"subsumed" poems
*i always imagine you so very graceful
through the masochists ordeal
a god form of supplication
seeing your face
in love
fascinated by shimmering kisses
that hurt, yet please
wet lips and sharp teeth
glamors that excite
cold blade licks dragged across
tender bellies
naval
buttocks
and flexed toes
stinging
then radiating outwards
wounds become lilies
mouth *******
tremulous weeping kisses
ecstatic cruelties
blood glitter sacrifice
your supplication
love pangs
i'm shaking apart over you
your countenance
a cascading dream
moved to tears of adoration
your limitless
yielding
like surrenders caress
an infinite communion
with fragile limbs
silky wrapped spools
innerness of desire veiled in a shroud
a faltering star that glistens crimson
nymph of purgation
ash volcanic
cells en-flamed with tongues that bite
subsumed in scented vapors
a confection of **** and ***
waves embrace ineffable shores
passed the discontinuity of life
I have the most immense feeling of love for you
am i not
the saint death
quietly following you
through life's labyrinth
innocuous
waiting humbly in the wings
i am all ache for you
a vice of kisses
a brief encounter
that eats your sight and senses
ushering you to immortal freedom
a swooning garland of fire that enlivens
the body electric
a mist of molecules
your tears intoxicate
i am new life with in you
budding embryo
that consumes its mother for nourishment
and saturates like dew drops
as it echoes through oblivion*
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
Eroding brick wall
all that remains
refracted, fading
fishermen shadow
red dawn’s early light
brackish still water
shocked violent green
seeps from the desert
to be subsumed
by an unrelenting sea
restless dreamers rise
muscle sturdy pangas
into the churning tide
seeking quicksilver
at the continental edges
returning boats ride low
the shrinking horizon
race to safe harbor
cold beer on ice
under palm palapas
in the restaurant
a young man
shows off tuna
half as tall as he is
to admiring tourists
like me, seeking
the deep, slow burn
salt, jalapeno, lime
a fitting end to this
unraveling dream
Pueblo Mágico
of “no bad days”
walls of contention
in a fractured land
will never separate us
one margarita, two
another raised in defiance
of those who would try
to confine and define
free-range spirits
the Pacific touches
this contiguous shore
from equator to pole
we could catch
a clockwise current
follow Polaris up North
arrive transformed
magnetically charged
disparate souls fused
together bound
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
Was it an illusion?
Words that trigger an attraction
A reply that lays a connection
Was it an illusion?
A look that exposes a sensation
A whisper that defines an emotion
Was it an illusion?
A touch that pushes a button
A kiss that captures a moment
Is it an illusion?
To transform words into reality
To turn moments into eternity
It is an illusion
When words are lost in silence
When affection is met with fear
When All is subsumed in memories
Whilst memories may fade
The illusion remains
We hope for those moments again
Poets love the illusion
Though Cynics judge us weak
We shall silence their mocking speak
Thank goodness for poets
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia)
~~~~
I am a draper,
by trade, by nature, by instinct;
a fling of one arm across her body,
while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles,
and even convulses,
to hold her tight with two, with both,
soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow,
the heat breeds unsweetened sweat,
and the snuggling impact,
is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles
numbing, deadening,
and ironical attenuation
this is my pattern,
how I address her,
how I dress her,
draping my contiguous,
drawing five fingers
upon her form,
reshaping her in her sleep,
the arm flung, there, and then
there,
to be hung,
at varied places across her body,
higher lower, above below,
but her face,
free and clear,
so not to interfere
with her sensory preceptors
and as I draw my pattern upon her skin,
her body whole,
listening her to indeterminate utterances,
to determine
which
pitter patter pattern
to which.
she feels best suited,
then,
I prepare my
invoice
for her,
for services rendered,
to present upon awakening,
demanding
in voice,
by her voice,
payment in words,
of her own chosen
amuse-bouche,
mmmm, will it be?
good morning my love?
hello you!
or just an indiscriminate
but yet,
a discriminating
sound of
having been pleasured
by unknown forces
in her deeper sleep, using her lips
to say, to hum, to sing,
a genteel unspecific
but, and yet, a
terrific,
deep from within
guttural remittance,
the sound of a delicious,
mmmmmming
greeting
a new equinoxal gale
of a refreshing fresh
birthing, fulsome
already satisfying
draping of the
day
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:01 PM UTC
When his eyes first fell upon her
She was choosing avocados
In the fruit and vegetable aisle.
And he watched how her thumbs lingered
On the base of the alligator pear
And pressed, maternally.
He feigned interest in the cabbages
Whilst sensing her delicate architecture
Through his peripheral gaze.
He thought that somewhere,
In real or imaginary life,
They would soon bathe together.
And when they did,
They soaked for years in secrets,
Details suffusing through their lips and arms,
Water-hole satisfaction and moonlit deserts
To make them feel they might have transcended cabbages
And be pervading a rhapsodic realm
They forgot their friends watching in greenery,
Subsumed by each-other,
They felt no need
To live in a world of relativity and apples.
Their love-traced sphere tightened around them,
Until it ****** at the edges of their skin
And wailed when they parted.
Tighter it grew, elastic dug into their humid thighs
Contorting their once harmonic bodies
That used to fit like crosswords.
And they each became ugly to the other
As the seconds ingested their perfection
And they bickered like flailing urchins
In a deep sea soiled darkness.
Decisions were made and paroxysms detonated
And they were taken back by their
Fungal friends with tissue offerings
And ethanol.
Time passed, and memories were binned
Periodically on tuesdays
Until neither knew the other
And they would pass in the supermarket
With no more than a quickened gait
And a silent thud in each ribcage.
But neither could buy avocados.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 12:18 PM UTC
being a poet is not planned
**~for Gabriella Garcia~
~~
*a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots
what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking
was he thinking?
that it was an ejection
that it was an ***********
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?
that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?
try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too
who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?
knowing well and full
now
the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas*
~~
upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
______________
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
consumed
sidetracked by cleanliness
you were
museum closes in half an hour
picture seat
picture seat
there you sat
subsumed
distract your mental mess
go there
sometimes the rain is just a shower
picture seat
picture seat
where you sat
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
blunt tips of bent cigarettes
were incisive as razors -
sliced wrists weeping
bright red sentences,
spattered unborn to blank paper
and turned into statues
so the dead would always remember
what they did,
never safe in the graves
in which they'd took refuge
but blue on blue
was ever her color;
blue on blues
seeping from old sins,
deep, hidden within spidery veins
that traced pale, soft *******
finally filling mute lips as she slept,
subsumed in oceans of color,
blues that gave stories, as waves to shore
subsided, reclaiming their pain,
and cleansed sand once more
What end to life!
a collection of furies like stone turtles
arranged on the mantle -
just a few dozen last words
tucked among ads for
Old Spice and Polident tabs
unread, used to line
litter boxes in Cambridge
or wrap fresh fish at Hay Market;
then, someone pausing to wave at the sky
missed saving the drowning woman
by years, if he'd tried,
finding questions in every answer;
child curled in hard lap of his mother,
her cold affections of words
blew from dead lips like old wishes
without tender touch or wet kisses;
but that life continued,
if lived only blue on blue
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 6:02 PM UTC
The night becomes you -
hair coiffed in fashion
illuminated eyes reveal attraction,
the scent of body oil
pervasive,
ambient music evolves
persuasive
savory rhetoric,
cabernet erodes my inhibition
no contrition, turn the ignition.
The night becomes you -
you wear it well
an amalgam,
ardor and insouciance -
redefining glamour,
ephemeral moments
dial down the sunlight,
I am slain - voice and accent
weave their spell;
black dust coat, white hat,
a pair of posh boots
they live to tell.
The night becomes you
rhyme scheme - lyrical poetry
sophisticated venue, table for two
ensconced, the
leather lounge,
similitude within difference;
undulation - cadences of
counterpoint -
poise and peril of duality
we inhabit the floor.
Postprandial, conversation extempore;
machinations of intoxicating discourse,
I could drink your words -
artistic milieu- beguiling imagery,
sonant susurrations
penetrate my being.
The night becomes you -
theoretical locutions
phrasing depth and humor,
undiluted amour, tensions resolve
frame by frame,
solidify the affair
and validate the rumor
subsumed in sequence, pulsating,
igniting the sapid interior flame
silver screen ending,
effusive reviews
two hearts collide and form one;
the cherub's arrow finds its aim.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
It is a terrible thing this flesh that wears us
Being makes us
Slaves to atomic thought
Particles possessing some consciousness
Dreams stream from the undermind
To undermine
All we thought we were
From the sub-atomic to the atomic
On into the protein patterns of our thoughts
Neurotransmitters flood and fulminate
Filling our minds with strange things
Receptor receiving impressions
Leave strangers believing instincts
Animals evolved to understand but ignore
The gifts we have acquired from millions years and more
A talent for analyzing then adjusting ourselves
And after the fact constructing a model
That makes continuity out of all of the chaos
Now most take it for granted
Become carbon copies cut in granite
They give in to the impulses
And waste said potential on fulfilling the illusion
The desire to be grander is subsumed
By their fear of non-existence
Which is what they become
Not after death
But as cogs in the machine
In a factory of robotic human beings
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Sable, the swallow rising
as it banks over the white conduits
of marrow in the body, rain
slashes through the honey locust,
along the long ellipse of its hunt
as savage dragonflies rise from stems
to cling, a deep sienna of doeskin tremors
over their sting, catkins,
an aftermath, melancholy to the skin
soaked in white calla,
its reticence assails
the sleeping orchards of the heart,
in its darkest sheaves,
to cleave apart the soft joining of lips
and silence me;
for eternity
is this moment,
and the light you give
cloaks me in a coat of flames,
the burnt locust of slaughter, taunt
the rubric of Christs hidden scriptures,
as I night,
the body, solely a vessel
of shadow, returning
through a field of windfall,
ripe with wasps,
echo you
in me,
a dream of a dream dream't,
in the dim recess of light
your lips close
like a sutra over mine,
a brutality of moments
ground out of thick pine,
as the fine agony
of cricket ballets rise
shivering, to stillness,
this silence is a lotus,
a blue psalm,
throttles the throat,
as a quorum of swallows
gather between the swathes
of sunlight and skewed shadows,
and lift as one body, subsumed
by our abandoned depths,
out of exile, you
have made me a homeland
of truant light and as I night,
lightning opens like scripture,
a black plea, poured over some sore refuge,
and so that I may never be restored,
cloak me in a coat of flames,
suffering an ecstasy of moments hardened in amber,
over the white conduits of marrow
in the savage body, writhe
a black throng of swallows,
assail the sleeping orchards of the heart,
in its darkest sheaves, to cleave
apart the soft joining of lips
and silence me....
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
At What Cost?
This Purchase of Our Future
*a thousand answers + variegated shadings, a summation:
∑
of millions layers of our owned chosen complexities,
so many possible outcomes, it makes infinite randomness
seemingly simpler than our googolplex crazy preposterous
notational choosings, our owned decisions which though false,
cause nothing is tandomn random except for love at first sight
it’s all just ******** we conditioned from pre-birth,
the expectations subtly subsumed into the woman’s womb,
overlaid by the ***** donors whisperings that you will be a
great third baseman, or a great bass player, or both, but
“your” fate, ha!
is anything but yours…
to purchase!
if you were born to live in a home with no heat, and water was
obtainable by walking 100 yards away, you would still be a
pianist, writing notes of plaintive need, grand desires, musical
words of agonizing delight just as when
you first blushed when the brain
connected yellow rays with a word,
sunrise,
and an experience was synapticaly imprinted,
that real things could be defined by an ordering of letters and sounds
and you were tongue burnt by a need so great
to collect these pleasurable things and put them in a right order
of your
peculiar
particular
personal
inherited inputted
design
=
and
you yet debate
what is my instrument,
knowing that the multiples of your fingers
are the engine of your existence,
and on any particular day they, your well connected perma-crew,
will pick which is the chosen one,
and
no matter which,
for you had nothing or little purchase,
it was coded in your pre-history
just as you prepare a transmission list
of your own,
when you daily first touch your face,
closing the sensory sensual connection tween
the ephemeral and the physical
and
the new combinations
that you will imprint upon
someone’s flesh,
that is your right,
that is you write,
that is what you were
predestined,
to
create
but,
(what the heck)
you get
to-pick the instrument of the day…*
(
that,
is your purchase, your only cost,
everything else has been
pre-paid
)
Nov 9, 2023
Nov 9, 2023 at 8:54 AM UTC
The loving puddle in the gutter off market street-- the one that fills with dirt and **** and damp newspaper, plastic soda cup, strange indecipherable Chinese pamphlets with bleeding characters. She smiles at the sun and renders its visions on her face, and with great tension attempts to demonstrate her willingness, her blushing consent to being totally subsumed by its whims. Of course she trembles at the diurnal stampede of feet, but is not afraid-- for she too speaks in eternity. She has evaporated before-- she has kissed the incessant sky over Marrakesh in the soft morning and dreams of the sparkling mountainsides in the night, when she is divided by callous rubber tires or cast below by competing distant rains. Yet she has always found her way back home; Nestled in the subtle indentation of road besides the brickway near Battery.
"Dewdrop, let me cleanse
in your brief
sweet waters . . .
These dark hands of life"
It was one of the waning days of winter, in the blurred haze of rains, when we left the coast and began our journey home. As she drove, I watched the pebbled streaks roll across the window into great vertical streams, to be cast off indistinct along the stationary road. Upon all our sides, Even the black-toothed mountain tops lost their grandiose summits into the fog. Off the road, next to the sagging remains of a gas station, a man sat beneath the naked fist of an old willow tree. He, with a teal umbrella, twirled the nylon circle so that the collecting sheen of water spun and spiraled centrifugal out into the bombarding camaraderie of fellow drops. The damp fields sat empty of life behind him, casting into evanescent black oceans of dirt. As we hurried past, I turned back-- and following him with my own watering eyes, I watched for as long as I could--until he too faded silently into the mist.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 3:27 AM UTC
the
Light in You:
brimming (my) heart
imprinting my (soul) with magic
feelings only dreams (can) paint; i am
soon subsumed by the (Light) of your rays
(the moon) dances behind your eyes
you are (all i)ts bloom and rise
with you there's no (need)
for a clever disgu(is)e
i will meet (You)
on the other
side|
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
Cheers from inside the catacombs of just-alive vagabonds & miscreant self-delusions of sagacious sabotage & pyrrhic moonscapes, brandishing our eternal return
a tabula rasa for respect & character - bottoms up, too. Mona Lisa
Shroud of Turin, ******* on a trunk. Gamble 66
for trays, dealing steam carrots.
Gag reflex to polite televangelists giving viewers auspicious immunity.
Habits cede to Power, acquiesce to Power, love power.
Peculiarity can recognize & organize to displace.
Something suspicious may run amok , antithetical to the divide & conquer trite.
Defeating paragons, i , Plumed Serpent of release & capture beats, borrowing color from a skylark in forever-flight, conjure remedial winds
Guide inimical bows subsumed in a cosmo-prole dew against the fasces of a few.
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 10:20 PM UTC
I buried her beside the clematis
Before the old untidy oak. The sullen wind
Began its circuitous hiss
A mocking presence. A cruel portend.
With fevered brow I pressed
The dark soil down, my quaking hands
My anguish succinctly expressed-
Stubborn fingers torn into blood-red strands.
Putting the ***** away, I went back indoors;
Her corpse still fixed in my sight, I made tea,
Sweat seeping from my pores,
As I drank, my hands again shook visibly.
A storm broke over the nearby hills
Roaring rolling sounds of shame,
Walls of rain thudding on my window sills-
The resonating thunder repeating her name:
‘Lucilla! Lucilla!’
Came each profound clap
Her voice within: ‘You killed me. Murderer!’
Long after the lightning’s crisp rap.
I had loved her with my infinite core,
Her screams scoured my teeming brain,
It pained me as I smashed her beautiful head on the floor,
Her rapid blood fading down a drain.
I died inside as she died my hands upon her neck,
Panting, protesting her undying love,
I gave her cheek a tender peck
Crying that the disinterested gods above
Knew I loved her too.
But, when a woman cheats,
What could an honest man do
In the face of numerous public deceits,
More so when his avaricious friends
Sample her like old women squeezing
Oranges in the market place? She trends,
Or did, for only one, distasteful, reason.
I did what I had to do. I had no alternative!
As was my due, I punished her with death,
And now subsumed in grief,
I strangle in my own dark breath
Now, each night I watch the clematis climb
Study its coiling struggling vines
Fixed in that cold, cold time
And the shallow grave on which the cold moon shines.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
Continent bound – water
encircled, I ache
for audible
effortless
mediocrity
Jabbered exchanges
fluid vowels
spill unrecognized and
still lap at
my yawning consciousness
Words now sink
never surface
Drown
unknown
Oral habitudes,
usually uncomprehended
Watered
speech
bubbles up, from
unfathomed
depths I am submerged
constantly
Subsumed
by misunderstandings
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
Did we just become
The faces of another lost generation
Caught between the crumbling walls
Of an economy built from the top down
And a rising tsunami in the ever expanding
Sea of technology, of the now, the hip,
The “must haves” ignorant of the unsustainable
Broken nature of our very souls
We drift like paper boats
Doomed to be capsized by the very waters
That keep us buoyant, floating free
We are the information junkies
Plugged in and tuned out
Of the real, the tangible
Riding high on the fruits of a digital age
Run rampant
Like addicts the world around
We will crash, we have to
Because eventually there isn’t
A fix big enough to keep us up
And from there we have no place to go
No place to go but down
Free fall
Plummeting straight to the hell
We built ourselves, stick by brick
Because through our inaction
Our distraction
Evil men, greed subsumed
Stripped our world, our land, our skies and seas
And what was left but hell on earth
So what now?
Do we take the plunge?
Sink our ships and rend our wings
Fall back to earth, wash up on shore
Open our eyes to see what’s left
What might be salvaged?
Or do we fly higher, reach further
And hope to heaven
We can fix our wings before they melt
Which is right? Which is illusion?
Which can save us in the end?
God, I wish I knew.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
I snatched at her soul,
grabbed it and held it to my chest,
a beatific grin upon my untruthful face
glorying in her spasmodic transmutation-
her monotone vision
beset with confusion
her gender breaking in my grip.
Loping footsteps over taut, troubled seas
spawned secretions ejected
like flame-
her sighs, a storm
her cries subsumed in sanctified fire
without worship.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC
My growing disdain for any semblance of a productive life has grown far greater than I could have hoped.
When once I embraced life with a wide-smiled, open-armed optimism, I have only been left with this inexorable malaise.
It is a personal strife I endure ever day. My existential outlook has collided with the nihilistic propaganda force fed to the multitudes at an alarming rate. The functions, gatherings or otherwise diminutive events of the more fortunate seem to have subsumed the necessity for a more literate or enlightened future.
The only way I see it fit to continue is routine. Routine is the leading most killer in human spontaneity. It also seems to be the leading most reason behind success. Not monetary success (although it can most certainly induce that outcome). I am talking about personal success, self-improvement, finding joy again in my most favourite and sought after past time.
I assume it is within routine where I can find this peace of mind I am searching for.
I assume this because my life has already been stricken by the deadly plight of a routine. One that has caused me to lose my footing. Rather than a routine of value and productivity, I have stumbled upon a routine of self-indulgence, disparagement, and an ever-growing urgency to carry out the most asinine tasks that no other would ever think to dwell on for more than a matter of minutes.
My personal strife is my mind.
My personal routine is my life.
Because of this, I have forced myself into solitary confinement, where my ritualized routine of the self becomes a ritualized journey towards complete insouciance.
We are the future, they proclaim.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
*Thee invoke Thee
The Lord God
to forge union with the Lord of Light and Darkness
Holy art Thou
The
Lord of the Universe...
the underlying emanation
animator of creation
formless, self effulgent
that i may fuse my Soul
with the Eternal Born-less One
my third eye a deafening blaze
transfixed on nuclear inner light
as my wife tries on a top at Macy's
i stand before a full length triptych mirror
entranced, scrying
staring at my reflection
an imminence white light figure
gossamer radiant expanse
emerges
and towers above my head
its feet planted
in my skull
my cranium its foot pillow
sight in its feet
my eyes its wires to the world
and the cold fields of ego
immobilized
disambiguous
thoughtless
its instrument subsumed
the voice of higher self
said unto me
*Let yourself enter the Path of Darkness
and peradventure
there shall you find the light
I am the only being in an Abyss of Darkness;
From an Abyss of Darkness came i forth
ere my birth
from the silence of a Primal Sleep*
And the voice of ages answered unto my Soul:
*I am he who formulates in Darkness
the Light that Shineth,
yet the Darkness comprehndeth it not*
as i heard my wife call out
"oh honey i like this one"
i whispered to my self
in breathlessness
*I invoke Thee,
the Terrible and Invisible God
who dwelleth in the void place of the Spirit
and in barbarous tongues of fire
i vibrated sonorous
the arcane names of The Infinite
that only initiates mouth like mad men
en-flamed
and called unto Him
make all Spirits of the firmament
and of the Ether
upon the Earth and under the Earth
on dry land and in Water,
and of Whirling Air
and of Rushing Fire
and every Spell and Scourge of God
obedient unto me*
my wife appeared
newly adorned
in a summer blouse
the color of Spanish walnut
asking hi honey
what do you think?
o yeah i nod
i love your new blouse
oh my god ,
on sale, you say
only $49. 95
such a deal.
Chinese for lunch ?
Moo goo *** pan
oh yes please
my favorite
she smiled*
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
The bay is subsumed
By almost thunderstorm
Heather and slate
The sun shines on the pale city
The city shines white
Across the bay
And the ferryboats
Bright dots
Disappear in the devouring rain
Soft from where I stand
But there are spots of light
That play on the hills
And the water
And the land enfolds the bay
Nestling the city on either side
It is beautiful as if from above
And a plane crosses the sky
The churning clouds, white and blue
And vanishes behind the gray
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 7:50 PM UTC
The axiomatic: I Am
That I Am...is poised
upon a stippled connectivity
that shall allow Seurat's
park goers to trade places.
A subsumed coming and
going a la gratuitous
Oneness.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
Much like the shining freckles of light
That gleam so bright in the pit of night
So far away from my outstretched hand
Above the sand of this windswept land
The distant road of my future bears
Many snags to catch me unawares
I ponder and think; I wonder why
Every choice I try to modify
But the future always makes it seem
Like it has no theme, no place for a dream
And I feel so scared; I feel so lost
The future's will shakes me tempest-tossed
An ocean of chaos, confusion, and fears
My life-boat is near a sea of tears
Drifting along with the ocean’s will
Living the thrill yet inept to fulfill
My dreams, my wishes, as well as my hope
Are caught in a whirlpool, devoid of a rope
Frightened of failure; unsure of success
I need to address an engulfment of stress
Racked by worries and subsumed by doubt,
Is a land of drought the only route?
I cling to the wish for an uphill climb,
And hope for the chance of a lifetime.
I weigh each moment I have yet unspent
I’d never resent to trail my intent
Yet distractions make it hard to decide,
Do I push them aside or let them reside?
Each choice I make creates a new road
So I’ll take the one that’s best bestowed
Sep 8, 2011
Sep 8, 2011 at 12:24 PM UTC
/ge'SHtalt/
"An organized whole
that is perceived
as more than
the sum of
its parts.."
the lordly elephant
is that whole
with all of
those strange parts..
do parts perceive
their life subsumed..?
and of our body
and parts
brother elephant is
our model..
but what of our
body as part..?
or the elephant
as part..?
how strange those
whole elephants
must be
up there...!
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC