"sifts" poems
Search. Search. Seek. Seek.
Cold. Cold. Clear. Clear.
Sorrow. Sorrow. Pain. Pain.
Hot flashes. Sudden chills.
Stabbing pains. Slow agonies.
I can find no peace.
I drink two cups, then three bowls,
Of clear wine until I can’t
Stand up against a gust of wind.
Wild geese fly over head.
They wrench my heart.
They were our friends in the old days.
Gold chrysanthemums litter
The ground, pile up, faded, dead.
This season I could not bear
To pick them. All alone,
Motionless at my window,
I watch the gathering shadows.
Fine rain sifts through the wu-t’ung trees,
And drips, drop by drop, through the dusk.
What can I ever do now?
How can I drive off this word —
Hopelessness?
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Puissant piquant and predatory
And observant from afar
He looks down on your slumber
Like a door that's left ajar
Plying with his manly vice
A reckless male visage
A rogue of masculine device
Seeks entrance to your mind
He saunters with a swagger
A macho savvy moxie
To personify virility's incarnate
His dream zone's metier
He sifts your ****** entourage
In search of sprawls recumbence
To tantalize climactic fervor
With lambent photic scenes
Grasping at your revelries
He spies the wanton lust
With swanky strut appealing
Your primal urge to sate
He leaves undone resistance
With innate resilience seized
The lavish wayward implications
Of unrequited livid deeds
Like passion's lurid lecheries
An insatiable torrid sooth
You wrestle with his adamance
Your carnal ecstasies revealed
You pounce on his exsertion
You splay your agile form
wriggling like a supple nymph
You accept his blatant storm
You writhe in your abandon
In a euphoric supplication
His machismo ****** enveloping
Your wildest latent needs
With no regrets or reticence
you awaken from this dream
To find yourself alone again
Like it had never been
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
Three parts treasure hunter
to two parts scientist,
the archaeologist
with picks and brushes
sifts through shards and ruins,
echoes of ancestral time,
burning for answers:
How on earth did we manage
to carve out shelters from the crust
tilting the scales
of survival in our favor?
A cliff house here, a cathedral there
a village by the river
chronicling our escape from
the shadows of pre-recorded time.
We wonder where they all went
and why they vanished, but the real question
that haunts our paleolithic selves,
is who are we and where are we going?
October 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
the rain sifts through my attempts
to grasp it with mere hands:
one cannot understand
without going through its constant
shift and change of faces.
As to another, one learns
to ask the right questions,
naturally, at the opportune time.
Like in all things
Every conversation
Which pass through us
Were never truly there.
Those that do stay are bereft
of meaning.
What remains often
is the damp, moistness
of the late -ber month showers:
regret, loss, a tactless remark.
They share the same fate in all
of this, the slow, uptake for words:
closure, a second chance, a bad joke
like the heavy traffic we always have
to endure - a cartload heavy
-laden with stockpiled souvenirs
with no particular use except
for reminiscing, a flickering hope
for the last bus ride home.
One day, you will
miss all of this.
And the only thing
that is left to endure,
is memory.
14 October 2017
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 6:00 AM UTC
Filing errands makes you drowsy and nautious.
The tube dampens your senses.
The highrises make you feel down.
Your values are re-prioritised.
You become the binmen’s *****
but all is not charred.
You have the chance to remember before,
and you grasp redemption as sand now sifts through your fingertips.
The stars awaken the you beneath the superficial.
The water nourishes your ignored thirstiness for passion.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 7:52 PM UTC
311
It sifts from Leaden Sieves—
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road—
It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain—
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again—
It reaches to the Fence—
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces—
It deals Celestial Vail
To Stump, and Stack—and Stem—
A Summer’s empty Room—
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them—
It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen—
Then stills its Artisans—like Ghosts—
Denying they have been—
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He sleeps in evergreen trees
tying his long beard to a branch
and there he dreams of rabbit stew
wishing to snare one per chance
His emerald coat is perfect camouflage
so he lays on his shinny gold buttons
thinking of mint tea and chocolate cake
after a feast of lamb cutlets and mutton
This little greedy plump fellow
with stripy socks purple and yellow
will sing in his sleep to the birds in the tree
with a voice so sweet and so mellow
With nightfall's, he descends to the ground
making sure no human presence are around
and he speedily sifts through park litter bins
looking for cooking pots made out of tin
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
twinkle birds and tessellates, bends my mind to outer space. lands me in infinity of never ending affinity to the universe.
but sweetest ideas were shortly lived at reality slowly sifts away to repeated visions that turn loved faces into panic that glitches me into unbreakable circles of walk away, walk away.
no awareness of a before from this feel the abyss of this helplessness **** me into no ending so I seice to begin.
but as the panic subsides my mind starts to ride the energy that resides in my being from the kingfisher floor to the fish strewn ceiling.
sentient beings **** at the seams, my dream of weightlessness pull the windows to break towards the secrets of simple existence.
invisible water sends the strands of fur swelling and glowing into talk of the polar bear whose hair weaves into the atoms that feed my jumbled dreams.
hands rip through the plaster as the sounds grow louder and faster, helicopters shake the boiler from the pipes but I still feel great.
the tables tremble as I soak up the bass and the treble. sensual overload through my eyes the magic multiplies, angels can hear my sighs as the roof opens to tunnel towards the skies.
geometric patterns that I could never have imagines circle and sweep, creeping my further from sleep.
I have breached something new, an extreme that dares its self to be seen only my the few who ****** it. I grab these new senses and attach it to my masses of emotions, that have been formed my these chemicals. neutrons and protons that explore the breadth oh Pantones schemes, weaving into the atoms that feed my jumbles dreams.
release my mind from the confines of rinse and repeat, out of easy street and onto the sunrise that surrounds me. revelations that never siese to confound me.
destruction was peace pulling my beliefs, daring the world to touch me as the floor tips the cabinets from the walls. I am small. here in this perfect world. my hands make the plants grow as they show me all it takes to break the confines of the human condition is to expand your mind and reposition your nervous system to reach a different supposition.
little lion
please read my other work if you like this one!
http://trivialitesofabusymind.blogspot.co.uk/
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
Groovy brown skinned brothas
hip hop to the smooth jazzy
beats across the starlight scene,
exhilarating eyes light up
the uptown extravagance,
as they bust a move in the
drumbeating room, rotating
and vibrating, grinding and
bending, breathing in the
singing saxophones and
trombones.
Flashy lights shine bright
and vivid in crystal clears,
as young sweet caramel
girls sway to the high
hypnotizing sounds,
spinning hips lost in the
night, gliding on waves,
shaking in the serene
breeze like swinging trees,
soaring endlessly
across the rings of Saturn.
Heavy adrenaline rises
inside the upbeat and
sassy melanin sistas,
stomping stilettos,
show-stopping arms
and thighs harmonizing
to the midnight rhymes,
while hard bassline sounds
sifts inside various dimensions
of extreme delight.
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC
She never noticed
books of poetry.
Her life was busy
with empathy
for those troubled
from pains scratched
on psyches from
neglect, abuse
or sacraments to fallen Gods.
She seldom heard music
except when,
heartsick from lost love,
she wallowed in vain misery
or during her youth when
hit parades blasted from
solid state radios
in dashboards, or from
jukeboxes flashing
come hither.
She thought little of flowers
nor paused to note scents,
shades or grace on
stems of green. Her head
was busy with
important matters,
day-to-day grinding
away on work or play.
Now alone,
she absorbs whiteness from
clouds, motion from birds,
or fragrance from flowers
with senses dulled by
age, injury or illness.
She sifts through her
day looking for
fresh tranquility.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
I
The Princess sings:
I am the princess up in the tower
And I dream the whole day thro’
Of a knight who shall come with a silver spear
And a waving plume of blue.
I am the princess up in the tower,
And I dream my dreams by day,
But sometimes I wake, and my eyes are wet,
When the dusk is deep and gray.
For the peasant lovers go by beneath,
I hear them laugh and kiss,
And I forget my day-dream knight,
And long for a love like this.
II
The Minstrel sings:
I lie beside the princess’ tower,
So close she cannot see my face,
And watch her dreaming all day long,
And bending with a lily’s grace.
Her cheeks are paler than the moon
That sails along a sunny sky,
And yet her silent mouth is red
Where tender words and kisses lie.
I am a minstrel with a harp,
For love of her my songs are sweet,
And yet I dare not lift the voice
That lies so far beneath her feet.
III
The Knight sings:
O princess cease your dreams awhile
And look adown your tower’s gray side—
The princess gazes far away,
Nor hears nor heeds the words I cried.
Perchance my heart was overbold,
God made her dreams too pure to break,
She sees the angels in the air
Fly to and fro for Mary’s sake.
Farewell, I mount and go my way,
—But oh her hair the sun sifts thro’—
The tilts and tourneys wait my spear,
I am the Knight of the Plume of Blue.
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As I look around, What I see are the Fragments of Man ! Some quite Large, Some very tiny! Some as Ripped off, Others as carefully Taken and placed down. Some I recognize as Hearts, others appear as Spirit forms. What is common is that some seek sympathy and attention! Others, as if an Enticement, want you to join them. Each think they have made an offering, That either asks for help OR cries out that You become as them! Amazingly, the crowds around them, seem to debate as to which path they should choose. ONLY a Handful, Promptly turn their backs and RUSH away ! BUT, the Majority sifts thru the SHARDS, as if shopping at a Flea Market. Going from Table to Table to Sample the Wares! No one Cries out that they be "Taken Away" from the pieces of SHARDS Scattered all about them ! RATHER, they ask that YOU Mix in some of Yours and set up a Table ,,Right Next to them ! ______ MY Heart pounds a stronger RHYTHM, My mind racing in questions, Can't they see The're accepting all these broken lives as if it should Be the NORM ? None wants to stand out as His Own, Fearful that they would be left alone and WHIMS desires would be left in the cleaning closet ~having to wait for use~so~they sleep in a Brokeness Slumber! As I leave this "Fixed In My Mind" SCENE. I reach down and pick up a Small SHARD, appearing to be part of One's Soul,, Something I "WILL" be Praying about . . . .
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 3:59 AM UTC
Light's patterns freeze:
Frost on our faces.
Light's pollen sifts
Through the lids of our eyes ...
Light sinks and rusts
In water; is broken
By glass ... rests
On deserted dust.
Light lies like torn
Paper in corners:
A rock-pool's pledge
Of the sea's return.
Light, wrenched at the edges
By wind, looks down
At itself in wrinkled
Mirrors from bridges.
Light thinly unweaves
Itself through darkness
Like foam's unknotting
Strings in waves ...
Now light is again
Accumulated
Swords against us ...
Now it is gone.
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Autumn, like an Indian classical dancer, dressed up
Arrives with soft rhymes and quickening steps
She comes aglow, aglow with a rare beauty
Dancing to the bracelet's tinkling song
Her floating robe falls in deep folds around her feet
As she mesmerizes all with moves full of grace
Viewing the flaming colours in assorted display
We are apt to wonder if Nature carefully saved up
All that is best for the closing grand finale
Autumn tints look enchanting all through the land
With pervading green, offset by crimson, citrus yellow
Flaming red, lustrous gold and a faded russet
The air stays crisp and sweet in the ripening fields
While stray clouds ramble in flawless turquoise sky
When autumn is thus all agog like a frenzied dervish
It gives us morbid pictures of death and decay
The trees wrestle to free themselves of their worn cloaks
Causing a cascade of withering autumn leaves
Now they fall scattered in endless stream and lie in piles
Like charred carcasses after a fierce forest fire
The rustle of dry leaves blown by the wind
Falls in our ears with the gabble of migrating birds
Pale sunshine sifts through leafless trees of maple and oak
All those leaves once stayed regal in stations high
But now tossed out like worthless chaff
They come nose diving and fall several meters below
Spreading a hazel curtain over the moist earthen crust
When trampled mercilessly by careless feet
They silently mourn their thankless fate
Graying that comes at the end of each autumnal fall
Reminds us of the pall of gloom that awaits
It is disturbing like the parting song of birds
As they fly southward before the fall of winter
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
Cast it aside I…
Can the world be so…
Is anything actually…
Where does it go?
Promises they kept
Lifted from the well.
Hurt me just a little longer…
And I will never tell.
Basically, the chains they…
Craftiness all ensnared…
Turned round to face the…
Was it ever there?
Sever my motives
What does it matter?
Emptiness concepts…
Meaning’s in tatters.
Legs wrapped tight on…
Hardly notice the…
Singes the backside…
Looks so good, huh?
Push me to action.
Call me a fake.
Hurt me with venom.
Lies from the snake.
Nobody knows that…
So much of knowing it…
Is there a knowing such…
Yet, how we commit.
The pain sets it free now.
The blisters remind us.
Sifts through unknowing…
Blood, guts, and ****
Will it ever be, I…
Where is the voice of…
Searching for aching…
And finding love.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
This heaven and this earth we must appease
Until the laws of destined karma cease
There is no omen, is no sign
Is no reason, is no rhyme
Mountains, crumble on us
Rolling hills, cover us
You’re crooked, kissing two masters’ feet
As Satan sifts your soul like rotten wheat
There’s a great gulf that’s fixed
Don’t sleep, pray on this
Mountains, crumble on us
Rolling hills, cover us
The son came like a bolt of lightning
Sweating blood and not admitting who he was
Drink up his alcohol, root for the underdog
His father sees all but remains unseen
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 12:15 PM UTC
sun seeps through the window
dust sifts through the beams
everything is clearer
in morning light, it seems.
diamonds lost their shimmer
words have lost their pain
everything is real now
no light we lose or gain.
Nov 20, 2010
Nov 20, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC
Gene Wilder's ***** Wonka* once asked me
to step into a world
of pure imagination
and I danced to his voice
of sugary imperfections.
The swelling strings drizzled
on top falsetto inflections
captured me childishly
with candy-coated attentions
But even the finest chocolate melts,
and I learned to let purity be
pushed by treacly lyrics
or stern midgets secure
in their fudge-topped zealotry.
It sifts too pretty for me,
powdering my grown-up
infatuations with petty
wants, getting a little messy
What I crave instead's stained-glass contraptions
to propel me past the stretches
of biblical proportion
where light and dark don't mix.
I'm no Idiot, good-hearted
in the veins of Fyodor
or Akira, and I can't see
beyond the pure tedium
of a blurredly driven snow
I like my mental drifts grime-choked and splotched
with some savory do
dropped in to dissolve flossy
confections to a salted soup
of imagined impurity.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 6:08 PM UTC
A drink isn't hard to swallow,
but a divorce, a lost child, death, they are.
The wind comes up, blows away dreams,
ends marriages, sifts through plans,
hopes, throws out what it wants.
A drink isn't hard to swallow,
but growing old, pain, dying dogs, they are.
The wind comes up, tears our garments,
exposes our frailties, our nakedness,
thoughtlessly shreds our defenses.
At times like these
A drink isn't hard to swallow.
---
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 12:23 PM UTC
High above the ultra-white plateau
a vultures wheels in an amino helix
above a dead horse. Branded upon its left flank is the word
“Mulatto”.
In the forest far below
an ilex rattles for the dead.
The river, pregnant with shrapnel
sulks and stagnates, her belly full of lead.
The plains are cratered as the Moon
the purple heather soothes the raw stone wound
and whispers that the fighting will be over
very soon, and all the scars will heal.
Their fires have turned our bones to meal.
The mountain gods are sighing now
and dying now, the endless sky their tomb.
Rainclouds loom, seething with disdain
and seek to quench the hungry yellow grass.
Rain lashes through the mountain pass.
Rainwater sifts into the soil
and we do not forget.
Blood chapel-sacred, black as oil
and we do not forget.
Shrapnel is sown like seeds into the spoil
and we do not forget.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
this flourishing silence feels more of
a trite hack-job than it is a writing stint.
my fingers (frenzied, brazen) continue to tap
and my mind starts to spill like a spigot
left open. I have taken to smoking and laughing
away
in an obscured day for myself in the parking lot
and sometimes I can do without company; only the snarl
of the well-oiled tractor in front of me.
the days are full of yellow and the Sun is a dog
on a leash. the roses smell of brine and their slender
stems bones of the young.
I can see cheeks flushed with red and skirts
neatly trimmed just above knobby knees
and I know somewhere in that tender flesh,
a man sifts without knowing what it feels to eat
bone before flesh, flesh after bone. my silently augured
procurement of today’s induced comatose is but
a Freudian slip – the world with its burly physique
is a chauvinistic man
drinking whisky in the red light district of hazy Makati.
each slapdash word in penitent reprisal
is the moment’s clearest reprieve. I am glad that this room
is darker than the eyes of the love I have lost
staring back with a mound of the abysmal or the yearnings
of a chagrined mother startled back to her home;
it must be dreamy, the dogs outside pant in heat
and the obnoxious *** of vehicles outside bears the cadence
of two people starting to fall in love: all chaotic and unmoving,
fastened to the Earth, aware of the passing minutes,
wishing to be somewhere else but there.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
The dust of their coming and going
Sifts down through the years,
Their gravity once knotted fabric to flesh;
Even though they're near,
Just the ashes, are all can impress.
Since time snapped in two between their fingers,
They haven't aged much, except to uncoil,
Unwind branching strands;
Under satin recoil
Beneath brass sheaths, the body banal.
We walk upon the faces of kings, and sleep
High, on the ruined backs of strangers;
All unknowing, how the dust gets laid,
Unaware of the danger-
Every generation becomes the new day.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
Then said Almitra, “Speak to us of Love.”
And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them.
And with a great voice he said:
When love beckons to you follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.”
And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, it directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
-----Kahlil Gibran
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC