"stubbornly" poems
The distant hollow of the high mountain pass
swallows the setting sun as it steals away southbound
behind the coastal mountain's tangerine sunset hued silhouettes
Mulberry plashed shadows pointing northward
across the evergreens outstretched dimming,
beneath the waning fade of each fleeting eventide
Sundown ebbing asunder the wafting daylight,
each gloaming of the day, helplessly a moment sooner past,
transfixed further south beyond yesterday's passing azure
The lazy days of summer escape unbounded,
nomadic as the sea I've seen sail away before;
evanescent as the beauty of the bloom summer days beheld
and the memory of the fragrance they exhale
The nebulous weight of the gravity is consciously denied
by the truths a human heart beholds
A moment’s epiphany afflicts like a rogue wave in a calm sea;
the only thing my heart ever wanted remains out of reach
Everything my heart needs consciously surrendering
to the poignant passing moment's beauty,
the falling sun at distance sets more suddenly now
Lost in the undeniable certainty
life's imminent season's change
Eyes drawn stubbornly from presence to a sky so far away,
knowing there'll be no restitution for the welling sense of loss...
A bitter sweet song mummers in the silence of the absorbing spell,
summer's sun stained pages of watermarked soul scribbles,
time tattooed reparation for the indelible ache
of a harsh grey winter loneliness
Perhaps too familiar, this whelming Déjà vu
that tears my soul; that tugs at these roots
but cannot sever their sacred grasp
But for now, eyes fixed to the sun's
inevitable tightening tether hence —
to wear weary each fraying thread's impending break
Each sunset leans a deeper angle southward
as it slips down through the firwood shadows;
illuminating other faraway latitudes
far beyond the distant horizon skies
The preordained continuum unfolding what will be ...
someone you used to know ... September 11, 2017 ... 7:30 PM
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
One day my brother and I walked the path to the Mango Tree
I was so happy to go see my friend the mango tree.
How ever my brother was not…
“What’s so great about a stupid ol’ mango tree it’s never done anything for me!”
“SHH!” I said scornfully “She has feelings too, and she has done much for you. She has given us her fruit to fill our bellies and shade for free.”
But my brother didn’t listen to me,
He stubbornly went and kicked the tree repeatedly.
And yelled “Mango Trees do NOT have feelings!”
The tree shook violently and out from under it’s leaves dropped a bright green mango SMACK right on my brothers head and he fell dead.
Another juicy plump mango dropped at my feet like the Mango Tree was thanking me.
I picked it up and sat beside my senseless brother by the Mango Tree while devouring my mango and enjoying the silent scenery.
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
Raindrops on golden hair.
They are brown spots, little spots
Scattered, wind blowing them
Left and right,
Towards her forehead, smooth
Save for two red bumps above
The eyebrows.
Towards her neck, little hairs
Standing, stubbornly, scornfully,
A protest against the
Rainy chill.
These freckles on her crown,
they are tiny constellations.
I want to join them up,
I want to find Orion,
Trace my fingers against Lepus,
Understand the lines of Indus,
But I can't.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
I don't know much of anything about life or love or the grand "meaning of it all," but this I know: I hate the constraints society places upon us, ropes gathered up to knot relationships, tie them up and place them all in nice neat little packages with a cute presentable bow on top. We're supposedly in the "honeymoon phase" right now and we joke about how we'll know when it's done, when the real stuff has begun. But sir, the way I've spread my scars open, reopened all those old wounds for you to discover, evaluate, and assess, I refuse to believe none of this is the "real" stuff. Sure, maybe one day we'll have an actual, honest-to-goodness argument where our mouths become cannons for the shots we volley back and forth. But I can't believe, stubbornly refuse to even consider there will be a day I'll look into those emerald eyes of yours and not fall utterly in love all over again. I can't imagine a morning of waking up and not being grateful to have you next to me. Maybe love isn't constant perfection, and there's no way that every single day will be a dreamland fantasy, but maybe, just maybe when you've found a forever kind of love there isn't a "honeymoon period" at all. Maybe it just is, and that's enough.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Superheroes inspire us all,
superheroes make us marvel.
Superheroes are adored
from Beijing to Washington D.C.
But superheroes don't wear capes,
they wear a '96 Olympic shirt
and loose-fitting pants
you would never catch me in.
They don't have x-ray vision,
they've worn glasses
for as long as you remember.
They cannot fly,
and yet they seem larger than life.
They never seem to lie,
and they still say "I love you"
in the exact same way
almost sixty years after they bound it to eternity.
They don't have super-strength,
but they are your super strength
and they lift you up
until you can do it on your own.
They seem invincible,
but life has a way of reminding you
that even Superman has Kryptonite.
They are stubbornly steady
even when the bill of health
isn't clean.
Just as they are your strength,
you feel your aching mortality
when you find out
even superheroes get cancer.
Yet somehow,
after their greatest battle is fought,
there they are in all that remains
spreading an unyielding light
upon whoever sees them soaring by.
We wear an "S", a bat,
or even a spider
to pretend that we are our heroes
and emulate their image;
but I won't wear that old shirt,
or those terrible, worn-in jeans.
Instead,
I'll harness that unbreakable spirit,
and maybe one day
I'll be a superhero too.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
Deep down in the inhospitable gloom
Monterey Canyon welcomes an expectant mother
Unnoticed in the distance a whirring sound
and two parallel laser beams
Miss Cellania finds a nook
That instinct suggests is right
A place to nest and brood
A place to guard and wait
1.4 kilometers up a research institute
Guided the unmanned submarine
Correlated masses of data
Stared at live video feed
A unique event unfolded
Capturing such a moment
in this dark abyss
Clinging to a vertical rock
Her precious babies waiting to hatch
Her final duty to
Wait
Wait
Wait
Wait
Wait
Protect from predators and the icy cold
And so she began the
Inky black wait
Detached
Alone
The research crew returned later that year
Miss Cellania dutifully kept her vigil
They returned again month after month
Still she stubbornly stuck to the task in hand
The months turned to years
And still she protected her unhatched young
Clung to the same vertical spot
With nothing to eat
Alert, defensive
Motherly
Patiently waiting
Wasting away
Waiting
Waiting
Untill
F i f t y t h r e e m o n t h s l a t e r
Four and a half years
Finally her wait ended
With a flurry of independent life
Then death.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
When I look into the mirror
And stare at my own reflection
I see a stranger sneering at me
I see the patch of dark around my eyes
I see my hair going grey
I see the blotchy skin and wrinkles on my face
It all makes me think
How rapid is the flight of youth
Once I was a bubbly girl
Full of charm with dreamy eyes
The golden vistas cheered my heart
In my dreams I scaled to touch the skies
Love vibrated every nerve
But now a sad change has come over
It all makes me think
How rapid is the flight of time
Once I thought how bright and sweet was life
Agile were my movements, could walk miles
Fatigue I never knew, supple limbs never ached
Life was a roller coaster ride
Today when I look at the young
With wind in their skirts and sunbeams in their eyes
I see the stark change that years have brought
And wonder how rapid the onset of old age is
Though my beauty has burnt away
And my bones have a brittle grate
Still I would like to hold on stubbornly
Looking at each day for what next day brings
As I still have a hopeful heart
And wish to embrace life as it comes
To make it a sweet labor of love
So I ‘rage, rage against the dying of light’!
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
at three times the speed of sound the SR-71
was so fast it didn’t need to hide, but when
I met you we were slower, metal walls covered
in black reconnaissance paint, sonar silence.
blackbird, shy
sometimes you bit your lower lip, or my
eyes drowned, and we looked down and I cursed
my stubbornly earthbound feet, but blessed
be the stars that crossed for us to meet.
blackbird, cry
under the cozy cover of quietly building-up time
we moved on. when the back of your hand
brushes my face it slowly lifts another brick
of something sturdy into place.
the way your palms get clammy with excitement
when you point out planes coming out and in,
the way your eyes light with joy and nervousness
at my reaction is how I feel when I lean over your shoulder
and point out jupiter in the sky.
blackbird, dry your eyes
the hello was slow, but goodbyes move
faster than sound. we finally found saturn
and then time ran out.
standard procedure for the SR-71
in the event of a missile lock-on
was to continue being
the fastest thing in the sky.
blackbird, fly
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
All through the night
Heartburn kept him sitting up
Stubbornly refusing
To read the signs:
Indigestion...
Heart attack...
Hiatal hernia....
Indigestion...
Hernia...
Heart attack...
Heart attack..
Heart attack.
By five, he agreed...told Mom
Baking soda wouldn't work.
His son came in from checking calves,
Worrying over the kitchen light,
Surprised to see his dad
Still sitting on the couch.
At, "I guess we could go to town,"
Son and wife moved into action.
"I need some help to dress," he said.
His helplessness filled them with dread.
First, some socks, but wait....
The nails were long, unkempt.
"I haven't been able to bend that far,"
My brother took Dad's feet in hand,
Cut the nails,
Wondering how he'd failed
To see how fragile, pale, old
This man we loved and feared
Had somehow suddenly become.
There probably wasn't time
To trim Dad's nails,
What with the heart attack,
And all.
But one should never head to town unkempt...
An old familial rule...
And one should cut one's own nails...don't even ask...
Another family rule....
And last...
Father has the last word...
The rule that kept him home all night,
Instead of calling 911.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
the walls you've built
were made of stubborn bricks
and were very high
but i will take down
one brick at a time
though it would not be easy because you're just as stubborn as the bricks
but i won't give up
because i am stubbornly in love with you
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
Dying--you wouldn't do that to a cat.
For what is a cat to do
in an empty apartment?
Climb up the walls?
Brush up against the furniture?
Nothing here seems changed,
and yet something has changed.
Nothing has been moved,
and yet there's more room.
And in the evenings the lamp is not on.
One hears footsteps on the stairs,
but they're not the same.
Neither is the hand
that puts a fish on the plate.
Something here isn't starting
at its usual time.
Something here isn't happening
as it should.
Somebody has been here and has been,
and then has suddenly disappeared
and now is stubbornly absent.
All the closets have been scanned
and all the shelves run through.
Slipping under the carpet and checking came to nothing.
The rule has even been broken and all the papers scattered.
What else is there to do?
Sleep and wait.
Just let him come back,
let him show up.
Then he'll find out
that you don't do that to a cat.
Going toward him
faking reluctance,
slowly,
on very offended paws.
And no jumping, purring at first.
Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Joanna Trezecia
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
This burning in the eyes, as we open doors,
This is only the body burdened down with leaves,
The opaque flesh, heavy as November grass,
Growing stubbornly, triumphant even at midnight.
And another day disappears into the cliff,
And the Eskimos come to greet it with sharp cries--
The black water swells up over the new hole.
The grave moves forward from its ambush,
Moving over the hills on black feet,
Living off the country,
Leaving dogs and sheep murdered where it slept;
Some shining thing, inside, that has served us well
Shakes its bamboo bars--
It may be gone before we wake . . .
3.3k
I truly have
a love...hate...
relationship
between
believing...
what I know
and...
knowing
what I believe...
Symbiotic...
and toxic...
It's a detailed.
enigma...
My curse...
My passion...
an ever present pull...
with stubborn intent
often directly opposed
To the path
which I am on...
When I was much younger
I developed a systemic
and purposeful mission
to design the person
I was to become
I had carefully weighed...
tested and mapped out
my "edges"
finally setteling on
habits, personalities
and a type of lifestyle...
this allows me
a precarious balance...
between honor, appearances
and fair exchange ..
friendship, acceptance and fun...
Something rare
during my colorful
and...
then recent
childhood...
Like I said...
young...
and well...
Once I found my path...
I stubbornly believed...
That no others...
existed...for me
Really young...
...hee hee hee
As we all know...
life happens ...
...and I rolled
and flowed...
and always seed to manage
But I didn't bloom...
I just became really good
at being me.
Just missing...
a really good second...
again
waiting...to become...
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
If only you’d done the washing up
I wouldn’t be slamming plates into the sink
Half sobbing
Half seething
Stubbornly burning my hands on water that’s too hot
Angrily scrubbing at three day old tomato sauce
And bits of chips and jumbo sausage that have welded themselves to the plate
If only you’d done the washing up
We could have *** later
But we can’t now
Because I’ll be too tired and bitter after doing the washing up
Again
Do you think I like washing up?
Don’t you think I’d rather be sitting on the sofa
Watching crap on the telly
Safe in the knowledge that the sink is empty
The plughole is clean
And the worktops are sparkling
I bet Beyonce doesn’t have to do the washing up
I bet she has a dishwasher
If only you’d done the washing up
You wouldn’t need to call me childish
For getting worked up over something as silly as the washing up
And I wouldn’t be standing here wondering
If you’ll ever really get it
“It’s only the washing up” you say
Exactly
So just ****** well do it next time
********
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC
Swinging higher rising from green to a cloudy sky.
She would give up her feet in exchange for flight.
The day closes up shop, the doors locked, she finger paints
rain clouds in the windows, the light of midnight traffic slipping
by glimpses of golden and marmalade light. In a slow blink she sips
black masala tea with cream and sugar with a flicker of melancholy she imagines
the milky light polluted sky and the few stars stubbornly shimmering.
The palms of her hands burning the back of her eyes sweating
strained visions of flowering deserts of hungry sunflowers and parched succulents
she feels the edges of depression creep around her waiting for the last sigh of joy.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 8:47 AM UTC
it was a day of sentences
snapped clean off at the root
and pulled from my mouth
like wisdom teeth
until i had none left
and i was out of words
out of breath
it was a day of stones
clinging tight to the walls of my throat
pebbles in my shoes
and boulders reduced to ash
slipping through my fingers
not enough to hurt anyone
but still stinging my eyes
it was a day of pink cheeks
not the tipsy, happy pink
but rather the wilted kind
inadvertently displaying
the red inside
it was a day of clenched fists
hands working overtime
dancing some twisted dance with no purpose
wringing, singing
an anxious song
as i stayed stubbornly in my seat
resisting the urge to dance along
it was a day of a need to run
into the bushes, through the woods of the crowd
and out to the other side
to the greener grass
and the cloudless sky
of a few minutes of alone time
it was a day of short poems
short fuses
all moments lived while the clock just ticked
and the bomb never went off
i'm still waiting
it was a day of waiting
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
Eyes in hues of green and gold
Mesmerizing flecks to which
My gaze was stubbornly fixated
Crimson lover and ebony spirit,
Why did you me so
Hungry and bereft?
We met one cold December hour
And your voice indelibly painted
An awe-inspiring tapestry
Upon the hollow corridors
Of my heart
You said Yes
I remember the very gasp
Even the nuances of your
Angelic voice
I have committed to memory
But nothing cripples your will
Like the magnetic pull
Of a golden-tressed *****
Oh, how you covet,
How you steal and you gorge
You pummeled me down
Into an abyss of no return
But when my ashes are strewn
Across the vast fields
Of God's Heaven
They will not remember me
Or my mangled remains
For I am just another victim
Of your sagacious convictions
A singular pearl
On a long string of beads
So pure but marred
A beauty but scarred
They will admire
And exalt to the skies
They will bellow their song
To the thousands listening
But they will also weep
A funeral march so poignant
Dew drops from their eyes
Awaken the fallen
And with them I rise
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
This struggle inside me
How it tears at my soul
Pulling me towards her
Like screams from a sword
While he stubbornly digs in
Always ready for a fight
Showing off her insecurities
With a masculine delight
But when they both collapse
Exhausted from the fight
A magical moment happens
And harmony resides
Her essence feels so strong
And it quickly flows within
But soon he will be back again
And another struggle will begin
by Lj Mark 2015
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
I hear your shuffling footsteps right outside my door
I know what you seek with troubled heart and weary feet
Your trip has been long, draining your body sore
Come in, I've been expecting you... Finally we meet
You settle yourself, right there, opposite of me
Let me look at you... Let me observe just a little
I can see through you, read you like a book, almost instantly
You've come with resolve so frail, fragile and brittle
I know why you're here and the questions that plague
I know why you've travelled long, over land so far
I am aware of your dark secrets and truths so vague
You don't have to say... I feel the invisible scars
I shut my eyes as I summon the
powers of my ball
Let me recite my mantra to invite those who would come
I whisper things you may hear or not at all
Ahh... One has arrived, soon... Soon will arrive some
Looking into my orb with concentrated gaze
Breathe easy, Cracked One... Be not afraid of its sinister glow
You can see the energy surging in a torrential blaze
Rest easy, Lost One... Very soon it will all show
In one hand, I have my tarot cards on display
Don't be frightened when I begin to convulse uncontrollably
Of all the cards that fall, one would stubbornly stay
That one will have much to tell, together we'll see
I'm trembling now, remember... Be not wary
The card is now chosen, face down I lay it still
Take it but you may not understand the markings you see
I'll take it in my hand to make sense of it by feel
I have your card, now I must resume my chanting
You hear me speak in a language only known to a few
It may sound raucous, the words I'm mouthing
Be not startled, Broken One... We are almost through
It's time to close the ritual by touching skin with skin
Against your cheeks, you feel my warm touch
Look into my eyes and embrace the connection within
Now I know all, your eyes have revealed much
I have something for you... Now you must go
You look at me with confused eyes but still you must
Take this bundle... It contains all you need to know
Keep it safe, this parting gift to you I entrust
Leave now, don't take my next few words lightly
You must take heed these sacred words from lore
I say, *"Do not open till the end of journey"
"Open only when in house, behind closed door"*
I see you leave, disheartened by questions unanswered
Clutching the bundle, you slowly disappear in despair
I wish you well, dear Seeker... For all you've endured
Be safe and get home, you will find your answers there...
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 4:21 AM UTC
wary of sharp edges
magnets north to north
and south to south
our weariness abides
long the view through loves lens
seduced by wisping innuendo
cunningly untrue
stubbornly we here remain
the spark to see us through
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
a perfect, newly unveiled horizon line
ancient and promising
yet reborn as a newborn
to my industrialized eyes.
I haven’t heard sirens in days.
still, there is the hustle and bustle
of movement everywhere,
but not by people
nor Porsches and Escalades
and their infiltrating thick smog.
no inane chatter
and fake oohing and aahing
over Louis’ and who saw who.
no
here the possessions move
the so-called inorganic
the buildings, doors, and gates
yearning to be free
swaying, creaking
their tiny reins of confinement
too much to bear
for their free spirits.
taking their cue
from trees, plants, vines, leaves
which are overgrowing fences
and clambering over walls
a massive riotous uprising at a glacier-pace
to triumph over the bipeds
imagine the horror of the flora
at a sudden interment to La-La-Land
the hopelessness and oppression
at being trimmed twice a week
mutilated and then slaughtered.
no
they are the secret underground rulers
stubbornly proud but humble tyrants
mercifully loving their lowly subjects
feeling sorry for us
we who have been forced into
this unnatural industrial order
not their beautiful chaos.
and yet...
they lie in wait
patiently, silently
anticipating the day
when we throw up our arms in exasperation and relief
and acquiesce to their dominion
a return to times before times.
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 1:33 PM UTC
Her laughter pumps the gas, dumps the clutch shakes and rattles from each intersection
Her wet feet leave monster tracks long damp claws arching across the cement
Her hair grows brambles collecting thorns and twigs with the best of bushes
Her senses, corvid, snatching up dropped coins, pencils, paperclips
Her tongue unfettered, butterfly breath reels with snips of story and songs
Her eyes hold drops of honey, sticky sweet lashes follow the sun
sunflower cheeks blush cardamom on yellow velvet
glow butterfaced with dandelion kisses
Rough, regular under hand, stubbornly slate, unchanged unmoved.
if her soul is a garden there is a cinderblock there
holding down the sunflowers,
along with the grass at her core, it grows roots,
but no moss.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
Difficult to say it is a crisis of faith
Deadlock stubbornly cracked
Divide intensified with fact so backed
****** is truth, lost memory's wraith
"Who's to blame?" as so often "they" saith
Forget this daft idyllic hope, loyalty
To nothing has my life compared
And as most humans, no heartache spared
No limits to its reverence and constancy
As God shapeshifted, any form but royalty
Kings of Kings, my Makers, Lords on High
Omnipotent theories to query
Over verses I've traveled, all but Kashmiri
Reasonably these to view before bye-bye
Off I am to Pir Panjal, where I shall quake and die
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
*I'm tired of beauty
incessantly meddling in my affairs
luring me to venture outside myself
revealing hidden radiance within
disguising life's dismal undercurrent
reducing it to a superficial veneer
randomly appearing by surprise
stubbornly eliciting a smile
performing alchemy on the mundane
dousing my awareness in the elixir of life
beauty...
the pulchritude of spirit...that's all it is...*
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC