"striations" poems
Drawn by the sadness of time
Minutes of repeated striations
Hours of wounded sketching
Days draining color
Outstare me...I dare you
Survey my damage
Morphing into
A dueling masterpiece
Feb 23, 2022
Feb 23, 2022 at 2:41 PM UTC
Lo, the drunken ordinance of light through
stained glass, lest to rehash the peopled
white of infinity.
Reach...with what folding passion second
guesses the labor of its love...the warm
footfalls of the sun overlaying the intricacy
of a snowflake...as captions of bone
dissolving upon the motion picture.
Perpetually opening seasons enamored
directionless...cancellation and activation
which is The Spark upon dark...striations
of dreams upon the gyres of galaxies.
Proofs positive of palpable breath, given
and taken in gloried passage.
The cloistered ghost gifted the laughability
of its cloister.
A polish fit for heresy...listen to the
crystalline structure as it bats its eyelashes.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
I miss
the forest of
your magic
as it winds its
tattooed way
through the
serrated textures
of nightfall
all up inside
my vertebrae
the soft wind
rustling in your
elms,
outstretched to me
like arms
as stars burn through
this brewing sky
in molten,
fiery charms
They beckon to me
unexpected
in quiet
apertures of subtle
they sneak upon me,
unprotected,
when I'm sunken
in my tunnel
and sometimes
in the
quiet stream
of the lonely, sacred night
I hear a whisper
whirring soft
as it permeates
my spine
I let it take me over
as I sit,
slumped,
in the bath
it creeps and seethes
over my wet skin
eats out my silent wrath
I let it
fill my senses
as I walk inside
the deep
and on wooded paths
of solitude's carpet of leaves
when I feel
no soul is watching
the deer start shyly peeking,
and lynx resume their stalking
then long slashes
of ache
are reawakened
from their lair
snaking through my ribcage
choking up my hollowed air
yet, somehow
in the longing
of bottomless, falling space
I see in distant, faded visions:
the precious contours
of your face
and so,
like an enchanted
secret box
I open you,
inhale the confetti
of your floating stars
wave them over and through
my strands of vein,
my tripped out,
healing scars
your essence
penetrates
my presence
like misty mountain rains
seeps inside my pores
opens up
striations
of seismic,
writhing pain
Your invisibility
takes form
and then
in sudden,
whipped-up heat
it pours out in
honeyed rhythm
to our own
invisible beat
and just like that
I get taken.
Overcome
by slakes of love
rushing through my
arteries
like sweet
manna
from
above
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 5:58 PM UTC
Is life a story, is life magick dreaming to love?
I gazed up. “Standing below the elephantine magnolia,
the ground still bore Tuscany ochre from autumns last kiss.”
My eyes solivagant orbs fed on spring’s dews in mourning
──jewellery clinging opulently to her naked form.
Dawn chilled the breeze caressing her body as abscission
demanded she undressed her emerald gown of leaves.
Magenta and cream blooms sprang “loudly” seducing
─ blushing mauve crowned centres,
a population of endless figurines perched motionless on aching
naked branches.
Solomon’s seal burned white within me drunk impending suns arrows, opulent words of silver Verbus diablio kissed in a cauldron
of Magnolia words, a banquet for mortals that seek loves gold.
A lone spider echoed silence bearing the sigil of Jupiter’s
vermillion and white spun striations luffing on the breeze
warming. “Magnolia dressed the day ardent in perfumed
── glorious plumes that each set sail across waking skies.”
Ablaze I am luscious dreams wrapped in sweet nectar,
travelling limbic memories breathing deeply, held captive,
wanton within her labyrinths of silk caresses, petals whispering,
sweet love as she engulfs my last resolve.
In raptures white velvet gown my hem sweeps over gold russet
and brittle autumns words forged in winters need for warmth──mind leaves crunching beneath life’s changing seasons,
stitched I cling enamoured to mortal honeymoon summered fields.
I am the female of sapphire tears twisting, glittering melting ice shards, bequeathed of pained black stars travelled on passionate magick fires, breathed on melodious Roma nights.
Rested among the branches a mantel crucified- drunk once more,
a bloom held silent in time weeping, exploding fragrant in a coloured soul, a luffing flower creature to life──crowned
──to sun hope thorns.
©ASPAR (A Sol Poet Arnay Rumens)
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
Starlings fly in silver sky
Bullfinch in the dry grass sings,
Emerald teal in tandem fly
Explosively on phosphor wings.
Miracles are in the air
Golden sun in evening glow,
Marigolds of orange flair,
With lavender, in patchwork grow.
Sap is flowing in the wood
bursting buds of olive greens,
Winter flees as winter should
Whilst bubbling brook transform to streams
Miracles are in the air
Colour rich in reddish hues,
Greens of fresh lime , aqua flair
Spring arrives in vivid views.
Silk striations lace the sky
With molten, mackerel clouds of gold,
Evening chill for you and I
Suggest we snuggle close to hold.
Miracles are in the air
A Moonrise breaks horizon’s door,
Hugely round with craters bare
We laugh with joy and seek for more.
Tantalizing night upon us
Stars ignite the heaven's fire,
Black as pitch with jewelled Adonis
Hot white pinpoints of desire.
Miracles are in the air
Passion in the blood doth boil,
Moonlight through her silver hair
Exquisite as blue fire on oil.
Marshalg
@thebach
29 August 2011
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 1:38 AM UTC
To read or watch movies, that is the question.
When tired at workday's end, depressed about death's
certainty and my recent surgery
unable to contribute purpose
i.e., figure out whether to bomb Iran
or worship Krshna
and other gods such as Homer gives us in the Iliad
I lack vision therefore I choose television.
Chemistry text, bifurcated plant key
esp. grasses, intro to calculus, physics
unopened time slides by inexorably.
That's the dilemma with no resolution,
drooping rachis, striations on the lemma.
Dying chooses you. You don't choose dying.
So go slow as the day will allow.
The cancer patient's real work is facing
harsh realities and making adjustments:
getting the most out of life, considering
what his children will need after he's gone,
preparing his wife, parents, colleagues and friends,
and completing important professional tasks.
Get the most out of life. That's all God asks.
In Life of Pi the tiger is tiresome, short-sighted
eating everything in sight today, no plan for tomorrow.
The boy, however, is beautiful, reading
the lifeboat manual, building a resting place on the ocean
from oars and life vests, writing about his emotions,
loneliness and observations. The tiger's obsession
with killing keeps our boy alive with fear,
an aphrodisiac, a distraction from any hint
of hopelessness. And then there is the ultimate unknown,
the boy's conversations with Krshna which explain
the innumerable stars and their gentle glow.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Stranded in a Spectrum entirely green,
I dream; in colors clustered around blue;
We meet; in swirls of turquoise.
Subliminal codes in her lullabies,
Allow her to control my dreams;
And when she makes green tea to calm me,
She uses mouse skulls instead of leaves;
It tastes like half-remembered dreams.
Eyelid transplants
Allow me to experience her dreams,
And when my dream-self leaves messages
On the inside of my eyelids;
They are blue notes
That shimmer in the morning,
Rescued from her memory-hole.
And outside, right before that morning,
The injured moon leaves smears
Of blue-green blood across the sky;
And soon, the earth is ringed with gore striations,
Celestial entrails halos;
It will be a day to remember;
A day of turquoise.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 3:51 PM UTC
Snowdrifts piling up
as brain melts down to zero sum
Not sure, now, what functions become
but, sure enough, what's piled high
in streets will become flood
Slide past corners
wash away
These torrents still insistent shakes
The quaking stops, now reach the sea
and rock on shifting waves.
Peer through striations clouding clouds and
sunlight
Soak into liquid, reach the bottom
grasp the floor
Handfuls of silt melt out through wrinkling digits
Withered faces, pickled organs: zero sum
Trickle down through strata--
read the layers
peel them back
Then, at the core, can settle down.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
2nd to rise, she enquires
you ready for coffee?
it's only 6:22am
if you're having, I'm having...
she quiet disappears
thinking coffee's coming,
when to this layabout,
it occurs,
she's making
coffee in the ****
get up, make myself presentable,
track her,
the coffee aroma pulsating,
radar signal emitting
sure enough,
coffee in the ****
grinding, dripping...percolating
but what I see is
contrast and
definition
appliance white
stainless
steel chrome gleaming,
walnut wood cabinetry warming in
Vermeer sunlight window in-streaming,
a Chagall and Botticelli duet,
freshly filtered
thru a Manhattan sky
and flesh,
freshly filtered
flesh
is not a Crayola color,
or
if it is,
it's more a spectrum,
than a single shade
but this moment morning
flesh is more realized,
as if recognized for the first time,
by a newborn old timer,
who senses the
comprehension tension of circumspection
circumcised differentiation,
flesh knowledge gradation gained
this poem,
a first attempt at
painting a ****
in words
appreciating task enormity,
for there are currently
insufficient words,
too many striations,
all cannot be straitjacketed to the
vocabulary palette
this then,
but my first definition of many,
of
flesh
so many canvasses,
so many undiscovered shadings
awaiting
****** recognition definition,
composition
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
The snip-snips
halo my shoulders
in curtains
Ever-changing colorations
striations
maculations
depending on your mood
either flat as a newly paved ramp
or as ***** as Friedman
You took a class on this
you tell me
adjusting your headband and baring your teeth
your version of a smile
I steel myself against the guillotine
It falls to the ground in leaves of auburn
going against the nature of winter
and longevity
(there go four inches
off my life)
You lean in
boing the spring beside my face
inhale and ask me
what is my conclusion?
as your panda colored drapes swish by my cheeks
Sometimes it smells like cinnamon
or the cactus flower oil you bought that one time
and sometimes I get nostalgic and remember what it was
before I let you touch it
(autumn, soap, and vanity)
but now mostly it smells like one thing:
smoke.
And phantom pain.
I thought you were an expert.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:44 PM UTC
And the knowledge of the hedgerow plant, I found embedded in leaf veins ... like in mine, etched along blue lines of a notebook. In the ripples on the remnants of water that pooled, before the mudflats claimed them are the striations of ol'butot near Naivasha. His stories tell of caves, a gleaming obsidian of a pre historic introspection. Do forty day fasts suffice to exorcise the springs of sulphur or the forced baptism of a flash flood washing six souls to Hades ? The sun glinted at me through a narrowness of fate, a gorge of interminable seconds and I marvelled at the strata of time in a warp, for it blurted out a moan.
Love spoke in nuanced layers of molten flow that crawled to stillness. Can I not say that stone speaks? A couple of hundred years back in time, self titled discoverers had seen land that had not been unseen by the thousands who lived for thousands until then. So yes, the strata spoke to me, like the striations in the leaves and the lines that were everywhere telling stories of interminable seconds. Time grooves like a death valley in an engraving, etched like a memory of that which has never been, ripples on sand, circles on water,
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 10:49 AM UTC
Blue haze is in the air at dusk
Wet dew descends on grass,
Sunset’s red striations touch
Horizon’s clouds of glass
A heavy silence permeates
With the settling of the day,
And clouds of starlings flock to roost
With nightfall underway.
The homestead paddock’s horses
All graze quietly in the gloom
As evening light turns purple red
To a distant blackbird’s tune.
A golden leafage carpetry
Is spread across the road
And the farmer trudges through it
homeward bound, beneath his load.
The cottage lights are glowing gold
As daylight dwindles now.
The softly spiraled chimney smoke,
The lowing of the cow,
The leafless alder branches
Stretching to a sky of stars
As the chill of late Autumnal
Celebrates the birth of Mars.
Marshalg
In the Autumn leaves
Victoria Park Tunnel
24 April 2010
Apr 23, 2010
Apr 23, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
Fowl meadow grass - Glyceria striata - the striations
on the lemma. Drooping rachis
a weeping willow of a grass.
Recurring periwinkles, myrtle, Vinca.
Helicopter petals. Evergreen leaves.
Escaped from gardens, alien or native?
A little further by the spruce stand
a new mustard, cuckoo flower - Cardamine -
with pinnately compound leaves. What a find!
A good day turns bad.
After you've died, one of them dogs digs up your grave.
You may sit in the rain and think.
Maiden pink.
The dark circle inside the flower
a g-string or garter.
O to fail well. To lay low. To live long.
To run slow. Feel the hill. Pressing down.
Do less. Until one thing's done well.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
Twin peaks pierce the sky
air of my reality twines
around their reaching heights
Eddies of stone slip under
my breath-blown snow
and winding clouds slide
into each fold and crevice
as I search for the path to
fiery gold striations
living in the center seams
But I have to breathe
and the caverns give way
to narrow passages
that condense my breath
suffocating into stillness
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
Perhaps all I missed
was lightning-quick to some,
wrapped in a glance of derision.
But in my gaze, you were
chimerical , wonderful,
the one to complete the puzzle.
Now I see the ragged edges
and frayed ends of your strings
and wonder how I ever thought
you'd be the one to tie things together.
The colors slinked from
my tear ducts in striations and I knew
I knew
all along you should have appeared grey.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
Cream and Red striations
wind along the wall
In places dirt obscures them
still I heed their call
to follow twisting passages
unending canyon hall—
Yet parched map lines waver
heat bends and turns the air
here I am left breathless
and thirsty in my stare.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 4:39 AM UTC
HARD Issoft, nearly almost always
to phalanges strung in distinct feminine howling
striations pressed on all the everywhere of
cobbled mucous enunciated with thick muscles bent
on masculine bones packed slightly tight
and i'm **** lungs bunching across the varied consistent
folds of your open naked mouth
that i sting in everfor
a hideously beautyfull beAst
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
Transient action
I wonder if he wanted to
Geometrically pinpoint constellations
Pastel hues in a camouflage fashion
Springtime daisy blooms
What wicked way comes
If she thought she could auto not
It was a choir singing harpsichord
In street trash gutter subterfuge
The tops of trees swayed in the winds
With the gated cage striations
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 7:43 PM UTC
a clay coloured mug
with the dregs
of now-cold coffee
swirling with bits
accumulated dust
and a fallen fly
left on the side
it needs to be washed
but will be ignored
time and again
each time i pass by
because of how
it is stained;
not by the rings
lining it's inner surface
from top to bottom
with striations of brown
but because of
the lipstick smudge
on its outer edge
a sign of her presence
of all the memories
that a smear of red
can conjure
and a reminder
that she will
be home soon
Jul 4, 2025
Jul 4, 2025 at 10:07 AM UTC
I think not to write
any more love poem
her strands of silver hair
face's blossoming striations
and sunset pinks on her earlobes
rekindles a flame
that begets
one more love poem!
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
White striations stack up on skin
neatly horizontal parallel lines,
your corrugated left arm that bears witness
to a right handed brain and I'd
forgotten that as I see you, as you see me,
and I didn't know you'd kept a piece of me.
How could I have known that you'd be casual,
twirling that piece around your index finger,
slinging it over your shoulder as a summer jacket,
not needed for warmth, or that I'd feel it.
There's a tattoo on my **** that used to spell out your name,
and now I wonder if you can still picture it.
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 2:21 AM UTC
*In my thoughts
you mimic the phases of the moon—
the waning gibbous tonight only reminds me
that you are 68.4 percent away from disappearing —
You will be back again, though,
shining luminously into my darkness
and your beauty will hypnotize me as it always does—
(the striations in your eyes carry spells
of which I am much too susceptible to)
you will dictate my every emotion— just as
the moon dictates the tides in the ocean.*
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
Oct 2020
Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.
Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.
This is a poem of humans, regardless of our natural multi- flavored striations, that tend to over-define us, thus separating, instead of celebrating commonalities.
Like most things we enjoy, our five senses are the gateway to pleasure, even the pleasure of friendships. They act in concert, a symphonic interplay that reenforces and heightens so that in combination they create a whole greater than a single sense could provide singly.
This is on my mind this week, as I wrestle to understand the meaningful possibilities, the limits of friendship.
Poets form bonds without hearing each other’s voices.
Poets connect despite geographic distances that makes grasping each others sinewed arms, caressing the softness of hard cheekbones, without ever having been granted the unique, all encompassing satisfaction of embrace, hugging.
Poets sometimes can hear but not see each other’s words.
Poets sometimes can see/read each other’s words, but never hear them voiced aloud in the authors own, true voice.
Poets sometimes cannot smell or taste each other’s words, though it can take a poem to another, higher sensory level of coloration.
And yet, a bond so strong forms that defies the conventional limitations of the physical. Should we share such a bond, them you know it, no need to ask for confirmation.
Words, can be gifted, without teleportation, even when and if the bridge of a shared spoken language is not extant.
This is nothing short of miraculous.
Just like friendship.
All my wrestling to true comprehend this state, for naught, for the miracle of words is like the color of water. Universal, invisible, but so varied, that it too bridges and is shared by every ! human body regardless of any human shape, color, form of the billions conceivable.
But wrestle I do nonetheless, for the pleasure of this (non?)soluble problem that both creates queries & quenches simultaneously, so I break off this thinnest wafer to share with you, offering this notional:
All humans are poems.
All poems are human.
Solve this poem for human.
(And ignore the wet spots of my watery, clear tears staining this poem).
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 7:32 AM UTC
A pine forest is the hand,
The soul of the palm fans out in fingers
Like the clayey striations of the sun.
The forest has no sound but the bonebreast
Wandering round of a similar hand,
All but shut now except for the unspoiled nest
Of browning needles and the ancient realmless mound of love.
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC