"spaciousness" poems
The morning mists still haunt the stony street;
The northern summer air is shrill and cold;
And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old,
Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet.
Thro' the loud spaciousness and draughty gloom
A small, strange child--so aged yet so young!--
Her little arm besplinted and beslung,
Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room.
I limp behind, my confidence all gone.
The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on,
And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail:
A tragic meanness seems so to environ
These corridors and stairs of stone and iron,
Cold, naked, clean--half-workhouse and half-jail.
3.3k
To see a dwindling tree in the forest
is not to know its bleakest
but to know its earnest
The decay is shown outwardly as despair
by means of deforested ensnare
Forlornness seems its welfare
Externally the forest is declared undeserved eternally
Beauty is unsecured directly
And hope comes seldomly
Whole,
is a forest,
alive as a unit
Spaciousness is created with the tree's covet
Restored are the longing of nutrients
in a sacrificed facet
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
I walk along Pacific Avenue
Santa Cruz, CA
I walk down past the nice parts
to the bus station
near seedy bars
and a sandwich board reads
Cafe Pergolesi one block
with an arrow pointing
It's not too early to scout locations
It's the location of my opening scene
I approach, and I see, it is still alive
in this summer evening
people outside and in
a trod upon, worn and comfortable air
various levels to the porch
even ash trays on the tables
like Vegas, everyone is welcome
Inside, this is no Starbucks
You don't see a line clearly where you must order
and pay
like a theme park
or a hospital
or a slaughter house
where you are funneled
It's not too clean
But it's filled with comfort
Huge couches beckon
A Victorian house
One people lived in
with spaciousness and windows
Real air permeates the place
An ATM is casually smashed between a couple of tables
but no one cares
you can't mass produce this wonderful mess
A friend's band CD blares through the speakers
badly recorded
a barrista in carefully torn fishnets sneaks a break
on the back porch with her cell phone
I buy water and a cookie and settle into a huge worn chair
Every room has a different theme
But I want comfort
I pull out my notebook and write
I have a shopping list of scenes
And I add another one for this place
Would they let me shoot here?
I don't know
But I think I could live here
It's so non judgemental
People buy things
But there isn't that corporate pressure
There are no special names for dumb things
just small, large, cookie, beer
This is cafe bliss
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
Great news Marjorie!
I have had tasar treatment on my eyes, so I am finding my keyboard much easier to abuse.
What a week I have had! Since you sent my letter to the local paper, I have had several people contact me. I had no idea the scribbles of an old woman like me could generate such interest. A young reporter even called round, and I thought I was going to have to call an ambulance, the poor boy went red and laughing all the time. In fact I was certain he needed medical attention but he assured me he would be fine in a minute. He did not tell me what it was he found so amusing, but young people can be quite strange, don't you find? He may have needed the toilet but was too shy to ask.
Despite this we did get on well, and he even said he wished I was his Grandma, which I thought was very sweet of him, while making odd gestures with his hands.
After we had enjoyed a mice cup of tea together I showed the young man around the garden and he seemed very interested in the greenhouse, remarking on its spaciousness. I asked if he had green fingers and rather enigmatically he replied 'sometimes'. He enquired if I would be interested in renting it out to him, an idea I found rather appealing. I think he wants to grow salad plants for his family. My faith in the younger generation is restored.
His mobile telephone rang while we were in the garden, and feeling it was rude to eavesdrop I went back into the kitchen, but I did overhear him say that he hadn't had so much fun since his granny died, so I suppose they must have given her a good send-off.
I am rather enjoying my position as a minor celebrity in the village. Even the bus driver was more cheerful than usual today, so I smiled and gave him a cheeky little w*nk as I got off, and I'm sure he noticed it.
Ever your devoted fiend, Dottie **
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 7:49 AM UTC
Thankfulness ~ from my November submission to FengSHe website
thank you for the world so great
and its love reflection in all innate
thank you for the birds that fly
and the spaciousness of the big blue sky
thank you for the birds that sing
and the joy felt tone they are sharing
thank you for the ability to hear
the inner voice which is so dear
thank you for the floral blossoms
and the beauty shared is so awesome
thank you for listening through nonjudgment
a precious gift in each and every moment
thank you for accepting things as they are
a precious gift going deep and far
thank you for loving unconditionally
a precious gift allowing me to just Be
thank you for not attaching any expectations
a precious gift allowing me my own creations
thank you for this life time of expression
coming from souls inner direction
thank you for this conscious connection
a precious gift in this worldly dimension
http://www.peacefromwithin.shawwebspace.ca/]
Nov 6, 2010
Nov 6, 2010 at 9:36 AM UTC
Now at the brink
of winter...ashen
bardo light of becoming.
Those who fear spaciousness
will shudder.
With the leaves gone,
there are no obstructions.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
I know there is a sense of
freedom waiting for me, in the rooms
of a house yet to be mine. Striding
through this spaciousness. Even if
I am a captive in my own home I will
still know to be alive only on
the inside.
Even if there was no light, it would
be part of my being, a very essence pervaded
in truth but this, not really a knowing.
I am my heart, and in it, my soul
knows its freedom. God, how I would love to
die for what I believe in but dead is
not how they want to have me.
Left in chains and broken spirited, I was
already tried through a society in a
world seeking to weigh me down by
taking away what ties me. To my family, my
friends, my fellow human beings, and what
keeps my feet on solid grounds. What I
know transcends down into humanity, even
if actions of violent men are
void of sanity.
© October 9, 2012
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
as im typing this im thinking a million miles a minute, miles past the stars that i see whenever i look up at the night sky when im smoking because if i dont have your lips on mine i want something that tastes like you do. you. you with your whiskey lips and ***** tongue and absinthe eyes and *** hands that warm me and drain me and knock me on my back from the overdose i so eagerly crave. crave you like you crave everything and everyone, you cant just have one you need them all because how could someone like you ever be satisfied. satisfaction flees from you and you reach out with broken hands to grasp it but your fingers no longer work from all the walls youve punched and hearts youve shattered. theyre dry and cracked and blistered from the fires you started and leave behind everywhere you go. you create and you destroy and you abandon only to come back and apologize and try to build again but nothing will be as beautiful as what you have destroyed. the foundation is shoddy and the door gets caught sometimes and wont open and the floors creak and the windows arent sealed so the cold wind flows throughout chilling all who try to live there. and the chiminey is blocked so fires built to warm only create smoke that choke the visitor and make them depart wondering how anyone could have created such a house and who in their right mind would ever live there. i was a beautiful victorian estate created by your hands from the ground up. i was in pieces when you found me but you put me together and showed me my beauty and my spaciousness and grace and loveliness and age old charm. i was demolished in the wake of your destructive force and now no one can unlock my door but you sneak through a window after you break it with a rock that says im sorry and i always let you in but the fires you light envelop the house in a black cloud that stains and ruins. you escape before you choke and i wait for the smoke to clear and replace my window but never with bullet proof glass like i should and i sit and wait and listen to the sound of the door **** turning unsuccessfully and another person gives up on trying to come in and i sit and i wait to hear the sound of breaking glass and the sound of your footsteps across the creaking floors.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
He came and took me from my village home,
Promising my mother that he has city job,
Which he was to give me when I join him,
To the city, the city of Lodwar in the north of Kenya,
He left his two wives at the village, we said by to them,
Inspite of their spiteful look at me, I was spirited enough,
To come to the city with their rich husband, my master,
We reached his city house in early night, which bamboozled me
With it spaciousness which matched full size of my father’s land,
I wondered why he lived alone in such a humongous vessel,
He dumped me there and went away, demanding me to clean
Each and everything plus the house itself, to maximum perfection,
I cleaned enjoyfully as I stole and pocketed various items novel to me,
I kept them in my pockets, in guest to surprise my brother with them,
In case God will allow me time to go back to my village home,
He came in the evening in a company of two middle aged women,
They were both brown, wearing long hair and soft in flesh of their skin
They were riotous and prodigal in character, like lazy women at home,
They broke into riotous cackles on each eventuality, however silly,
The three of them reeked sharp stench of alcohol like a brewery,
They all shamelessly undressed in the sitting room where I was,
Sleeping on time-worn couches under a light bed-cover,
They pushed one another away to the inner chamber,
Whispering something; group *** group *** Group ***
They chased away my sleep with their sharp screams,
That came from the inner chamber as if war was there,
Scream and screams kept on coming; I was tempted to scream also,
Screams were regularly intervened with ‘kiss my ******* statement,
Then my master and one of the wenches appeared from the bedroom,
Rolling on the ground like the black snakes, twined into one another,
Their mouths fixed into one another as if they were Siemens twins
Born with inseparable flesh of their lips, they released some soft screams
They crashed everything on their way, they settled right at my couch,
From where they screamed loudly and madly for seconds
Then they both went silent breathing loudly in deep slumbers.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
Arched back
aching knees
pinpricks in my right leg
a thousand questions
running in my head
as I navigate this vast
spaciousness
of the Internet
A world where ideas
meet
and where people lose
themselves.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 6:01 AM UTC
Most times I am choppy and chaotic
churning in an edge less void
I’ve forgotten my beginning
and don’t ever think I will reach the end
it is not till the wind turns its back on me
that the moment gives way to silence
where this light has room to be
casting it’s rays past the greyness
above which the blue sky remains
it is not till I am bathed in a wakeful
but silent presence do I know
I am not only the waves
churning, choppy and chaotic
I am the ocean that has always cradled it’s waves expanding with every fallen droplet
of my all encompassing existence ebbing and flowing as the infinite spaciousness of all that is
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 11:42 AM UTC
I. An Edifice Of Isolation, Built With The Bricks Of Desire
In the darkness of my bedroom
I send my love out in all directions
to search for your gorgeous and delicate brainwaves;
all the thoughts and desires that make you,
all the sparkling electricity that jumps and flutters
as your soft breath and pulsing mind fills a universe.
II. Where We Become Drunken Painters
As moonlight graces your intoxicating eyes
the tender reflection of my emotional core rises and scatters
like a horde of butterflies lifting off in erratic flight:
playfully flitting to and fro like a clumsy rainbow,
they gleefully splatter onto the canvas of the sky.
III. To The Rhythm Of Pounding Hearts
Your delightful countenance decorates even bare walls
with gloriously painted landscapes that sing
like a thousand springtimes captured in a bottle then vigorously shaken and swiftly let loose into the spaciousness that blooms
whenever two lovers gaze longingly into each other's eyes.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 3:34 PM UTC
No-Thingness
Everything devolves into structuredness because all things revert to singularity. To one entitity. It reverts to a single point of energy charged with infinite potential and pure conciousness.
An All-being dissolved of any structure and definition giving meaning to the No-Thingness inherent in the fabric of all existence.
We are omniscience expressed through a fragmented incomplete experience. More expressed through lesser, yet without this,
potential wouldn't come into fruition. Understanding comes with defining structures painted on the empty canvas of awareness. When we cease to paint, the color of awareness transforms emptiness into spaciousness. That's why through silence we can experience contentment in being. The practice is awareness without understanding.To understand that we are awareness without practice. Effortless. Duality is our illusion, our bounderies are imaginary. We only perceive the paradoxical expression of reality.
Like the notion of distance in the definition of interconnectivity.
Wholeness is incomprehensible presence.
It is the rigidity of our awareness that prevents us from flowing into it. Take water poured into existence, yet it takes the shape of an imaginary bowl. Held together by the tension of it's own convictions. It firmly believes in it's seperation and individuality.
Convinced of it's own shape, it does so against ironically impossible odds. It forgot it's place within No-Thingness yet that does not mean it's seperation. It merely means it does not recognize itself as the wholeness it perceives.
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 5:41 PM UTC
the spaciousness of iceblue daylight
you're praying under a frozen olive tree
doubts overpower you: are you good enough?
proving, you scarify your skin with a shard
bourdeaux-red blood mirrors moon fields
the cold drink was frothing like sea spray
you're licking your lips, the sanatorium
snowwhite building, melting windows
if you should go there after prayer
not a question, you're walking right and left
the cold drinks were frothing, you remember?
you forgot it and you remember everything
the silver olive tree includes words
all whispered sticks to it, like dust
if you listen to that tree, you'll hear
hidden is its place among black rocks
Sep 24, 2020
Sep 24, 2020 at 10:11 AM UTC
*we are luminous obscurity
hustling bustling through streets of disease
reflected in featureless magazines
waterfalls pound the sound of beauty
spaciousness exalted like a castle
yet about to fall from the weight of its own muscles
such wasted beauty
duty obscured
truly baffled by the frailty of our future
i have no fault with others
i find fault only in the weather
stand up for our brethren who battle themselves
like burnt toast
we slather butter on our noses
remorse is ugly
snuggled against our clothes
sloven sitcoms arrows and bows
so many noses
we return roses to the funeral homes
sweep the room of dust and lustful bunnies
dig in the river’s soil
surround yourself with oily muscles
shadows sing our dreams into songs
of belonging
fixing our faulty lenses
so we can see the essence
blessed as we are
next to perfect yet far from harm
out of harms way we burn torches
salute our scorched castaways
and brandish our swords like they are wands
or perhaps just jewelry for our hearts
like darts and lances
July is the month of sorrow
painted on canvases whiter than the moon
sparing us our celebrations
or perhaps we danced to soon
for once the water is hot
we like to fill our pots
with mustard greens and kale stalks
while love prepares the stock*
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 8:27 PM UTC
The bus comes at 9 am
Her face is frozen
from silent December winds.
she can hear the engine
groaning like a trembling scream.
Her hands shake at the thought of change.
Going east in autumn
pondering mothers death-
as she deals with the spaciousness of being alone.
All this travel-
aligning herself with the landscape,
and plummeting into an unseen gravity that home has always had.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC