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Alyssa Underwood Dec 2016
O morning sky of endless blue
Tinged with purply-pinky hue
You tell me of His mercies new
Whose heart pursues my own

O geese in wingèd winter's flight
Your honking cries arouse delight
And lift my gaze to seek thy sight
As wooing from His hand

O softest breeze which skims my face
And stirs with such mysterious grace
My soul to reach for Love’s embrace
You brush me with His kiss

O snowflakes falling to the ground
You pierce my heart without a sound
To crave a purity only found
Beneath a bloodied cross

O setting sun in half-light glowing
Waning day’s last glorious blush showing
You paint with fire my spirit’s own knowing—
This life is fading fast

O stars of midnight’s blackest sky
Paraded forth, you pull my eye
Toward One Who speaks this ceaseless cry:
“I’m coming back for you.”

O creeping fog to dawn’s light clinging
You whisper, Love’s veiled message bringing,
With haunting echoes faintly singing,
“Lose all of you in Him.”
~~~

"The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them. Yet their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world."  ~ Psalm 19:1-4a

~~~
Ashley Chapman Jul 2018
Pressesd tenderly,
your carnal flower opens,
its butterfly released,
hovers like a hummingbird
drinking from the bill.

Oh, I too would steal you away
and cage you happily,
to get under your black-fringed skirt; 
to see that pretty dress,
fly off once more,
and see you bare;
burned now forever in my banks,
a first sight,
of dark curls!

As I think of it,
my desire stirs,
but of us
I have already masturbated twice:
jammed,
hips pinned,
sliding over our wet perspiring bellies,
in our jungle heat:
'cause in the firmament of our embrace
- it's hot -
where glued we **** into each other,
stoking flames,
until sleep,
when we disappear from each other.
My mind crowds,
with niggling neurotic inanities;
yours with manic dreams where bed-wetting criminals in cages beg to be freed,
before better spaces overtake.

When I awake,
I am lying next to you,  
Gwen over the horizon of your fertile valley,
a mountain,
white and reposed.
You,
murmuring desire for me.
****!
I can't wait to answer.

It is late,
late morning,
and we are all half asleep.
You have your back to me,
as we lie,
rubbing feet,
stroking hands,
(the oiled bulb at the end of a finger),
your fine shoulders,
(that delicate but persistent bone in your wrist that stretches with pointed elegance);
as quietly inside,  
(warmly enveloped),
my couched *****,  
rocks us:
each diffusing into the other
like the early morning brew.

**** and love,
closing-in,
which for a good while on edge had been:
the weeks,
days,
hours;
faint promises from afar;
sometimes a little closer,
our shadows in daylight cross,
as one over the other storms;
and once (or twice),
a sleeve brushes,
even better,
hair crackles,
as a speaking lip touches lobe,  
and for a moment,
taking in the other's scent,
a hint sublimely overpowers.

And these,
dearest of fancies,
are just some,
with which to ******* your mind,
as you have mine:
the energy of my yielding tenderness,
inviting you to complete me,
as I spread for you with desire.

Much later,
those daring looks you have,
the way you walk our stage:
your beautiful bone china face,
those quick-fire arousing eyes,
your sultry self-assuredness,
your pre-possessing self.

I could talk about your couple,
of generosity,
reaching up,
beyond mere comprehension:
of the fact that I like Gwen
(his love gift for you, me);
but actually,
in truth,
I prefer to take this moment to make love to you;
to say how wrapped I am,
folded in your limbs,
in our mingling sweat;
how with your joy,
you touch my desires,
into yours,
so they flow,
run rather:
honeysuckle from your blessed nymphae.

You love my smell,
you say,
and I dream of gathering you in pheromones,
of drugging you,
of intoxicating you,
so once again you will find me,
take me,
have me.
Entice you once more like a creature from its shell:
Come!
where I can ravish you,
all of you,
lay ***** to me,
flesh,
sinews,
everything,
your very bones;
those fine elbows,
those knees I would like to ******* over;
wash their smooth surfaces in my come:
from these cliff heights,
rain ***** on the rocks below.

To once more cast aside your socks and get at your toes,
to pour oil on 'em,
to rub and squeeze' em,
while in the moist cavern of your insides,
we ****,
half washed over by our own tide.
And as we do,
I quail,
speaking sweet nothings of appreciation;
from full lips,
your sounds return,
the hypnotic rhythm of your breath:
I engorge and in our labyrinth,
- the maiden and the bull -
we consume ourselves.

There,
Sweet Lentiform,
you did it,
you got me rolling in flesh,
******* after your intimate parts,
wanting you in bed as I know you must have me:
pulling me on you,
kissing and biting;
my arousal in your palm,
pops,
as you run a curved finger over my nethers.

Lying,
lying,
side-by-side,
lying prone,
lying ******,
never unconsumed,
because,
please,
please us,
with more;
so rarely,
unfucked even for a pause,
nothing doing more than sleeping and carousing;
our sustenance barely enough to keep us at it,
an occasional comic thrown in.
Oh,
God,
throw the ******* comic at me,
will you?
Beat my ******* flesh with it if you like.
Anything to see you standing in all your pearly ***** glory!

And if you can,
keep texting me,
so I can hang on your every word like a ******* puppy!
Beautiful
long-haired,
skin tight,
upright,
wise,
gorgeously wild,
woman ...
Now pull me by my **** into your **** -
where I love it best.
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge


A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace


Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed


The ***** truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind


An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless


Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake


It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree


  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp


A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil


Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas



Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
Notes:                                                                                                          
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Writer(s): DON MCLEAN, ENRICO NASCIMBENI,
ROBERTO VECCHIONI
patty m Jan 2018
Through the Looking glass
Alice stands in all her splendor.
Her hair a curtain of silver rain,
her soft skin aglow in subliminal light.

A compelling fever rises
as Thomas tries different ways to pull
her up in memory
while writing himself into the tale.  
Poor Thomas delirious in his dilemma, he knows
this will be no easy seduction.  
How fiercely urgent his desire rises
as he longs to end our heroine's self-imposed abstinence.  

Hot April morning ambush,
and our intruder has beguiled our sweet Alice
with heated kisses sweeter than ripened fruit.  
A wildness stirs in the bloodstream.  
Now he slowly and lovingly explores her pristine body
as she shivers beneath his delicate strokes
until high trills rise to fevered pitch.

Pleated line of sky
muted corners softly come into focus.

Loathe to let her go,
passion stirs in his depths
slowly now he tastes her secrets,  shares her pleasure.

Tight buds of anticipation tenderly plucked,
his fingers find the stem, a measure of moisture;
Nimble fingered harmonies play pleasure symphonies
accompanied by soft echoes of youthful delight  
Warm and breathless, crystal rainbows paint the inside of her eyelids as she grows sleepy in afterglow.

Soon he's torn away, his pale poet's face conveying pain
received from this  now cool disconcerting beauty;
Though he touched folds and frills of every petal,
his chapter is immediately erased and the
original story reappears.  

She may have slipped down the rabbit hole,
but forever ladylike and pure is our sweet Alice.
He still lives with demons
that once held him tenderly
when no one would
be able to find the words
to say that fill the glass
as it is tipped back
and slowly emptied
of the liquor that stirs
memories from the headwind
that blew the lovers' hair back
on the drive through autumn
windy, windy mountain paths
as another Queen song plays
on the radio and the raindrops
on the windshield tap along
with fingertips against the steering wheel
to Freddy Mercury and shared heartbeats.

The truth is he is lying
there like an open wound
as he begins to measure self-worth
with texting tempo and memories
of last summer being too hot
to cuddle with one another
though it was more than enough
to hold feet under the thin sheets
that remember the glass
once again filling with words
as another drink is emptied
and his head burst through clouds
leaving him to hydroplane
through windy, windy mountain paths
as the raindrops on the windshield
applaud with the demons
that beckon tenderly for his return.
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
O morning sky of endless blue
Tinged with purply-pinky hue
You tell me of His mercies new
Whose heart pursues my own

O geese in wingèd winter's flight
Your honking cries arouse delight
And lift my gaze to seek thy sight
As wooing from His hand

O softest breeze which skims my face
And stirs with such mysterious grace
My soul to reach for Love’s embrace
You brush me with His kiss

O snowflakes falling to the ground
You pierce my heart without a sound
To crave a purity only found
Beneath a bloodied cross

O setting sun in half-light glowing
Waning day’s last glorious blush showing
You paint with fire my spirit’s own knowing—
This life is fading fast

O stars of midnight’s blackest sky
Paraded forth, you pull my eye
Toward One Who speaks this ceaseless cry:
“I’m coming back for you.”

O creeping fog to dawn’s light clinging
You whisper, Love’s veiled message bringing,
With haunting echoes faintly singing,
“Lose all of you in Him.”
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I wanted to sneak into
a space down the star
I couldn’t sleep in a night
Huh I was yet to get an
answer to a quiz why!

Though I showed a mirror
The moon floats in the night
gently, the dark could
mingles into the light.
But one couldn’t relay
My sweetie toyed it away!

As if no matter what if one
wishes so is free to sway.
Huh my sweetie toyed it away!

Did the Moon score
tapping in on the starry
night’s blackboard,
how many *****?
Who can tell, who can tell?
Though a cheering sun rises
In the end by the rose.
Myriads stars meltdown
in a stunner’s teardrop.
That stirs coming so close.
Yet is a dwarf over the ocean!

Touches the moon not
one that pulls the most.
The sea lives by the small earth
There is no law in love
My sweetie toyed it away!
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
A sea of white
Favors hallowed ground
Where dotted lines track snow angels
And souls are lost to release
A druid spell conjures delirious bliss
Tasting the snowflakes
Kissing the cold air
Hugging the entire sky
A great and simple magick stirs
Holding mitten hands
Warming nuzzle noses
And the smell of her hair in winter
As published in my book, Time Travelers, psalms of fern, v.2.
PoserPersona Jul 2018
Your hair stills heart's rhythmic meter
  For this I wish forever
Strands spun with goddess gossamer;
  softer than touch of mother

Your eyes dazzle with no glitter
  For this I stare o're yonder
Locking jewels with coins of others;
  Leaves throbbing chests emptier

Your form flows as gentle rivers
  For this I grudge past swimmers
Glory bequeathed to the winner;
  drown will the losing suitors

Your voice humbles angel choirs
  For this I listen eager
Songs molding seraphs from satyrs;
  in harmony with nature

Your being stirs wildfire
  For this I bear the pleasure
Ethereal flames dance together;
  fueled by spiritual tethers

You are my love light of summer
  For this I waded winter
Glowing 'bove, spring was made greener;
  blooming nascent desire
jane taylor May 2016
in the heart
of the night
a slice of moonlight
cascading
beckoned

i rouse
its mesmerizing lure
gently stirs
a hazy
remembrance

entranced
from shadows i emerge
hearkening its echo
you’re dreaming
awaken

its shimmering light
engulfed me
prying open my stubborn eyes
in the onyx
darkness

its silver glow
enticed me outside
i stood silent
whilst glistening dewdrops
danced on my toes

a sterling lunar crescent
enlightening midnight
softly
serenades
me

wake up
life’s a trance
you’re
hypnotized
mesmerized

in an ocean of emptiness
i heard
a celestial orb
calling
and ne’er slept again

©2016janetaylor
GreenTrees Dec 2013
The small but ample cottage tucked in among the trees with large trees like bedposts.
A small hum of excitement stirs the air. The ocean kissed sea air moves past the cottage searching for just a peak at her.

But not tonight, the windows drawn tight, and still sweating from the  warmth there by the muted figures in the flames.
Just a glimpse of  her edges out from the corner of my eye.
And only she warms me in a way, that even now the figures in the flames seem less willing to speak her name.

With her heat comes a light, and with her light the words are more clear and the beauty of season more evident.
She is a muted flame edging out of the corner of my eye.
Kissing me quietly as she drifts off in to cozy corners of my mind.



COPYRIGHT 2013
Karl von Mecklenburg
ISSAI MASHINGO Jul 2014
When brothers go to war there are no captives/
When brothers go to war we find only casualties/
The in explicable war between Palestine and Israel,/
In this poem i hope that peace would prevail/
Countries at the crossroads of heaven and ****/
Their war has lasted for ages/
Pain and revenge bitterness and hate/
When brothers go to war who dares to mediate/
Who knows of their fate who knows whose right/
Its bee like this for so many years/
Who will be there to wipe their tears/
Who will be there to give hope to those in fear/
Who will dare to go and interfere/
When brothers go to war know that the end is near/
Hold on and sanctify your soul in prayer/
When brothers go to war who is the villain who is the saint/
The war of Israel and Palestine stained in red paint/
A revelation to the faint hearted/
A lesson to the boastful and egocentric/
Innocent lives lost when brothers go to war/
A gentle answer turns away wrath/
But a harsh word stirs up anger/
A hot tempered man stirs up dissension/
But a patient man calms a quarrel/
When brothers go to war who dares mediate
(c) ISSAI
for the war within!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Breanna Smith May 2012
Sweetly does the rain
Sing against my window,
As it stirs the lavender
That caresses my nose,
Growing beneath my window as
My mother planted it there to do.
Wary do I grow of counting the
Lines,
Groves,
And cracks in my ever changing ceiling.
I try making out images instead of counting, Lacking creativity all I can see is
White,
Frooved
Clouds.

Dusk is capturing the world now and
The rain has finished it’s melody,
The insects and frogs
Take the stage and
Somewhere in the distance
Is the cry of a lone hawk,
Maybe feeling left out of the insects and frogs Choirs as,
He cries 
His sad
Song.

Pondering as to what the
Hawk’s story is
And as I ponder
I begin to hum
A soft melody keeping time
With the frogs and insects,
Maybe I am feeling left
Out like the hawk?

A breeze joins in,
String up the glories
Smell of lavender again
And cooling my face as it
Comes through the open window
I slowly drift
Off
To
Sleep...
...zzz
Bison Apr 2016
Drown out the sound
Frail fingers cupped around fragile ears
The voiceless singing too loud to hear
Sorrow filled songs of the proud

Sightless eyes still search for light
As she wanders through barren fields
Still the salted soil will not flowers yield
Emeralds or diamonds shine too bright

Calm storms whisper ghostly lullabies
As dead weather stirs living men
Dead men search for passion again
Buried too deep to reach blue skies

Ashes to dust
Blanket our frigid hearts
Purpose of mind a fire starts
Consign me not to trust
patty m Apr 2018
The far space is closing along a band of trees,
peelings of shadowy rind exposing ghostly hues.
All around the air is flammable,
until the setting sun a burning bush turns ashen.  

Strange mood around this monolithic rock
that some folks fear.
Overlong we have waited presenting our sacrifices.
yet not a breath of wind stirs as we chant
and seeds take root.  

A strange spirit leaps into our midst
and all around there is a quick intake of breath.
Piercing movement collapses in upon itself as it whispers
though our pores.
Rhythms strange insistent beat, a driving force
whirls through our bloodstream,
its slow sensuous movements lead us into dreams.
Attached ghost,
your haunting aria spins in ethereal mist
transposing meditation.
Someone has put a hole in our language and now as we
look with hazy speculation upon the book
with tiny red stitches we remain baffled,
turning it round and round looking at all the foreign symbols,
                                   but it cannot be deciphered.  
Only the creatures of the forest remember;
Mid-Summer nights, the sound of magical flutes and the
bells of dancing nymphs.  
Only they understand  the gifts that Gaia bestows.    
Only they remember the Wisdom Of The Faun.
Hartaz Kaur Aug 2018
Most heavenly of places, this world now
Of endless beauties, a sight that wows
They're statuesque and wax-like, but hey don't fret
No wrinkles to combat, nor ripples of fat

Gazing into their arresting green eyes
That of the rabbit's, resemblance lies
Uncanny it is, this puzzling scene
Manufactured they are, from the same jellyfish gene

And since its time to seek paradise,
My wandering hands caress the prize
To search for weakness, now I must
No amount of fondling, stirs any ****

I've come so far, and this is what perfection costs?
The smoothest of skin, has left all thumbprints lost
A sci-fi piece. A world where women have their genes edited and are manufactured to perfection. The result of placid, animated statues however fail to arouse the faintest stirrings of ****.
Tommy Randell Nov 2014
Clay

Not one particle of me
Dissolves readily
I am so immune to Love
These days.
My outstretched hand
Stirs but does not *******
Enacts but does not generate
Indeed Un-differentiates.

I have made
From deeper word-clays
Superior thoughts of you
And have thrown
Better pots upon the wheel
But daily life these days
Must take what it can get
The potter must ***.

This is not mere wrestling
With images
This talk of alchemy
And artifice
In the absence of you
I am forced to ply other clays
Toward lesser ideals
On my stage of words

That is to say
You were for me
Something seen into
More than friendship's patina
More than the creation of space
Something seen of imagination
Unbelievably
More than the clay itself.
Johan Nel Nov 2014
My memories are bound to your lyrical words
In my blood and fingers, in my mind it stirs
Returning to something lost and faint
You are a shadow, a black saint

A silhouette against life and conception
Death follows in your steps, your deception
As you live to indulge in carmine waters
You lead men to tyranny and slaughter

Your stare is manic and distant
Depleted, you hypnotize me unresistant
In blood we pledge our carnal sin
Your dead cold flesh defiles my kin

But now, you are far as I walk in the light
You feel my presence in your perceptive night
As I await your return from the earth's lap
I fear my want for you, and the life you tap

**Johan Nel © 2013
Inspired by the series True Blood - Johan Nel © 2013
zebra Aug 2018
when life is charmed with radiance
all kicking pony
and summer sticky sweet with instinct
like a head sloped between thighs

moralities privation comes
stirs it's ***
a broth of orthodoxy
evoking a cinematic painting
of Christ's crimson howls
for the ache of life

his blood sacrifice construed
as desire from the embrace of ****
sins cursed maniacal
save the ******* of priests
for little children's ****
while
God
the father
stands aloof
as if nothing but helpless black space

the churches history
a coterie of priests
a prancing parade
in black dresses
with rosy *****  

jesus's own little rays of sunshine
religion  adult
Cné Sep 2017
Let me mold my body along your curves; trickle yourself into my entire being

Vulnerable, ****, my heart exposed, palpably we connect across the starry sky; you ... within me

I want your intimacy to linger along the edges of my lips hours after you've gone

I ache to be consumed by your eyes, intense with emotions, long after the dawn

Take me to your intimate chambers where hearts race; the rhythm of our silhouettes melded on satin sheets

Leisurely feel your way; a slow descend along the avenue of my rhythmic swell; forgive me of my quivering wanton needs

Allow me to graze at the gates of your femininity, drinking the honey from your pink walls; to feel your crowning point between my lips

How can I resist those wandering lips that stirs the curtains of my garden alcove; perfectly painted in honey dew, I throb for the touch of your kiss

Drape your thighs upon my shoulders; let the waves of satisfaction cascade up your spine

I beg to be released, dear God, of this intoxicating spell; I submit myself, heart laid bare; oceans of emotions no longer can I hide.

Find your eyes locking with mine; my torso parallels yours, my body pressed to you; equal in ferocity and tenderness

Mesmerize by your burning eyes in our melting flesh, so strong your hold; yet so tender your caress

Utter our names in fiery moans both whispered and screamed in heated breaths on our solitary night

Vile obscenities float out on heated breath, as cool air kiss our molded skin on the evening our time takes flight

Take me to your heart & cast away the flesh; allow our souls to weave in the throes of passion as our bodies mix into one; slow-motion ecstasy

A longing deep inside, the locked chambers of my soul to exotic places beyond our imaginationsyou sneak into my heart to fulfill my every fantasy 

Feed me the lullabies you paint on your canvas; orgiastic symphony we conduct in cascading tides; trembles throughout our bodies when our fluids mix

Let me paint upon your heart a ballet of our duet; the crescendo palette of my tide drown you in the spirit of our lyrics

Your ripe fruit quivers tenderly while our union completes; take my hands and let me be yours

Hold my sated body that tremors from the wake; *a union of our souls ensnare a bond secure
A Collaboration with Jack Jenkins.
https://hellopoetry.com/jack-jenkins/
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Bring me my palette board.
Bring me my paintbrush.
Look wide open, ask me not
if it’s full or a half glass.
The sea is babbling high,
The clouds swimming on the go.
Reach out to the sky!

Be quick, before a raindrop
spills off the rainbow bowl,
stirs the dew on the rosebud
at first sight of the
spring blooming fast.

So what if the sky won't
lend a blue patch away,
catch that close by,
slips through the fingers:
a pair of butterflies.
Does it matter if you say yes or no?
A piece of heaven is on earth!
Commuter Poet Nov 2017
This most beautiful morning
Stirs my heart

A lone black horse
Stands motionless
In a frost encrusted field
Waiting for the sun
To warm his body

The grasses and trees
Ice covered
Are waiting too

They are waiting
For the orange sun
To revive them
To free them
Of their crystalline encasements

My frozen heart
Is melting
At the beauty
Of Autumn

Brown, orange, red, straw

Everything stands still
On this early Saturday morning
Waiting for the thaw

Reminding us all
That we are small

And telling me
To offer my prayers

To the magnificent sun
Dedicated to my nan Josephine Appleby.
Always in my heart
Your birthday today
With love
cel Jul 2018
even as the earth stirs underneath, i'll love with the flame of a thousand blazing suns. as though my heart is the scorching sun that bursts through the daysky, beaming golden rays to the budding dahlias blooming beneath my light.
Esther Krenzin Jul 2018
The ocean booms and rages
And something inside me stirs
at the wild beauty,
ancient power,
and feeling,
that calls my name.

The warm salty breeze caresses
my face,
and as the sun slips into the sky
silhouettes of birds winging their way
amidst the glowing darkness
enter my mortal vision.

I lay in the soft sand,
and pull some into my open palm.
Are we like sand?
Soft and pretty at first,
but once rain falls
and the world throws hardship
at us,
we become harsh
coarse
and gritty.

If so, we must learn to
accept that there will
always be rain,
And learn to soften into the
person we are
deep down.

Strong,
and yet still soft enough to
experience life's joys.
-Esther Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
You are strong. But it is okay to feel. It is okay to have strength that does not bow and does not break.
Ashley Chapman Sep 2018
Past our past,
Yours and mine,
My soul yearns,
As I walk by silver clad trees; 
A favourite parked orange vintage Saab;
And memories newly raw, too.


I

Then quite extraordinarily,
The Cosmic Whale,
Stirs in my solar-plexus,
And my objectivity dissolves,
As conscious consciously hears:
The song of my inner Gypsy,
And look!
My Narwhal,
Up among the stars,
Beyond days and nights,
Roaming free,
Scything milky ways in half,
Fireballs disrupting,
In infinite timelessness,
Beyond the pull of gravity,
Where no vortex holds:
The 'othering' whirlpool,
That keeps us compressed
- as a collapsed star -
Gone!
At last my Cosmic Leviathan blows
- ALL is released and falls away.

II

Such is my Cosmic Behemoth:
The funnel *****
And inside out,
Is turned.
As at last on course;
Whoo! Whoo! Whoo?
But no-one replies!
The navigation station is empty:
This is motion without traction,
And no acceleration,
Slipping atoms would only slow!
The flow,
No windows either on the view,
As even visual truths are but fleeting,
And words muddy the clear unconscious streaming,
As the journey beyond mind begins.

III

The worldly maze recedes,
A bird's-eye vision steers the empty ship;
No harbours are plotted,
From here on
- endless flight in night,
Without end,
Wings blaze occasionally nearby,
A host of fireflies pattern the cosmic pool,
A whole immensity in which to dance.
Space,
Growing,
Stretching,
Expanding outward,
Not as we would have it, but as it is beyond our eyes.
Where space is born,
Again and again,
And so!
Exults in nothing,
A self beyond understanding,
In silence thrives,
Where sense logic makes no waves.

IV

The Cosmic Whale is off,
All attachments gone,
Like a flake of skin,
A fold in time -
Falls off.
The anchor dropped,
Is not retrieved,
What use is I -
When the clock's monotony no longer counts!

V

The surface disappears,
The ocean depth submerges,
In the cabin
The lights are dimmed to monochrome,
As navigators know,
Blind sees the furthest.
Charts are soon forgotten,
The imagination leads:
Ueah, the Cosmic Mind,
Vast and free
In all directions!
No need to plot a line,
Instead like the humble earthworm,
Who in darkness fertilises:
Beauty, how unimaginable, how unknowingly,
Is by all that envelopes guided,
As from the cracked ***!
Which in Reality was suffocated,
The source is nourished.

VI

As my Cosmic Whale plunges the deeps,
Look to the expanse:

     The eternal behemoth whose flight
     Everywhere provides,
     Guileless and unobjectified.
     A subjectivity that knows no
     bounds,
     Is unto itself unknowable.

In brushstrokes.
The universe,
Is as it rolls Created.
Where logic has little to do,
As all,
Already simply is.
This poem is actually about the ego's death. How I will mourne it, and how the fight to let it go will be immense as it is for us all. Death in life comes in many shapes, not ultimate death, but our relationships, *le petite mort*. Of course, there is life beyond relationship death. Beyond a sense of end; and yes, ultimately all is good preparation for that all consuming final death. This poem was inspired by untenable love for another; by the paintings in bold, almost lurid, but zen-like brushstrokes of a fellow Tunnel member, Genevieve Leavold; and by my mate Chris Godber who alluded to whales. It also has to do with my Gypsy heart and Celine's Salon, in Soho at Troy 22, where we celebrated the traveller's soul. Finally, a YouTube clip of a talk given by Guru Mooji in which awareness is being conscious of conscious.

Bon Voyage!
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2017
The Moon stirs
the sea down on earth.
Down from the galaxy
its the star's waterfront
yet edging up to
the far stretched sea.
Ian Mackenzie Aug 2018
We lie here - our bodies quiet in the late night heat

Off in the distance a dog barks as it’s master stirs and
in the fields the crickets give their last gasps of the day

A party lightens up a far away terrace as the wine flows and a secret flirt takes place as a gecko flits across a stucco wall, stops and moves again

And in this still heat our bodies merge - become one and we grow together

The far off waves of a Mediterranean Sea lap the silken sand

As we become one once more
31st July 2018 about a friend in Malta
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