"solitariness" poems
Southern Icarus
by Michael R. Burch
Windborne, lover of heights,
unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace
you climb, skittish kite ...
What do you know of the world’s despair,
gliding in vast solitariness there
so that all that remains is to
fall?
Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs;
you stall
spread-eagled as the canvas snaps
and ***** its white rebellious wings,
and all
the houses watch with baffled eyes.
Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled
Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ...
Finally to Burn
(the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus)
by Michael R. Burch
I.
Athena takes me
sometimes by the hand
and we go levitating
through strange Dreamlands
where Apollo sleeps
in his dark forgetting
and Passion seems
like a wise bloodletting
and all I remember
—upon awaking—
is: to Love sometimes
is like forsaking
one’s Being—to glide
heroically beyond thought,
forsaking the here
for the There and the Not.
II.
O, finally to Burn,
gravity beyond escaping!
To plummet is Bliss
when the blisters breaking
rain down red scabs
on the earth’s mudpuddle...
Feathers and wax
and the watchers huddle...
Flocculent sheep,
O, and innocent lambs!
I will rock me to sleep
on the waves’ iambs.
III.
To Sleep, that is Bliss
in Love’s recursive Dream,
for the Night has Wings
pallid as moonbeams—
they will flit me to Life,
like a huge-eyed Phoenix
fluttering off
to quarry the Sphinx.
IV.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Quixotic, I seek Love
amid the tarnished
rusted-out steel
when to live is varnish.
To Dream—that’s the thing!
Aye, that Genie I’ll rub,
soak by the candle,
aflame in the tub.
V.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Somewhither, somewhither
aglitter and strange,
we must moult off all knowledge
or perish caged.
VI.
I am reconciled to Life
somewhere beyond thought—
I’ll Live in the There,
I’ll Dream of the Naught.
Methinks it no journey;
to tarry’s a waste,
so fatten the oxen;
make a nice baste.
I’m coming, Fool Tom,
we have Somewhere to Go,
though we injure noone,
ourselves wildaglow.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC
every
so often
a sequestered
hideaway
is
the best
place
to soothe me
solitariness
is
totally
free from turbulence
Oct 2, 2021
Oct 2, 2021 at 8:49 PM UTC
An ardent soliloquy of effusive loneliness;
But a fervent display of fanciful companionship.
Fanciful, but of choice limited to one.
As soft lonesome light glows through a goblet;
Deep in red of fallacious blood,
And to speak of which I long, with one of similar mind,
Yet contradictory in gender,
Be it in terms as well.
Solitariness to me, seems bestowed.
And at times I see its light.
Or not so much light, more of a dim and distant glow,
Coming to me through that goblet,
Through the liquid lie it holds.
Imbued with the notion of these times,
I long to be, even an appendix to a Pantisocracy,
Where subjugation and self righteousness are equally redundant,
Not surplus; not wanted.
Perpetual anticipation for this future,
Is the ultimate test of faith in righteousness.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC
Too tired to understand, or too much understanding
making it simpler to punish, and push.
**** virtues,
and most importantly,
**** patience.
Flying back south and walking to and fro and waking up all on my own
and sitting by the window and biking or strolling with music
to the ears.
Self-inflicated solitariness feeling un-repressive, and un-defensive
and happily alone.
Never let self-inflicated solitary boredom be brought upon by another.
Indeed, cheers to alone-li-ness, when it is discretionary, and free.
Lying through my corroding teeth, I breath,
out mercy and breath in shame.
Over-dramatizing,
the wrong person is changing.
I am different;
You are the same.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Three days absent of sleep.
Three days deprived of food.
Three days without direction, function, and moral collection.
Three days spent swallowed whole in the depths of plausible correction.
Oh my sweet, I fear no fate can contain this inevitable fear
buried tightly within my chest.
Concaved isolation,
bitterness consumed the best of me.
72 hours of solitariness.
72 hours of repression.
72 hours of apprehension.
72 hours of loss of consciousness.
Whispers of evergreens
chant to me.
Beige stained sheets become
nothing more than a distant memory.
Three months without you.
Three months desperate for lips,
which once caressed my *******
Three months stripped of scalloped palms, and
crazed for circles traced across my neck.
Three months craving ocean eyes
softly speaking, “we’ll be alright.”
Warm baths filled to the brim
creamy, and delicate skins
while Chopin’s ballad danced in the twilight.
Forever delude us.
Forever spoil us.
Still 13 weeks without you.
13 weeks craving the vibrations of gentle breath,
humming me to sleep, silently sooth me.
13 weeks without fingertips tangling fine locks,
morphing into screams of our names
13 weeks without sideways smiles,
rich and modest, but assertive with simple grins.
13 weeks lusting after charcoal hair nuzzled in my chest,
Alluring arms wrapped around me.
The burden of our romance weighs my mind.
Yet, let us go make our visit, I say
to yellow smoke that lingers on streets and window-panes.
It’s time for indecisions, maybe a hundred visions with
Intoxication to bury us, exhilaration to uncover us.
There will be time to wonder, “Do I dare?
Do I dare fall back into the abyss of my mind?”
There will be time,
‘till voices wake us.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
An act of withdrawal; isolation
Seclusion and sequestration.
Remote from society;
Solitariness, and privacy
Loneliness; despite not being lonely
Or simply,
You.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
To be guilty
Is to be ill received
To struggle within
Is that of its own effort in futility
For just as a new day dawns
Illuminates the coming of day
So is the begging of the coming dissolution
So is the inevitable distaste
Like the man at the edge of street
Sitting in the glow of artificial light
However hollowed a reality received
The weight pressed within one’s mind
It was in this worldly injustice
Founded upon the breaking of ones will
Yet in this subjective sense it seemingly shatters
While the rest remains ever still
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 9:40 PM UTC
It’s a person sitting next to me
A shadow lingering close by
Following me around
It’s a soul I know by heart
Every inch, but somehow I still don’t
Know a single thing
It’s a thorn I found, or made
Amongst other people’s roses
I never bothered to touch it
It mocks me sometimes,
When it gets tired of my sadness
When I feel alone in a crowd
It has now become a friend
I’ve learned and grown to like it
I embrace its cold comforting arms
And somehow, this peculiar soul
It has taught me to love
Solitariness, and myself.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
Even though I’m used to
the self support and the solitariness and just being there
for my fond ones,
Every once in awhile I just wish there was
someone
who would hold tight my hand during the
frequently screaming tempest.
When I’ve reached my
breaking point/conjuncture
and convulse into tears.
Someone who would
encompass me momentarily,
whisper sweet serenades saying,
“Everything is going to be alright, I’ll sing you a lullaby.”
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
*He resided in his own abyss of lonesome thoughts,
Acquaintances and kin wondered but never asked what.
His conception, distinct and his heart aslow,
Contentment from his life had been stolen long ago.
As he sheltered himself from affection and dear,
He gave permanence to a stale state of fear.
He couldn’t be shaken from his clouded vision,
He comprehended things with a different precision.
His words were spat in cold hate and morose,
A life of melancholy and solitariness he chose.
One would think they’d be used to the cold,
And I thought only my resistance was low*.
- Sahej Marwah.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
Forged while in utero (the crucible concocting conception),
the fluke of biology begat
me – a happy go lucky boy, whose vulnerable uber travails
susceptibly sprung sly as a cat
on a hot tin roof, where the faux pas survivalist diktat
burrowing into my figurative,
elusive, and divisive gofer hole decreed éclat
where solitariness didst a ford
driven psychologically by obsessive fiat
a compulsion to grip tightly
with distorted, dispirited and disgruntled guilt
evasiveness where schizoid personality disorder
rudely rued the day halt
ting natural development
of body, mind and spirit, a rampant insult
finding thyself as a kid alienated, deviated, and gravitated by jolt
like electric shock from how peers responded to knocked
down confidence, egoism, faith, et cetera within self locked
and linkedin to an identifiable causes
(which said malady) – marked
by painfully being shy, debased fortitude,
and intimidation noted
prominently when thee papa found him walking toward me,
where he orbited
from the dark side of me noggin
with no intent at harm, yet a portent
welled up inside
mine chromosomal maternal and paternal quotient
whereat this unease generated an unspoken radiant
cowering reaction training thyself crouch with silent
body language that bespoke volumes expressing torment
with nary a clue (meaning approximately
xl plus years ago) only the unguent
of magic powers to disappear
since silent springs restrained thee to vent
and only when this sole son started a family of his own and went
back to visit parents did a diminution
sans cower take the shortest xing
in heyday of inferiority spurred (a veritable bee line back
tummy honey combed hive), or if feeling especially intense – a yurt
would answer the call of duty, and once inside
close all the zippers.
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 2:46 PM UTC
To sit thinking quietly on ones own
is perhaps today’s rarest commodity
when you say that you wish to be alone
observers will tag you as an oddity
and yet that solitariness is divine
a time to question one’s thoughts
a moment where honesty will guide you
and lies get your personal retorts.
©Joe Wilson – Private moments 2014
We seem though discouragingly needy
to resist the desire in our mind
to be seen to be caring to others
as if it was a sin to be kind
but to be kind to others is no sin
it is all that we should ever be
and He who is watching and caring
misses nothing in His Heavenly See.
©Joe Wilson – Not sinning 2014
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
The boulders are too huge for me
to see too far,
they often block the sun;
but in their beauty there's no mar,
and that's what makes it fun.
I walk the peaks and valleys,
high and lows, they shine;
like walking dirt-filled alleys,
I do not see the grime.
All is what it seeks to be,
nature is unraveled;
as far as any eye can see,
these paths are seldom traveled.
Jumbled rocks of granite, old,
invite my feet to walk;
in a sanctuary of peace that's bold,
where there's no need of talk.
Solitariness is fine,
amid the boulders, grand;
in corners where the sun don't shine,
and no one holds your hand.
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC
He feels cold
With a heart full of emptiness
His life unflods
As he sits in total solitariness
He's a tombstone
With thoughts that are restiveness
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC
Dramaturgy
there is more to understand
in this fire of a thing --
hauled out of the dark is this
lightsome body, a tumult
of a moment shaping into something
true and seizable.
in the siege of this haloed hour,
we, in the dark, ***** still
these passing moments
the rise of your heady perfume
choking the smoke billowing,
curling on our brows
raking the tranquil in this moment
of askance,
wringing enigmas of their
sublimities,
my body bettered with graciousness,
etcetera, etcetera
of letting you go where you ought
to be and to take you as a useless thing
demands to be blandly usurped,
that no superfluous beauty could ever
configure our analogue adjustments,
and that there is more to this fire than
just the heat of it, the drone that seeks
with a morbid following,
or the brutal truth that
a pain may never be shared
or equally felt, poised in solitariness
and delighting with wine, lonesomely
yet never despairingly,
a silence that brands our souls
with bounteous canticles of how
love's meant to be done alone.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
Here I stand with both friend and foe.
Both those who ridiculed me for my preference of solitariness.
And those who stood by me when I needed them.
We all stood on that stage as we were handed what we worked so hard for.
A piece of paper that merely says congratulations on graduating.
Some cried, some danced, some just were too overwhelmed to even speak.
But not me.
I wasn't excited or overjoyed.
I was numb to this experience.
Not because I'm not relieved its over.
I suppose this was never truly important to me.
And that is okay.
Because now I know what is important.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC