"subsiding" poems
Let me slide my velvet tongue
up and down
the insides of your milky way
until I find my path
that leads the way
to yours heavens
bet you moan the whole way
One soft touch
and your ambisions slipe away
your body trembles
as my fingers play;
high notes, low on your body
silent screams slowly slip away
our bodies
press their luck
like human nature,
its in our nature,
to play that way.
Our bodies colliding
deep inside, I'm subsiding
my hips bucking,
yours riding mine,
my fantasy
you and me
in Ecstasy.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
1241
The Lilac is an ancient shrub
But ancienter than that
The Firmamental Lilac
Upon the Hill tonight—
The Sun subsiding on his Course
Bequeaths this final Plant
To Contemplation—not to Touch—
The Flower of Occident.
Of one Corolla is the West—
The Calyx is the Earth—
The Capsules burnished Seeds the Stars
The Scientist of Faith
His research has but just begun—
Above his synthesis
The Flora unimpeachable
To Time’s Analysis—
“Eye hath not seen” may possibly
Be current with the Blind
But let not Revelation
By theses be detained—
11.2k
At the edge of the Waterfall
My motor gone the boat drifted faster and faster.
At the edge of the waterfall as I approached the falls
helpless hopeless I thought of my life subsiding
to words and no friend message or hopes to send my life
summed to press me quickly but no time for tears in my eye
I am afraid for soon I may die.
But what the hell I lived a good life everything
I wanted with very little strife.
What may lie at the bottom of the falls as I drift closer to the edge.
The tension grows it may all soon an I suppose
I think back to a time when everything was so sublime
and peaceful and free.
I know its time so please lord take me
I will be pleased to meet you and gaze upon
your face I will know that I with your heavenly grace.
So over the edge I fall and fall and fall.
I thank you lord it is over That's all.
So the paramedic says you're lucky to be alive so somethings
glimmers inside my head with St Peter Jesus and God
I'd be better off dead.
For I have a broken pelvis and life will be full of pain.
So St Peter Jesus and God do look fine.
Check with me at a later date, some other time.
https://vimeo.com/27129652
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
In a midwinter night’s dream
i found myself lost again,
or was it even this year ?
It may even go back farther
than yesterdays out of reach,
older than an ancient pyramid stone
Before the rebirth of past life deposits,
unborn orphaned motherless sediment,
flotsam of the ages adrift,
unknown for more than a thousand years
... waiting for so long to see beyond the bounds
High atop a slippery edge-cliff
i clung ―
Searching for a deeper understanding
of who i am;
Roosting like a starving bird of prey
with a broken wing
born alone ... holding on
With a fear in his eyes
that only i could comprehend
Staring way down deep in the pith,
into an internal pitch black abyss,
just begging to see beyond ―
Mindful it's so hard looking
into the eye of a storm
Intimately parsing the recurrent source
of reigning pain
Where the perpetual fog of isolation dwells;
an inversion, preventing dispersion
of the nimbus cold and dark
In the darkness, there bides a suffocating
emptiness,
A swelling silence what loudly knells,
leeching through a perennial ache
An abating voice within hollers unheard,
invisible as a bitter cold wind howling
relentlessly through the hollow pang;
Echoing the subsiding say
(squeezed out) ... of an orphaned soul
deep beneath the light
Awakening to realize ― once i was alive
and
i could feel me holding on to you
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
On campus
the morning rain is subsiding
while the cool air is still flowing
a live band starts to play
in front of the library
beneath some trees
sweet and beautiful melodies
to promote a ‘happy relax’ theme
while my fingers tap to the beat
a familiar face
appears and sits
between the band
and my seat
indeed a pleasant surprise
but I should leave soon
a revision class is starting
should I stay or should I leave?
ah what a rare chance it is
to find the heart
where it wants to be,
I should stay
yet the tuition class
is where I ought to be
I should go
torn in between
I look up
to the streaks of light
slipping through
the wet foliage,
it then occurred to me
don’t think too hard
just enjoy the stay…
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
Meandering like its canals
Venetian streets sing underfoot.
Who wore away the stone cobbled streets?
Who walked down to the shore?
Who gazed out at the Adriatic?
Who's dreams were lost in Venice's stream of streets?
Licentious lovers loved in Venice's streets, kissed on her bridges,
Crossed under by gondola and over by foot.
Proposed at the piazza San Marco.
Kissed, while the Grand Canal wound her way down.
Down into the sea,
where the menace that is the world, Venice shuns.
Rialto, Doge, Basilica, St. Marks, pigeons!
All evoke that lagoon city of streets.
Originally refugees, incolae lacunae ("lagoon dwellers")
Venetians, gave not only a place for the dispossessed,
but a place for the world to see, feel and taste.
Art, war, politics, commerce, spice and silk.
Venice with her ribbon of streets, alleyways and bridges
saw the Renaissance, the crusades, and the Black Death.
Glassware, paintings, sculptures, religion, refugees all
synonymous with that floating city.
A city returning to the water she arose from.
Subsiding with grief as she drowns in elegant decay.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
Hand in hand
We float across this icy land
Stiff and stumbling you take my hand
Through clouds we fly
But never land.
Nightclub atrocities to background melodies
With you beside me
The coldness Is subsiding.
Though here for another
We found each other
With a dashing smile and blue green eyes you steal my heart
No longer floating
But now, we glide
Through skies of blue and red
Through seas of deepest green
Just touching the water
We hold one another
I believe my love has been found this afternoon.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
I just woke up on a train I shouldn't be on
I'm stuck in this seat,
To the left there is no one
To the right, there is just my shadow
How peculiar to have a shadow when there is no sun shining through the train
The windows are tinted and the sky outside is murky
I can see the land around me is barren with no greenery
My legs are starting to ache from sitting so long and I feel a fiery rash spreading on my chest
the pattern is floral, like carnations in bloom
My chest is swelling up to my throat
Something is expanding in my chest, stretching and burning
Something familiar but foreign
And just like that a carnation bursts through me completely disintegrated. In my lap I try to put the pieces together
Stuck in this seat I take out my mirror and look at the hole where the carnation lived
Deep inside, something the size of a petite ruby, little and plump was beating.
Louder and louder I could hear it in my ears,
the swelling is subsiding around my neck but I don't think I'll be free of this chair for a long while
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC
To love the man
And love the woman
I find it so frustrating we are not all like this
Why do we deny our feelings
Why do you hide as straight
I often don't know the orientation of the person I am speaking with
And why does it matter
What implications does it have anyway
Am I ****** for loving
For caring and caressing
For confiding and subsiding
I feel no restraint
I feel no need to hide
I am open and proud of who I am
Bisexual
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
I pace the sounding sea-beach and behold
How the voluminous billows roll and run,
Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun
Shines through their sheeted emerald far unrolled,
And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold
All its loose-flowing garments into one,
Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun
Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold.
So in majestic cadence rise and fall
The mighty undulations of thy song,
O sightless bard, England’s Mæonides!
And ever and anon, high over all
Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and strong,
Floods all the soul with its melodious seas.
2.4k
Distant shadows,
Traveling into the absence of light.
Illuminating a pathway of sorrow,
Imagining the beauty of Helen’s sight.
Diving into the abyss,
Searching for lost remains.
Encountering a series of melancholic words,
Reliving one's past fate.
Salvaging sunken letters,
Written in Cephalopod ink.
Subsiding into Davy Jones' locker,
In quest of the skeleton key.
Pursuing the Sirens voice,
Inducing a tidal wave.
Awakening to disillusion,
Anchoring hope to reality once again.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 10:03 AM UTC
Subway strolls to unending destinations
Runaway bride to subsiding designations
I stroll and begging aint my solution
A solve to the query not a conclusion
No ticket no money
No money no ticket
Train rushes from mile to miles
No ticket no money
No money no ticket
The pain rushes from my mouth
My pockets so bruised they hide away
******** society telling me how to lead a life
I lie, I am alive and bubbly inside, cant lie
Take away that submissive robot you knew
Train train slow down the pace
As I jump of the carriageway of slates
Train train lower my taste
As I forever I get lost in the rush of lust
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
Her terrace was the sand
And the palms and the twilight.
She made of the motions of her wrist
The grandiose gestures
Of her thought.
The rumpling of the plumes
Of this creature of the evening
Came to be sleights of sails
Over the sea.
And thus she roamed
In the roamings of her fan,
Partaking of the sea,
And of the evening,
As they flowed around
And uttered their subsiding sound.
1.9k
i look at the clock
4am, another night
it's clear i'm not getting any dozing hours for myself
yet i still have to rise in two hours for class.
in this moment, i only wanted to die.
be buried under the beautiful birches in the lonely cemetery
maybe i can get all the sleep i need when i'm dead.
my heart still aches for you,
the fatal craving never subsiding.
the glowing red numbers burn into my eyes, once again
i haven't slept very well since the last time we spoke
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
If only
we could start off with
some horrific argument,
the emotion subsiding.
We would curse less and less.
Words would fall back into our mouths.
Nothing to be forgiven or
forgotten
because it never quite happen.
We would hold each other
comforting hurts that
would always undo themselves.
Each kiss would make us
a little more giddy and
every day
you really would look
a little more pretty.
The way we touch
would be a sort of
un-touching
that would redefine anticipation
Every ****** intensifying,
escalating into that first feel,
first taste,
first breath of breathing
and then
finally
we would
walk backwards,
away from us,
it would feel
like we were
approaching something though,
like we might
care for one another
one day.
We would go away dreaming
the parts
we hadn’t quite discovered
before losing sight of one another
without any of the hurt or
remorse.
We would still be perfect somehow.
Loving in reverse
instead of backwards.
Michael L Sutter
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 8:46 PM UTC
Your gaze, as brightest stars in Milky Way
Your touch, warmest than sun rays
Your Voice, conch shell rhythm
Afar, yet nearest than ones heart
Your Being, ones shelter in stumble and fall
Cuddled asleep in your womb from worldly bawls
Your helpful hands stretched miles to foes or friends
Subsiding desires, what say of your kindness lent
O' son of Adam! worthy of such swaggering pride in this mud vessel
For as warm as fire for cold friends
Pure as water for their thirst to quench
But then, arrogate; how they call you, agreeing
None but the One revealed this highest being
O' naif son of Adam!
Rewarding oneself with noble note?
As a pharaoh who bestows
Remember the pledge and know the burden bore upon
Think you can repay with what makes you whole?
With all owned fortune, spirit or perhaps your very soul
Behold;
For what you claim yours, is not even owned
To Him it belongs,
To Him it returns
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
Three back and second from the left:
my home for period six,
a desk more scuffed and scratched than its parallel, footprint littered tiles.
Here, three quarters of an hour is a day for every minute,
where the name of the month is Algebra II,
and the year: 2009
multiplied by the square root of x
minus pi.
I have a front row seat to a bird’s eye view
of Josh’s back.
It is a russet landscape of rolling creases,
the ever changing dunes of the Sahara.
Tomorrow is Saint Patrick’s Day (God bless the Irish,
drowning it all in liquid ignorance),
and I hope to muffle the jaded sighs; the irritating pinches;
the variables
with a lush and verdant mountain range
subsiding to grassy plains
as Josh hunches—listening intently to his eraser—closer to his desk
(two back and second from the left)
to write the value of y.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
5 am in mid July
and the sun is raising
golden trails in sky
and in the pools, following the
golden signet's flaming
vapour trails which, in polka-
dotted summer spawn, calm
the water's satin, rippled peaks.
Subsiding and gliding
into the stillness of emerald pond.
The signets move to the glistening
side of the river bank,
shafts of light catching
the lens forging ghostly
golden sickles
which lengthen
amongst the dust hovering
aglow above silver cove
and English lagoon.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Soporific nightmare,
While I wander,
Beckons for me to follow.
Inviting cliff,
Of shattered scribe,
Dismisses my plain apparel.
Where is the escape,
If now is neither here nor there.
If then is just a dream,
Faltering in the dark.
My Nyctophobia,
Claims to be an excuse.
Residing in a subsiding sky,
In a silent ocean,
In the wings of the chrysalis,
Of my fallen butterfly.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
I was suckling the barrel
of my grandpa's favorite gun,
when Gloria strolled in,
head held high,
like a 12-story *****
"What the **** are you doing?"
"Nothin', sweets, I was just wondering about the taste."
Gloria mixed herself a Mt. Vesuvius,
unplugged the telephone,
turned on the tv,
dug her nails into my weary couch,
over and over.
I didn't ask how her day went,
she didn't call me babycakes,
we didn't touch,
I just watched as she changed channels,
sunk further into oblivion,
I traced my kneecap with
grandpa's gun,
it was something to do, I suppose.
"You know you got to get out," she finally said.
I looked like a suicidal ******* baptized in cobwebs,
and every word I threw at every guest teemed parasitic.
I hadn't left the apartment for awhile,
it seemed like every time I did, I would collide with
some enemy, and my bloodlust was subsiding.
I didn't like it to be so awfully one-sided.
"Hey, look at me," she demanded.
Maybe the neurons are crippled,
can't cross the synapse,
or perhaps it's this culture that
listens only to the false priest in its head,
but when no one else around you is living,
it makes the whole gig seem a bit pointless.
"Gloria, sometimes it's better just to die."
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 3:51 PM UTC
don't mention the pain
what service would that gain?
a simple cheesecake to share
to see if this goes anywhere
over the mountain, over the hill
back to the animals on the window sill
which leads me to here
in which she's sitting there
and she's fully aware, without a care
and this table top seems so vastly beyond compare
to any I've seen before through mind's open door
be it fiction or folklore
that delivers these visions of her form
and ****** contour, direct to my head
now beside her in bed, where days I have rested
a change in the weather, in flocks and in feathers
high tide in the seminal waters of the heart
subsiding with tall tales of false starts
but the rise rolls on again as it has
through thick & through thin, a quivering theremin
and so we begin, the song, the story, the count in
to counterfeit original sin
(you know what happened last time)
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
They say their is calm now,
smells of spent munitions subsiding.
Lying around and ferried under a different blue the viewers and listeners, the diners and walkers.
One witness speaks of the bodies so high his wife could not climb over,
another of explosions a block away.
Carnage the reporter says as a man mentions the sight of men in black entering a music hall with Kalashnikov rifles, him gifted a choice not to enter.
The news speaks of pierced body parts, an arm, a leg, a shoulder, so many dead, 120 the number that exist no more, rising, many many more the casualties of this next step in a new world war.
Flashes and bangs, whistles and booms, sirens scream as forces reign down.
Tears, shock, the misery on faces, much sadness heaped on a peace seeking nation.
We now know some say why they chose Paris, some claim it is the fault of the west.
Others of ignorance by intelligent beings that choose violence instead,of democracy, though democracy to them has lost its edge to a world full of capitalist cronies who themselves choose numbers over humanity, so's said.
We are left to pick up pieces of what is left behind, we will grow stronger in the face of adversity.
Hoping one day that the so called wise people are wise, seeing solutions instead of this continuous cycle of violence and death.
Nos pensées vont à tous ceux qui sont touchés, nous montrons la solidarité avec le peuple français et à leurs invités.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
Waiting
treat it as blessing
waiting
for the new happening
waiting
sets the longing heart beating
waiting
love is in the offing
waiting
soon the sun will be shining
waiting
next will be the rose's blooming
waiting
the storms will be subsiding
waiting
after the night comes the dawning
waiting
a lesson in self--humbling
waiting
love shall say the most wonderful thing
waiting
the finest chef is preparing
waiting
surely winter is followed by Spring
waiting
the book's best part will be telling
waiting
the heart and mind in expanding
waiting
the ultimate testing
waiting
the birth of a new meaning
only in waiting
shall be the self-being.
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 8:44 PM UTC
Wondering souls
All feeling so numb
Somehow my soul escapes from this destined hell
Lies and deceit
While far away menaces find a way to pry
All tempting fate
All the secrets are lies
Subsiding Pain
It throbs while it all slips away
Flowing blood drifts
Along with any of my self-consciousness
Looking away
While turning to hide
The sounds of sorrow
Theres a terrifying cry
Screech and scream;
a door of escape
Because once again you are tempting fate.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 8:08 PM UTC