire to saturate.

In saturation, one may think it
Possible to be falling
Up through a falling surge.

We two coalesce at the bottom.
Laokos Apr 2021
~every distance is a long shot
within reach of a fool
~
                          Prv. 𝑓:𝑦

bleed your heart out in dripping
poetic pretense―slip
that inky salamander some silk:

         "the wilting waiting flora
bequeathed their busting bouquets and
     bountiful bosoms unto the world
              in all of its prescient
                       violence"


then read it back to yourself
later and be
absolutely disgusted.

throw it away with all the other
things you've done in your
life.

now reach back in your closet
and rattle the skeletons
lingering there.

finger your dreams in the
dark under pressure
from the mind
to find yourself.

the lightning severance
will sing and
anxiety will
harmonize with the knife.

you've done it again...
****** it all up
and everyone
knows it.

you could eat all the erasers
in the world
and your **** still
wouldn't come out correct.

a lifetime of valleys and
seawalls has made you
an avatar of
effortless blunder.

and you can't stop bleeding
all over the page; white
is red again
cause
you blue it.

bleed in―breathe out
breathe in―bleed out
bleed in―breathe out
breathe in―
bleed out...

welcome to the creative
process.
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
Defying the anger of the stormy winds
swearing at her erectness
she stood her ground on the rockface
stony woman, unafraid of raging seas, frosts
ships crashing at her feet.

With one eye winking/flashing,circling
she warned them of men with mustaches and machetes
marauding naked shores far below the banks
where caves in seawalls collided with the rumble
and dash of waves of protest. Nothing moved her.

She stood , solid as the ten commandments
unminding of the raging storms
doing her duty, flaunting her skirts
and dank steps up her heart which
stayed unflinching.

She was all my  new woman wanted to be.
st, peters basilica on this rock
holding the keys to my souls entry
into her private heavens
a house with many mansions.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
CP Walker Jul 2014
Here I lie in wake, alone to my thoughts--centered attention on nothingness for so long that it emerges with a startling gasp that stirs the calm waters, that breaks the crippling silence, that disarms my presumptions, that startles the birds from their peace in wing and gives movement to flight in the cold dark out beyond my shortsightedness of the here and now.

A ripple--that's all it was--that prompted my upward condition and seized my focus.

Subtle enough, yet I could not mistake it as London could not pass through a single sweet cool night without a shaky blast off in the distance that likewise stirred the children from their innocent dreams as I have strayed from my ever present seams and still now...

My meaningless nothing may faulter at the so vastly more important  everythingness around me; yet only my perception of these little ripple kisses that stir my soul and give rise to new movement and dance upon this elliptical routine that puzzles me in brick by bricked and stone by ****** can surely pave the path to tomorrow's promise of the again and the trials of what if in such again.

Perhaps no other than I could decipher the value of these thoughts; the merit they hold on my person; and the uselessness they possess on yours.

But that's fine with me...for expression left unexpressed, thoughts left unthought, refractive pulses left unreflected...these play things forgotten in a misspent youth dwindling in the pool of memory and the pull of forgotten woe, surely are worse than the best nightmare on the darkest, most desolate night of lonely sailing in those powerful little ripples that crash on my seawalls and smooth out my wayward projections.

I may push back. I may fight the waves, as futilely as an effort I know it to be. Or I may just accept this future as sure of a past it will ever already be...let that undertow carry me out to sea and swim with the birds and fly with the fish as the Sun whispered he intended for me.

But I may just come right back up again, as breathless and weak as I did before and surely shall again (remaining). For with every breath I surface to obtain, the effort for relief stirs new pains of concentration that only a breathless living may disarm to my liking.

I may not think clearly then and than so more, but my effort to keep my thoughts straight spills attempts out across the floor, and with each further step I further my chances of a clear tower of perceptive accomplishment to stand atop and gaze. Mind my incongruitous follies and shame my liking the name. Am I, I am, the confused and forebane.

Perhaps now, I've infected you? Confused, aren't we? And confused we shall remain. For nothing is so utterly disarming as the mixing of thoughts with no filter to gain. As this ground falls out from under you, just remember the rule for walking: one foot in front of the other for too long and you find yourself right back where you began.

Pick a new direction to gone...I'll meet you there some day, maybe.
Sometimes, nonsense is the only clear anvil to forge my shapely manifestation upon.
You came riding
the last wave of summer breeze
You stay enduring
the blast of winter freeze

I see in your eyes
bright spray scouring
afternoon sands dancing
straw hat roaming
cobblestones glowing
golden dusts filling air
tropical breath teasing hair

I feel on your lips
fruit punch spilling
pool pub splashing
yarn arbor wrapping
blushed evening
coconut trees clipping shades
aged seawalls humming dreams

So long, scrolls, taps and dots
for the rest of my days
my feet beside hers
treading sapphire waves
For JR

— The End —