"solitudinous" poems
I want to do away
with worry and fear…
inhaling deeply
letting the sharp salt air
permeate through my lungs
I want to look out
where the sky meets the waves
at the water’s edge
in a brazen, passionate kiss~
a wanton embrace
at its farthest horizon
I want to look up
and be blinded by the brazen sun,
forcing me to close my eyes
and bathe in its warmth
listening to its solitudinous soliloquy
I want to read to my hearts content.
I want to write ~
write
until my mind becomes a blank canvas..
pouring,
emptying
releasing everything,
bleeding gold and silver
onto pristine parchment,
.. and having the golden sun bathe it
in crimson
as it sets.
I want to paint with the Master Artist
along the azure sky,
our brush strokes illuminating the hues
of sunset and twilight,
and moonlight;
the reds, oranges, pale pinks and yellows and lilacs;
our hands resting into the deepest blacks
in the depth of night
the stars, sparkling like diamonds
I want to be in flight
and chase the sunset
and the sunrise,
and mark the time
by the passing of the two twilights.
I want Love.
I want You.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
Out beyond the edge of reason,
beyond where my senses can claim
I cannot sleep or wake…
nor dream.
In a state of
nondescript stillness. Bereft of
unnecessary memories.
I am not loved,
I do not love
in ways I can any longer
understand. Stark states of
stalemate.
Melpomene and Thalia
hunched over game pieces
a drunken heart
laments all a sober mind must
reason.
When liquid gold
and golden light
take to loving,
we as humans,
are no match. Either of
these elixirs in their limpidness,
bronzes our throats and
smothers our breath,
consumes our vision
with that last still drift of
sulphur, struck…
My flickering writhe
is a lambent match flame
Leaning in
to kiss a wild bonfire.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
The undertaker’s blues
have nothing to do with a proximity
to death. An occupation is just that.
Unwavering with his
probes and mysterious poisons,
He may even be mystified by the lilac flesh,
so whispery-cold and delicate now.
And yet depression
burrows into his psyche,
searches for the richest soil in which to plant itself.
Its roots spread
like sharp serpentine veins growing
from an evil heart.
Maybe,
New and severely altered thoughts
make a man stop
and think. Maybe he will worry
as to how our bodies become
so soulless
immediately following death.
Solitudinous man,
questioning…
The true definition of death?
Does it really require wrenching that final,
most prized,
breath from men that still
have noble things to lie for?
I’ve seen my own father
ask these same questions
Of colleagues—
the living cadavers.
Those so void of concern,
that which departs a soul upon
our otherwise useless caverns.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
painted upon canvas
multi-faceted hues
in tints of you,
reposed in quiet
moments; we spent
beneath Arabian
sunsets in brilliant
golden highlights,
spread across the
breadth of solitudinous
nights, twinkling stars
shining ever so bright;
my heart breaks
missing you as tears
fall in remembrance
in God's Light
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
deep down inside I knew
it was nowhere else to
turn; I'd lost the feel of his
words against the breadth
of me.
into my pillow I'd bury each
drip of saline's onslaught;
as it burrowed its waterfall
in every vessel of my heart.
and...
I'd decolorize into recesses
of self; left to mourn in solitudinous
pain, longing for a touch or
glimpse of masculine beauty.
beauty...
that once awakened every
fiber of my being with just
a slip of syllabic utterings.
which...
I miss, fore, he'd breathe
the epitome of love's need
and want, just by his presence.
now...
I dwindle within as I try in vain
to revive what once use to be
the beginning and end of love.
his words against the breadth of me...
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 2:06 AM UTC