"solidifying" poems
“If you could be anywhere in the world
At this exact moment,
Where would you choose to be?”
I choose the easternmost point
Of Acadia Maine at sunrise.
Cold, salty ocean spray in my face,
Warm thermos of cocoa in my hands
And the promise of a new day
Being made right before my very eyes.
What could be more reassuring?
What could be more solidifying?
To know that no matter
What happened in the days or weeks
Or months or years or decades
Before,
Today, right now, at this exact moment,
It is all behind you,
It is all in your past.
And that sunrise you’re watching
Over cresting crashing white topped waves
In the cool breeze of morning
With the scent of dirt and earth and trees
Carried on the wind that also brings
The call of the morning dove and thrush
And Phoebe-bird,
Is the promise you’ve been waiting for.
The promise that you’re gonna be okay
Because today, today is a new day.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
"Contentment is a synonym for loneliness, cool loneliness, settling down with cool loneliness. We give up believing that being able to escape our loneliness is going to bring any lasting happiness or joy or sense of well-being or courage or strength. Usually we have to give up this belief about a billion times, again and again making friends with our jumpiness and dread, doing the same old thing a billion times with awareness. Then without our even noticing, something begins to shift. We can just be lonely with no alternatives, content to be right here with the mood and texture of what’s happening."
"it allows us to finally discover a completely unfabricated state of being. Our habitual assumptions — all our ideas about how things are — keep us from seeing anything in a fresh, open way… We don’t ultimately know anything. There’s no certainty about anything. This basic truth hurts, and we want to run away from it. But coming back and relaxing with something as familiar as loneliness is good discipline for realizing the profundity of the unresolved moments of our lives. We are cheating ourselves when we run away from the ambiguity of loneliness."
"Cool loneliness allows us to look honestly and without aggression at our own minds. We can gradually drop our ideals of who we think we ought to be, or who we think we want to be, or who we think other people think we want to be or ought to be. We give it up and just look directly with compassion and humor at who we are. Then loneliness is no threat and heartache, no punishment. Cool loneliness doesn’t provide any resolution or give us ground under our feet. It challenges us to step into a world of no reference point without polarizing or solidifying. This is called the middle way, or the sacred path of the warrior."
by Pema Chodron from "When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advise for Difficult Times"
Mar 28, 2023
Mar 28, 2023 at 6:17 AM UTC
Did you know
that I drink molten lava?
I like the way it burns.
I am not afraid of you.
I've let the Earth's poison
melt and destroy my insides-
re-solidifying around my heart.
You cannot hurt me.
****
My insides are melting again.
And I cannot speak;
I can only observe-
eyes wide with horror.
I chugged you down
because you were the
only glass of water in this desert.
But your water
turned out to be acid.
And I am falling
down
down
down
into abysmal nothingness.
My eyes are wide with horror
because I'm watching my nightmare
take place in broad daylight.
(I'm falling for you.)
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
As the bliss of midnight approaches them
The clouds shed the light of a cold moon
Leading their lives together, the end is gone
And the illusion they feel,
Cannot be repeated
Drying is the fluid of love,
Solidifying and holding them still in time,
Longing for the night to persist.
They know the morning approaches,
The expectation of the sunrise means an end.
The end of night is the end of all time,
And as unfathomable as eternal endings are, it still ensues
Moon setting,
Sun rising,
The contradicting feelings swim,
Uncertain of the future their love has ended.
The bliss of her death, as the blood runs down his fingers, consumes him, and the sharp pain absorbs him.
Until the night and cold moon flash again
The two will lay with security as true as the sky is broad.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
Writer's blocks build walls of divide.
On the one side jump experience and feeling and emotion and thought, but on the other sit the words that rest in my mind and refuse to wake up from their pesky slumbers of stubborn laziness. All it takes is one word to smuggle itself passed a crack in the wall and there's a melody of language. The ideas can shoot itself only so high without its counterpart on the other side helping it reach the top. Oh writer's blocks, please stop mounting yourselves on top of one and other. With every solidifying brick, another word slips away and slowly writes itself into a permanent shut-eye. I know you mean no harm and simply want to exist in the struggle for perfected poetry, but my life currently lacks its therapy. I appreciate your necessary hindrances, but if you could help me harmonize my mind and soul, I'd value your necessity much more.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
solitary soul in the sea
slovenly storks slide
(against a grey sky)
seeking satisfactory sensations
solidifying
soul searching solutions
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 9:52 PM UTC
You would be my sculpture.
I'd spend hours on you.
Your face had taken shape,
Your neck was molded new.
I formed your pale legs,
My clay perfect for the fit.
For days I worked on your torso,
For days I only patiently did sit.
Solidifying was real quick,
And I had to be careful.
You could break if mishandled,
I needed to be gentle.
You still had your eyes closed,
So I kissed your dry lips.
But you still couldn't hold me well,
Despite your arms around my hips.
And so I carved your hands,
And caressed them in mine,
Then finally you entwined our fingers,
At last we held back time.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 8:20 PM UTC
cut out my tongue it will never be able to capture your beauty in words.
My hands useless for your essence transcends the boundaries of script.
My entire being, may it dissolve in the hope of solidifying into you
my love, my venus, my divine feminine goddess, of everything natural and new
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
*
*I know you, like no other;
"Does it hurt... the truth?"
Searching lips, forge answers;
**Tasting, solidifying, our known proof.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 11:25 AM UTC
1. A little grin peeks out almost unnoticeable; an introduction, as the letters wax and take shape. Slippery from the thoughts, dripping and solidifying on paper. The wonderland of words has been entered.
2. A silver half of a plate, a yellow half of the nocturnal sun, an inked half of the paper. Imbalanced but semi-complete, words written halfway were still wholely thought of.
3. Midnight's peak is the best time to write. The full moon rises as the keyword is written. Clear as a mirror to reflect the emotion desired.
4. The ink is now running out, with the poem waning. It's coming to a close, growing into farewell's small smile. The process may be ending but the life of the product has just begun.
5. With the final curtain call of clouded skies and emptied minds, the poem is finished. The new moon take its place in the lives of people, invisible to the eye but fully felt with their hearts.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 4:34 AM UTC
The Quantum anthem sets off the spark of enchantment as I file through things only thought
All borrowed and blurred belligerence baffling beauty, things only sought.
Spiraling sickens the surging of those who surrender their sudden sorrow for meaning to flutter.
Herds of things unheard splurge in cinematic combs fastened by fertility
Charred remembrances burn deep as feelings bleed
Bursting boundless solidifying into expression
Without it battles of head and heart oppression
Redirecting rising ripples focused forward
Onward and steady swaying as my doubt is fading
Curtains close the colossal conundrum crystalizing in my veins
Setting off distant delirium
Honeycomb harbor home
We are not alone
We are not alone
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
He held my hand,
freshly wrought from
my mother's womb,
torn through a hole in
her belly and spilled from
a hole in his heart.
He smelled of Old Spice and
body odor and
marijuana,
he wore gold chains when
he was born to rags and
stacks of wood.
His grip on my hand,
so firm and strong and settled,
his gentle cooings and
warmth;
I miss the safety of it.
You can't be held
when you're the same size,
when the holder is the one
who might need to be held.
What nightmares had you seen
in white-washed walls and
halls of ravings and throwings and
the violence of a withdrawn mind?
Father,
it is you
that I have become,
that I still fixate toward--
my heart is heavy and
my head is torn apart.
You are my North Star
that guides me through life's oceans,
my scale to balance
my heart to a feather;
I wonder if it might be weighed down
with regret?
Father,
it is you
that I march toward,
that I find myself morphing into,
plucked from the cocoon of maturity from
a hole torn in its belly.
I had left one womb
for another,
it seemed.
Did I ever truly tell you
what you meant to me?
Even when
you weren't around
I turned to the air
to the warmth around me
to a stranger's grip or
the embrace of another.
Even when
you had left the world
for the one in your head
I only looked up to the twinkling of the night
to find my guide;
I remember
reaching a shaky hand
out to the skies.
The starry curtain
wrapped around my arm,
flowing like a gentle ocean,
like the fluid in the womb
then solidifying
like bedrock
like bottoms
like bases.
Even when
I hadn't seen you in months or
spoken to you in years,
I still held on
to that firm grip,
that far-too gentle
hand.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
Heavy hearted hands
lifting my body up
Almost filled up
And soon ill be snatched up
Self made
Enraged
In a cage of shame
Chained
To my Godless contemplation of the oneness
Smothering the somethings, I worked so hard for
But i adore the test
Ignore the rest
Blessings from the depth
Of my love for all of you
I dare to dream of things my eyes are too small to see
In futility to the world
I breath deeply
Unfurled
Upon the twisted shapes
Refracting light
Shifting states
Heightening my holographic hemispheres
Likening the charge of the heliosphere
To the happiness barging into the universe
In verse-less surges of sanctity
Solidifying the sanity
With purges of popularity
From the light-less Polarity
Spinning the tops
Of sincerity
Declaring its love for me
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 8:38 AM UTC
I used to like to run
run like the wind,
just to see how fast I could go
and now I run
but to escape , to get away
you see,
I have trouble looking my demons in the eye
I am cowardice, weak, afriad
afraid that the fire burning in their eyes
will consume me, ruin me, burn me
leaving charred ashes of this person I hate
who's too afraid tell you the truth
too afraid to take her rose coloured glasses off and see the world for what it really is
too afraid to admit to herself that the reason she doesn't stand up
and shrug your shackles off her shoulders
why she doesn't tell you everything she should
why she stands at the mirror, poking and prodding
wishing her waist was thinner, her ******* were bigger
her legs were longer, her feet were smaller
her eyes less empty
she is afraid, afraid of one small little word
no
No I won't listen, No I don't care, No I won't love you
No, you can't have your way, you can't stay
and so she locks up her words, in the safe
in the pit of her stomach, in the far reaching backwoods of her mind
like drying cement it weighs her down
solidifying her veins, till her heart can't beat
stiffening limbs stopping her feet
from moving forward down the street
she is stone, a hollow, statuette of herself
till her screams shatter her way out, and break free
and then she runs
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 4:15 PM UTC
She sits with her legs folded to the right,
head covered in red satin bordered with gold brocade.
Strands of dark brown hair sneak out from under the satin.
Gold earrings dangle from her small honey colored ears.
She has the plainest lips I’ve ever seen.
They’re just a centimeter apart with no hint of a smile.
Her dark brown eyes are laden with thick black mascara.
I keep trying to look away.
I wonder what she’s thinking as she sits there,
clueless like a young bride.
I think about how many have lusted for her scent before me.
The silk curtain in front of her window closes,
solidifying the boundaries of our two worlds.
Her voluptuous shadow visible behind the curtain pulls me away from my world
and ***** me into hers’.
It’s gone now, and I sit back in my chair and look around.
I hear people discussing the stock market plunge but all I can think about is the dark figure behind the silk curtain.
She will never know I had been so close,
and the woman with the plainest lips will forever remain my secret.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 6:16 AM UTC
the floor is icier than the last time i crumbled down here. i'm enclosed within the walls of eerie silence, blackness all around me, enveloping my terror, releasing my pain. tears seem to find their own way down to the floor, first dancing with delight, then solidifying and morphing into dark crystals. what is more comforting than the fetal position? the escape that has been written repeatedly into my screenplay of a life.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
I want to punch you 'till you bleed
twist you bones 'till they snap
vacuum the remainders of your heart
then squeeze your veins 'till you no longer
But when the starting gun is fired
I am stopped by gravity
pulling me back
humanising this creature dressed as you
solidifying the sea of hatred a mile tall
The more I fight
the more I cry
each drop that splashes on the ground
is a piece of my heart
sweating
sweating
for all the creatures in this world.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 3:30 PM UTC
My love doesn't obey time.
My madness doesn't know reality,
And my consciousness...
My consciousness sits somewhere
In the middle of the ocean,
On a raft,
Smoking a bowl.
And every time I ask it to come back it just says,
"Nah, man. It's much better out here."
My heart doesn't listen.
My brain can't lead,
And my life...
My life ends every twelve months.
With each new year, I start over and live through an entire lifetime.
Condensed,
Compressed,
But still just as heavy.
My reflection doesn't know it's me.
My thoughts don't know when to stop,
And my soul...
My soul is ever growing, helping me learn from my mistakes.
With it I'm able to reach out and truly change things.
Holding,
Grasping, and
Solidifying immortality.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
To understand the stories we tell,
we must experience them.
Smell the burning timber
of a ruined house.
Hear the cries of a newly made widow,
so others may understand her sorrow.
Feel the warmth of the twisting flames,
swallowing every scrapbook and
pillowcase, tile shingle and teapot.
Observe as a lifetime’s collection
of material objects melt before
the eyes of their owners.
Watch as the light works for you,
bending and burning,
solidifying in still frames
the very details it destroys.
Feel the pain of their loss,
and allow the images you create
to properly illustrate that agony.
Some may see snapshots
of a burning house,
but others will understand
that these are not pictures,
but moments stolen from time.
Do this, and you will find,
that instead of documenting death,
your images preserve life.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
I walk forward,
'nets gripping my thighs
and goosebumps raining from my arms
while warmth spreads through my body,
shedding the chill
as if by magic.
Silk and buttons and pretend lace,
cheap boots,
expensive lipstick,
a night out
with confidence by my side.
There's a laugh here too;
it keeps echoing across the bare valleys of my collarbones
and finding its way to my ears.
I resist the urge to turn and share.
Instead,
I smile, taking half-part,
saving a few for a rainier,
colder day.
A shoulder bump,
warm skin brushing against thin cloth,
pulling away from the wrong
and inventing the right;
stepping to the left
and creating space,
solidifying the distance.
I walk forward,
'nets gripping my thighs,
holding onto my skirt
and letting that chill back in,
discarding the easy warmth.
I walk forward,
giving it up,
giving it away,
shedding the feeling,
shedding the idea of it
as if by magic.
Fishnets,
holes,
spaces,
filled
by warm magic.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
i find it comforting sometimes that relationships are impermanent and that maybe one day the relationships that cause me pain and confusion will also simply melt away.
i look at the stars and i never get tired of the way the wind blows through the strands of my hair,
the leaves fall onto the roads
like they did a year ago
gradually it's less cooler to use an air-conditioner
maybe better to use a heater
lights become softer, clouded by the mists of solidifying vapor in the air
life keeps it tides
and i find myself surprised that the ebbing tide has still left me with sandcastles of relationships
i once built thoughtlessly
i take comfort in the impermanence of relationships
and the insufferable company I bring
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
I told you my story
Because you looked like
You could deal with it
I told you about my demons
You said they were
Barbies compared to yours
I was enveloped in your life
For months that seemed
Like forever
But now your hands
Are clutched on to hers
Like lovers at the parking lot,
Just as something in me knew
You would find your way
Back to her heart
Still, you're the song I keep singing
The poem I keep writing
And I don't know why
She's a sight to see, so are
I shouldn't have kissed you
I shouldn't have believed you
When u told me she was your past.
The no love lost in your eyes
That I saw was only
A strong illusion
Because your fingers are
Now coiled with hers,
And you lock your gaze upon her Magnificent beauty as if she was a Kaleidoscope of rich,
Mesmerizing luminary
Never once taking notice of
The dark, tall skinny girl
Standing across you;
Solidifying my insignificance.
You're sheltered in one heart
And I'm left to wonder
If I ever meant
Anything to you
The brutal reality
Leaving me with shreds
Of illusions of love
To you
We never happened
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
A city made from music and gas
-a humor of golden mass in the boiler room
phosphoric eyes launching up;
heroes come slower now, fearful, decadent
as if engorged by war for too long
changed;
within the soil
looking up from the street with malleable bones
like antennae sending up endless prayers
expressing nothing
if not heard
a city, a dome, a breast
cannibals small, eating freely
‘a passing rebuttal’
a glance in the ride – which smiles back
and the world followed will
and the earth gladly sipped
cooks cooking better asleep;
poems, gas, meat, hunger
locked in horn
knowing they’re the wrong type
of poem free
to do whatever
they ever wish
even the energy of old worms has sense
and the concrete knows the distance from where they have come
from the earth-helping
them back, by natural pull, or passerby
before the parade comes
and the hooligans still have rage and bayonet
colliding inside faces
like metered bodies
unable
to learn dance
helixing
around you
their song-
neither taking
or meaning
anything
to your own;
the west-coast train leaves
the power station to my right
opening its three pounding mouths
to the quiet drone of the fog and sky
a sandwich and a coach full of drunks
-communing
-inside
-memory
and hail hits the window
solidifying rapid water
cocktails;
nearing a station and familiar fields
office, and tired sun
letting your face know she only jokes
when her tongue radiates
later on
when her body
finally breaks;
soaking the last dust
a home within scent
calling out to everything else;
calling it
a liar.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 9:13 AM UTC
one leaf left conjoined, on the
last tree in the entire world
that was planted not only in
the barren desert but also in the
midst of an eternal sandstorm
that ravaged and blinded any earthling
organism that was brave enough
to ask for a taste. except one man
was blind enough already, and his shaggy
gray dreadlocks shielded his weak spots
while he trudged on for miles in his
balaclava, listening for the wind
in the closest space to crack and give
a sign. and then there was the tree –
not flowing in the wind but solidifying
into stone as the clock struck
15,000 years and the leaf blew away and drained the secrets
from its roots and locked them
away for the Titans to find. the
man was 2,000 miles away, and he
had just run out of water in the
desert when he realized that the
shift was happening already. so he
laid down and packed the sand on
nicely and waited patiently for
the Titans to take him under and
ask him questions about life up
above.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC