"sensitivities" poems
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you pout and defer, dancing backwards,
claiming, blue is now blackened
from underuse, incapable and incapacitating revival
*saying eyes cannot see, distinctly, neither near or far,
the tremble of love, forgot & distantly absent,
but I know, a heart’s sensory muscles never die,
though weaken they might, underused, un-exercised
denying that inspiration
no longer resides with in thy sensitivities,
has fled, undercover of smoking forest fires
all the diurnal hazards that invade, occupying
my internal spaces once filled by poems
you conceived, birthed, in a pleasured haze,
came so fast, you bare recall agony accompanied,
but not the ecstasy of the end resultant!*
***you know it’s you of whom I write, but,
a note not shaming names, but messages
countless private messages have I sent
begging, beseeching, give me your gifts***
once more, you owe me not, though I
oft irritate with my deafening pleas,
yet only denials continue, my pleas ding
but dent not, the tired fear of your exposition
so speak to you plain,
feed my soul selfish
like in years gone past,
there are holes in mine
that require your elixir,
creamy softness that moistens
my face with tears of your words
originating, astound, enfold**
not later, not soon, not excusals,
write for me NOW, WRITE FOR YOURSELF,
but leave me not forsaken and thirst un-slackened,**
Answer! To whom do you owe your poems?
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 11:30 AM UTC
to more than I can be...
a sad isolated man,
throes of an agonizing,
stretched by her for painful
revengeful gain,
kissed with pointless avarice, divorce.
children deeming
him alienating, his faulty
insensitive sensitivities,
to easy blame
little do they know of the
piercing lowliness, the looniness of
nights he listened to sad-eyed singers,
and his late-of-mid of night scribbled scripts,
where he
off loaded the agonies of a midlife
disaster, not entirely of his-own
sown making,
but still his to bear and bare alone...
some accidents happens for unintentional,
unintended intentional new seasons appear,
stumbled, tumbled, fumbled his way onto
this H~oly P~lace, where someone might listen
to his explanations, expiations, excoriations
of his all too common tragedy, and said:
this broken human, he's got his reasons,
read his overly long treatises, his entreaties,
to those that prowl, rowing, in this corner
of the silence of the internet, where only the
trolls, the cold, the easier to-be-meaner oft thrive,
and found none of that, but an oasis of sheltering,
embracing comforting, those who actually admitted
his writings could be loved, and perhaps the writer
himself, was
deserving
of a second chance, a verbal embrace. a rereading forgiveness,
a pat
on his natback, a sympathetic sensory intaking,
and perhaps-this debt, eternal, that put the
for and the fore in a new baby born, named -
new forever
came into existence
the very same
e
that begins those conjoined words
***e~ternally grateful
"and now I sleep in peace when the day is done"
but the night time
is still the
write time
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 11:42 AM UTC
There is a certain romance of incomplete stories
and unrequited passion....
A certain heroism , in unfulfilled ambitions and sacrificed wants ...
(There is also
Selfishness in altruism,
Mockery in humility...
Fragility of pretenses,
Deception of senses,
Armors of sensitivities...
all those nitty gritties,
paradoxes that haunt
etc, but then...)
Sometimes this happens,
love stays and we go.
Sometimes this happens,
there is no beginning, nor end:
through “ifs” and “buts”
priorities distend
the space between, what is seen and what has been.
I picked your hopes with my eyelashes
and thatched together a shade for us
You caught my fall in the web of your thoughts,
softening for me, the landing, and thus,
we built a dream.
Sometimes this happens
the stars are buried in the desert sands
the lines dissect though you’re holding hands
but for the heart that understands....
it’s all divine. Not yours nor mine.
Sometimes this happens
one understands, but it’s not enough
one knows, but accepting is still pretty rough
You may have all ingredients
but you still need a “here” and a “now”
no question of why? or what? or how...
Sometimes this happens
the wait becomes unbearable
so remember that you know....
time is deceptive
and it’s already tomorrow in Tokyo
Arshia.
Nov 26/27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
genuine
so many ordinary bees in our vocab hive,
workers, important, but rarely seen,
some never, or rarely trotted out,
no-fresh air, we just must be too too, too
busy, busy
had occasion to employ said titular
queen word recently, a love story
that strummed a chord of the
randomness of good love,
genuine slipped out unexpectedly,
this word, a crowning modifier to a
love poem herein written
truly a word not used too often,
perhaps because we live in a time
when it is a quality rare, though
much celebrated, like so much,
has becomes a debated talking point
but genuine is not hard to be
uncovered, it has a warmth heater
generator internal, a signal signal,
that is hard to be disguised or
mistaken
but our sensitivities are dulled,
easily misled, by the shouting and
the latent bitterness that runs through
the veins of our ordinary conversations,
making it more difficult to believe our
five sensory discernments, to what is,
and what is not,
but love, perhaps, is a genuine genetic,
at a cellular level quality that has evolved over millennia, so easier to spot, it’s heated hot, and awhy a love story should be the focus causation of my happiness, that it
yet thrives, and functions and supplies
we humans, a chance to see, to believe,
that genuine yet exists, inward and
unwarped, within we ordinaries
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
i liked it the way you listened
i could tell by your eyes
and your smart questioning
i liked it that you had a sense of beauty
a quite relish for stillness
and the spirit in things
i liked it the way you cared
for people’s feelings
the hosting of your society
and your tender awareness of sensitivities
i liked your sense of humour
and interest in people’s bizarre stories
your relish for their secrets
but most of all
l liked it the way you touched me
going straight to parts
i didn’t even know that
set my soul on fire
electrifying my desire
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 7:39 PM UTC
Give me the sea and I'll drink it
all of it
Give me the sky and I'll blot it out
cut it out
leave the gaping earth barren of its liquid dressing
and leave the sky naked of its blue face
there is no compare
that is
not to say you are not enough for me
not at all
it is to say you are more than I could have desired
more
than I could have dreamed
and I do not tire of you
not in my darkest moments
when I'm stretched thin
and there is no longer
a devil-may-care draped about my addled mind
when my patience snaps
when my jaw clamps
my eyes droop
my brain thumps against my skull
not even then
with the last vestiges of civility held in grasp
not even then can I think to lash out at you
not even when you poke
or ****
plod about my sensibilities
maim my sensitivities
not even then
not even when you roll your eyes
give me that long 'hmmmm - really...'
I don't give in to the nagging,
nigh satisfying itch to shake with rage
and curse everything that stems from the womb
I am cool as a cucumber
placid as a windless lake
I roll my shoulders
flutter my eyelashes
look you up and down
say,
'My... my... tired aren't you?'
Your shoulders slump
Your efforts to topple me abate
You nod your head
curl up on my lap
isn't it
funny
how comforted we become
when we are offered solace
in exchange for an argument
that neither of us
would win?
Jun 18, 2022
Jun 18, 2022 at 4:06 AM UTC
The world is so connected and indeed, it is not in many ways,
From newspapers to the internet, social networking sites to video calling and last but not the least telephonic calls.
We are so absorbed in the world that exists not as a tangible reality,
that we forget the ones seated next to us,
to smile at our friends we forget or we don't realise
but find time in all the world to smile at a WhatsApp message or a Facebook chat.
We miss the chances to care and help others in real world
while we make panels and help groups on social sites,
And work hard on promoting stressing and straining to make things work.
We forget our loved ones while trying to find new loved ones
through distant chords and invisible strings of a virtual world.
It is indeed right we learn of cultures and diversity
and acknowledge most kinds and varieties
forgetting the very near and very much wanted.
It is a difficult question as we are still gestating in a world of virtual reality
far fetched from the perceivable reality
if we still wanted to continue as such.
But the truth is that we are more connected by this umbilical cord of illusionary virtual global connectedness that we block real realities in the dawn of it.
We are not ready to be reborn with more sensitive capabilities,
to transform and reunite and catch hold of our lost sensibilities and sensitivities
to save our world from being so disconnected.
Is not it time that we did redesign a new world
Where love and care
Warmth and tenderness reign.
Is it not time that we stop and stoop to hold our old world and yet conceive of a new world integrated
With technology and live side by side
And weave a wonderful life for us.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
*Fortune holds
Like a fly on the pane,
Indecent translucence
Like life, it's ingrained
With a terrible filth
That seeps out from the pores
To assault sensitivities
Imagined scores.
Perfidious thoughts
Scrape across the serene
To leave bruised aberration
Where little is seen,
To leave an impression
Across the cold glass
Where sunshine pale
Waits for morning to pass.*
Marshalg
@thebach
30 July 2011
Jul 29, 2011
Jul 29, 2011 at 1:13 PM UTC
You rub my back as I run
Your tides storm for me
Watching my back as I chase
Fighting my demons as I trap
Your all open for me as I shatter
Your essence webbed on my matter
A shelter watching my hands as I wave
Vigilant of the witch in me mixing portions
How can I make it a perfect match?
Mould your breath as you dream
Surrender by the aisle and claim you
Create the Eden, imagined fruitful orchard
How can I lie close to you and captivate?
Melt in your shores as we feel and rotate
Blend harmoniously in sane sensitivities
Calm and coil in real passionate romance
Could our entwinement be the armageddon?
A forbidden and delinquent spice mashed
Too much pain that time itself cannot erase
An immortal evanescence of my mortality
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC
Fittingly meticulous, finicky
Precisely mitigating routine
Tracing excessively
Over cornered mezzanine
Stray penciled lines
Candidly contrived
Archaic dossier
Balanced centers
Unavoidably erase
Guiltily lost the way
Confused compass oscillates
Irregularly unanticipated
Perpetually transitory
Tender heart insecurity
Ego sensitivities in vain glory
Sacrificed arrogance dignity
On the day of defeat
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 4:29 AM UTC
The skill of the poetic linguist
is measured by
the reaction of the reader,
how they make them feel.
The use of tender,
imaginative-words
pushed gently from one side
of the written-line to the other
can create the desired effect.
Configuring
carefully-crafted stanzas,
& placing them
strategically
up & down
can sometimes elicit
the most reading pleasure.
Finding
the secret-sensitivities
of the heart can be tricky,
the most daunting of tasks,
but the skilled poetic linguist
can always find a way
it seems,
to create those
beautiful,
sensuous,
fiery-emotions.
And if you can find one,
just ask them
how it's done.
They are more than likely
ready,
willing & able,
to pen you a verse or two.
And perhaps,
maybe more.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 6:31 AM UTC
The feet should descend towards the ground gently
But not quite touch
A few millimetres above will do nicely
Proceed thus through these parts in the darkness.
Here among the short grass blades,
Among the busy beetles
And the briefly alighting bees,
The sensitivities bleat.
Souls wounded, but still hanging on
At once in repose and contemplative
Rising soon, again, I'm sure,
To coalesce into corporeal beings
And to rage again toward the hills
Where all manner of adventures await.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC
POEM 37 (Inside Your Heart)
A man can tell
a thousand lies
and never blink.
But I say this:
my truth lies within
the bold sensitivities
of your beating heart.
Look inside and you
will feel the touch
of my warm lips
and know that,
like Neruda’s Isla Negra,
and its coconut sands,
I will carry you in my heart
and yearn for
“a thousand kisses deep”.
Aztec Warrior 8.2.15
(Note: must give credit to Poetessa,
as her poem on Leonard Cohen
chased me to hear him read his poem “A
Thousand Kisses Deep”. Hauntingly beautiful.)
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
Death of a Poet
Bittersweet, the whispers in my head,
Slugging tender punches intended to dismiss –
and yet they aggravate my sensitivities.
Calm, the winds that catch my sails
churning waters flow beneath my bow –
yet aggravate my need for comfort.
I witness beauty in the stars that hang their glowing spark
an effervescence in night's taut and endless hold –
yet aggravate my desire to endure another day.
On this Sea of Consciousness my shapeless form exists
to float upon its undulations and ride the coming storm –
knowing that sea's starving mouth
hungers to consume a ragged soul.
And knowing that this soul is mine.
Now sinking deeply to bottom's waiting bed
I close the final curtain
of a poet's pathetic act
this pretense that he existed –
as a poet –
at all.
Birth of a Poet
Renewed,
light beckons my arrival
spirit’s song still buried in this heart
its beating throb nurtures undying lessons
awareness courses through a sunken soul.
Returned to water’s restless surface
A vessel waits unscarred from stormy ire
I paddle, sensing land’s embrace –
encouraging my desires…
… to aggravate my sensitivities
… earn my comfort
… and encourage my desire to endure another day.
As this new act begins the curtain rises to reveal
a soul finding ground to call his own – and knowing –
that he never existed –
any less –
than a poet –
at all.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
Life has peaks, moments,
that begin just beneath the denim.
Neurotransmitters in a frenzy,
every nerve ending buzzes,
wriggles, screams, every nerve says,
"This is all there is. Inhale the smell of sweat and
****** fluids."
Serotonin, Dopamine, "This is your function," they say,
"This is what your body is for."
Testosterone, Oxytocin, "This copulation, this second, stay here."
Hands cannot be still,
Mouth cannot close,
Tongue cannot retract,
And it builds with every inch you feel.
It seeks your spots, your sensitivities, your favorite weakness,
It seeks them and presses on them,
In that slow-at-first-harder-now way,
Until,
You wake up ******* your bed.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
it takes us years
to find out how our body works
what it can feel, smell, touch, see, hear
how we can move its limbs
what hurts it, what makes it feel good
more years are spent
discovering the fathoms of our soul
from murky depths to lofty heights
the scales of feelings, pain, excitement
love, joy, jealousy, despair,
all our nuanced sensitivities
then we explore
the layers of our mind’s infinite potential
its constant work of making sense
from the reports of all our senses
so we believe we understand our worlds,
imagine new ones, phantasize about the old
when after all these years
we harbor some illusion
our long experience might be enough
to straighten all confusion
chances are good we recognize
that all we are is knowledge-misers
we have grown old, but not much wiser
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
Existence wreaked accidental,by clashes chromosomal
Unplanned, a journey Serpentine,winding, unmapped,
tortuously Human? unwinding unknown child to man,
Unconscious mostly,Intuitively grasping occasional, failing
Still, the miracle of it all, just burying my head in existence.
Material-objective-isms,passions many pursued
Grey matter conditioned,chiselled, downgraded,
I am an affordable success of my evening malts
Unwondering,unmiraculous,strsightjacketed daily
By numbers plastic,jobs hated,sensitivities ignored.
Now as I see you Rains,sunrises,sunsets,the sea and waves
The stars, you my street musician, with urchins dancing around.
Some coiled humanity springs forth again and makes me grasp
The divine miracle, again momentary! with a full heart and tears
Impassionate.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 6:22 AM UTC
She is love from above
soaring higher than the sky
She is beauty across the oceans
you'll know if she walks by
She is my treasure
irreplaceable and charming
She is my heart
loving, but not alarming.
She is my princess
cherishing and loyal in my eyes
She is my goddess
just beauty in disguise.
She is my protector
from all my sensitivities
She is my strength
when I lose my identity
She is my girl,
And that she will always be
Cause she is mine to keep
Forever, close to me.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
Flow in its intricate beauty, in its parabolic slide through an inexact thought,
Niggling here and there as it soars through the rough appendage of reason.
Flagellating the highs and lows of delight and sorrow,
Titivating the realm of ecstasy to thrill the fluttering eyeballs,
Brushing mounds of ragged hurt to bruise the tender, tender sensitivities.
Then soaring, at once skyward, in a quest for knowing,
Scintillating in a spangle of joyous, YES!
To land, exhausted and deliriously happy
In the knowledge that we two,
My mind and I,
Have won ourselves a freedom.
M.
28 March 2017
On the eve of my 72nd birthday
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
Awwwww Baby,
we're not psychos,
they just don't know you.
As a matter of fact,
they don't know me either.
So you go girl,
drop to your knees on me,
impale yourself,
bone-grinder,
pinch your hardened sensitivities.
Take me there,
take me to that special place,
make me
scream hallelujah.
We're not lunatics Darling,
I just want to fill
your delicious void,
you sweet lovely humanoid.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC