"substratum" poems
In a kingdom full of inclemencies my hubris does not fail me
Profuse and Fierce, Some may call me arrogant
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It's a recording of my failings.
'It's that amorality,' I muttered.
My hubris is my substratum towards my nescience.
It is that aspect that will lean me towards drowning in the sea of my own incoherent imbecility.
It's a deep program in my faulty code, a nightmare towards monks.
It's the ink on my arms, tattooed to my soul.
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It does not fail to show in my wording.
It's the ferry to sea, the net in the ocean.
It is limber as it is inventive, with every exception.
It has no ingenuousness, it is unlike modesty and threatens to surmount me.
It's a sandwich in which has caught every hitch of breath, it leaves me bewitched, no certain pitch that I can tell afore it chokes me.
It leaves no correspondence with those around me, too caught up in my own fantasies that I can no longer celebrate or verbalize felicitously.
Many times I wished that I preserved my receipt so that I could trade in my Hubris for something a little less mucusless for it is something akin to Judas, and I cannot utilize it for anything utilizable.
If I could somehow find a way that would lead me to a resilient recuperation. I would judge that to be more utilizable then this Hubris that encumbers me. No matter how many times I beat it down, it war's like a lion and a bunch of tourists on a safari.
If only this grotesque lion-like hubris was shot by the doter of a hubris poacher. Every generation would be gratified and they would find that it is much more facile to coerce without that unpleasant Hubris.
Of course, I suppose in a way hubris could be utilizable in some situations that required it. If I somehow found a way to trade my hubris for something like modestly and found that I missed my hubris quite dearly. I would laugh at my incoherent imbecility and perceive myself to be remotely mad!
These ravings of my hubris I'm quite sure because I found it so consequential to indite a poem of stark preposterousness. In a contingency like this, I suppose my hubris is getting quite polished, so sharply able to strike down any sense of modesty.
I conjecture this is the terminus of this arrangement, please omit my hubris for a moment. I suppose I should give you some tea afore I dose myself in a salubrious dose of radiation.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 11:01 PM UTC
Substratum
Beneath the surface there are blocks of time
a keep ticking ticker
investments in soiled identities that are loosing
clots of what never was.
There is treasure too, locked away in a nautilus shell
waiting for the call of the wild key
bits and bobs of let loose and fancy free
Also locked away is my familiar
azure blue and tonic green amiability
The 'cannot' telling is the buzzing round your
sailent (fears) ears,
like unused sails
slapping at thin defeated air strikes called
possibilities...
here
I avoid all contact
(you asked me to)
yet here
you display stagnent reaction
with absent mind
you forget the yesterdays
and how you long to hear
what you ask me not to say
absent now
both of us have decided in secret:
lock out the playful place
slide below the surface (substratum)
(we find) serendipitous angst, common place
cross our fingers behind our backs
as promises
will not fix our fateful syntax
Linaji
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:42 AM UTC
What is the substratum of each day
but mere
filler,
the in-between?
The contours roughly
pencilled in, we simply
flesh them out,
gamely connect-the-dots,
paint by numbers.
This, that we wake to
each day, that we reconstruct,
dumbly enacting
each scene, each encounter,
actors
simply wanting
to please, to cover the cost
of each curtain, the ushers
to soundlessly herd you out.
Every last one of us
apprentices, frenzied
cattle -
the grand performance,
back by popular demand!
Fodder for our
flighty
attention
spans, meagre
senses of self.
Nextstoppleaseholdhow
areyouicanhelpyouhere
ithinkineedfindeverything
youneededtodaygoodthanks
pillowed against the brute
fear
of boredom,
of silence.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
Together?
Want to watch the waves and the full moon rise above us
Want to watch the fire burn to smoldering ashes as we sit in the night
Want to watch the stars and realize how small we are
Want to love you forever
Together I want to watch the sky change rapidly from the bright blue to the purples and pinks that make the water obfuscous
Then to the darkness that can only be broken by a full moon
Want to listen to the winds, singing in our ears while our bodies are entangled in blankets of sand and fog
Want to watch the substratum of clouds lift to brighten the moon and stars
Want to slowly doze off in your arms, weighted with enchantment as the break of day embarks
Want to drift into the kelp....with all else behind us....
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 4:35 AM UTC
Soma
a pharmaceutical usurpation
some subjunctive psychedelic
noxious decoction
of the capital kind
wrought by unoriginality
a conjuring elixir
to ignite the material mind
Maya
will have you
if you don't recognize
behind appearances
is always a disguise
beyond the superficial
over what eyes can surveil
may entitle you to what is
to be entailed
Yuga
beyond the ages
beyond the sages
epochs and eras
multiplied to infinity
expecting some recourse
exponential beyond sanity
gauges of the cyclical planetary
Akasha
ubiquitous aether
all pervading
all invading
revelations' recordings
substratum of
then and now
rife marshaler of how
Ishwara
great atman
ultimate overseer
transcending all time
cosmic conscience
consciousness sublime
beyond everything
sight unseen
Samadhi
reign over me
the be all and end all
of life's raisons d'être
superconsciousness
enlightenments
bestowal
of divine grace and mercy
Gunas
by knowledge of these moods
this will allow you
ambrosia of all roads
in your journey ahead
to navigate solely
without flag or fail
through equipoise unassailed
Ahimsa
through this your lips
can no longer trespass
over your welfare
or the welfare of any other
true liberation
from human inebriation
true love for one another
Siddhis
they will misunderstand you
not being like the same
eschewing commonality
for the perfected mindscape
a narrowed perspective
to focus more completely
upon the rarest of views
Om
what can be said
of this holiest sound
that permeates all ethers
the skies and the grounds
Brahman of this plane
and all that surrounds
now perish all that confounds
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
A place in peace
that you can't tease
In the surrounding
you'll find yourself wondering
How great is God?
for He made a marvelous pod
Look up,and you'll see the sky;
and you'll awe,wow! how high!
Look east, you'll see the trees;
swaying back and forth through winds breeze
Substratum of orchids,you'll see through west
colorful petals,joyous to eyes,and be zest
Oh! and see the north, well-trimmed green grasses;
lads playing and beautiful lasses
And as we walk to south , to our standing old house
designed with Corinthian frieze
Holding my hand, my gray-haired spouse
together with me, build a treasury for years
But then I woke up;
And my friend said, wazzup?
Oh?That was just a dream?
I wish it would come true
Impossible may it seem;
But if it happens, I won't rue
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Abruptly introduced itself
at the midnight sanctum
in an immobilizing face to face -
The dark substratum
that is everyone's birthright,
infinitely intricate
ominous and exacting -
Taunting, "Think you can redirect me
with your petty conscious resolve?
I am in your dreams and habits,
your very brain stem,
every cell of your body.
Do you understand the power I possess?
Do you actually believe, for a heartbeat,
that you can keep a small
self-conceived candle
aflame?"
- fr
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
Happiness arrives
tries to find room
in my house
but is only a guest
so must leave someday...
Sorrow arrives
and occupies the
room happiness vacated
but can live until
someone else comes knocking...
But YOU
will forever remain.
My substratum,
even when the house
exists no more
You, who I dare to call mine...
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Twisting of beauty should not deform the idea, the beauty itself.
Why oh why do clouds of black, rain down on the subject of shame and pain?
Why can’t the weapon be materialized?
Why can’t the lies be realized?
Beauty is the best source of pain.
Take a thing high in glory,
Pure and pleasing,
Disturb the foundation,
And watch it fall.
The height lets it into the darkest hole.
Why is this so?
Why must what is made most magnificent,
Suffer from a subtle switch of substratum,
To break and bend hearts so badly beaten,
Until it becomes easier to drown in poison then,
To take a breath of oxygen?
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 2:23 AM UTC
The heart may sleep calmly
in a place where forest grows
the pureness and sharpness
of melancholic memory ride
suddenly guides you aback,
the silence of dropping blood
from the heart to the substratum
of a river's crystal hasty stream
and melt one with the universe.
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 5:24 PM UTC