"surmising" poems
450
Dreams—are well—but Waking’s better,
If One wake at morn—
If One wake at Midnight—better—
Dreaming—of the Dawn—
Sweeter—the Surmising Robins—
Never gladdened Tree—
Than a Solid Dawn—confronting—
Leading to no Day—
7.9k
Marooned
Vapid beauty of this room
Frothing carpet, ocean blue
One wall me, the other you
What lies between is residue
Scribed on soggy, shipwrecked parchment
Questions asked, time forgotten
Who are we?
What do we know?
Into these questions Summer flows
And thrashes at your Autumn’s brinks
Yearlong they torment my brain
Infringing on every season
If not for the manic scheme
To love and having loved be loved
This correspondence to a distant land
With stars, more numerous and brightly lit
Than my burgeoning highway exit
Would by no means have left my hand
But if, against all odds, it will prevail
Extolling truth’s folly, my sorrowful tale
Quells with reason my groundless pride
At having docked on your passionless harbor
Unloading platonic cargo during our youth’s ebbing tide
Must not create union of body or mind
You swallow my horizon, like the sun twilight
Though, one need not chase that orange orb for tomorrow
In this night without fortitude, lewd humor consumes me
Singing with the mouth on my head and your voice inside
I plunge into darkness
Skimming its silky surface
Before zipping it behind me
Shall I drown, as I have lived?
In vain, my dreams your subjects
Taken for ransom in your heart’s Tripoli
Not surmising recompense, I forfeit this
A note belying resonance
Of my heart’s last echoed throe
One desperate effort, giving up
Feed every vestige to the void
Wading, torso encumbered
Each sullen relic of your memory
Falls to the deep’s frigid ebony
Then, only too late am I cognizant
That my own breath is tribute yet spent
Therefore if I were to float or swim
I’d give you every ounce of who I am
Convince you to relinquish me
From your tepid, spurning sea
Then lying beneath moist underbrush
Slowly, breathe no more
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
/ conversation over a bbq dinner
being given the information
over a new M.I. movie..
i really think tom cruise
should have won an oscar for -
born on the 4th of july...
without bias,
but given the oscar award for
the grunting and heaving,
and minimal dialogue / monologue
of leonardo's the revenant?
the world is a cul de sac...
and what remains of it...
is a shitshow worth, of a congested street
with nothing but, paupers /
window-shoppers to be lined up;
mannequins coming alive
and taking to disco dancing
the hell out of having donned
a boney m afro;
drunk, squinty eyed...
looking around, surmising my
thought with... huh?!
it's a good thing i'm this good at
drinking, never having dropped acid.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
rather than check
the forecast
for some reason
i think it enough
to merely
look to the sky
for a cursory
ten or so seconds
to observe the drifting
of weighty clouds
the overwhelming of
any strokes of blue
that might remain
being diminished
by the shifting greys
of approaching rain
before surmising
whether or not
a coat or umbrella
might be needed
at some point
in the coming hours
Mar 25, 2023
Mar 25, 2023 at 6:46 PM UTC
1662
He went by sleep that drowsy route
To the surmising Inn—
At day break to begin his race
Or ever to remain—
1.8k
mass ****** ****** masses
of other inferior classes
the tempest does this to beatific butterflies
locusts do this to the fecund fields
we do it to fair game and fowl
but we evince a primal howl
when it is done to our own
somehow surmising we hold the throne
and are of such lofty creation
we can engage in desecration/decimation
of a trillion voiceless vines
and all else within the confines
of the kingdom of lesser beasts
fodder for our feral feasts
were the “chosen” not fodder for…
Reltiha?
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
There’s a man been hung at the old crossroads
In the village of Little Deeping,
And in his pockets a couple of toads
That were there when they caught him, creeping,
They bound his arms and they hung him high
On the bough of a mystic rowan,
And filled his stuttering mouth with straw
To quell the spell of his going.
The village is set in a mystery
That was old when the world was growing,
Three thousand years of its history
Is lost to the world, unknowing,
The valley’s not in the land of them
Who are yet to stumble upon it,
For men live now as they once lived then
With their wives in a primrose bonnet.
And superstition is rife down there
In the village of Little Deeping,
Where women never reveal their hair
With men in the meadow, reaping,
They take their water deep from a well
And light each cottage with lamplight,
Using a primitive type of oil
That seeps from the soil, in moonlight.
Their brides leap over a witches broom
When the harvest grain is swelling,
Under the beams of a crescent moon
With a bonfire near their dwelling,
They change their partners every year
If their bellies haven’t swollen,
Or hang their charms up over the door
So their offspring won’t be stolen.
They live their lives by the Druid gods
Who would bring about the seasons,
And never question the rights and wrongs
For nature has its reasons,
Their days began at the break of dawn
To the sound of the cockerel crowing,
An ancient bird with its comb and spurs
That would bring the sun up, showing.
But Tam Eilann was a surly man
Who would often lie in, sleeping,
Dreaming away the early day
While the rest were out there, reaping,
He hated hearing the cockerel crow
As it bid the sun, its rising,
When he said, ‘that cockerel has to go,’
He was more than just surmising.
One autumn night, he snuffed his light
Went out in the darkness, creeping,
And caught the only cockerel left
In the village of Little Deeping,
His knife flashed once in the cold moonlight
And left the cockerel dying,
His neighbours hurried to see the sight
Of their only cockerel, lying.
‘You’ve shamed the gods and must pay the odds,’
They said as they bound him, crying,
Then hung him high on the rowan tree
And cursed, as they watched him dying.
The cattle low in the byre still
And the bees, they stay in the hive,
For there’s not been a single sunrise there
Since the day the cockerel died.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
Conjecturing on the intimate remnants of your heart
surmising on the proper way to dissect its parts
delving into the chasm that holds your most private illusions of grandeur
bewildered by the vast expanses, these weathered lips simply stammer
the complexity of the concept left me stifled, mouth failing to make any attempts at offering kind words
as the reverberations of vocal chords became the only sound we heard
ricocheting off the precipices of your heart's unsurmountable walls
useless like hands digging the sands in fruitless attempts to draw
the full force off the ocean from a shallow hole
I stared at the blueprints of your heart's desires failing to find the control
every route on the schematic
seemed as if inner city traffic
flooded with passengers never fulling knowing when they will reach their destination rightfully so, at the center of your attention
as I sketch out the dimensions
factoring in the time it will take to find the route that leads me back to you
I marvel at the resiliency of your heart, then drive straight through
beyond these hallowed walls lies a future I was destined to reach
I shred these maps, light a match and burn all the blueprints of me...
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
The world holds it’s terrible coves.
I am set obliged around them.
Surmising the wrong I propose.
Entity’s so immoral, clout’s.
Scrupulous self closed.
Weakened and stricken keen doubts.
Bedevil prodding youth-less one.
Profusion glut under autumn’s frore sun.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 3:09 PM UTC
Let the words do the trick,
Just write anything.
Surmising eyes will
find the meaning.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
Shattered dreams..People often fall for their elusive
dreary spell,
Sages come and talk of nothing,
Children go and speak of something,
For what time does benefit us,
It often leaves us somber,
Surviving me,
Is that man in the corner,
Hopefully by now,
More than just an aspect of creation,
Or a reminder,
She comes upstairs,
Blanketed regrets,
No, Nothing surmising of hope or dignity either,
Just a blank stare,
Of formless opinion,
I knew one with opiates in her hair,
And lilacs in her mouth,
Something of a twist and turn,
She often wondered farther,
Firm believer in truth,
Yet vain reminder of silence,
Are these two once burdened upon frightful congruent spheres
or something random altogether,
I think the fish know,
The way they tangle and soar,
The way they find their way, even amidst a muddy storm,
Cloudy murky waters, like places of time stolen before your
very...
To finish this expose she said,
Bluntly reminding me,
I'd like to introduce a placebo
Look into the chalice in your hand,
Keep looking...
There!!!
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 2:13 PM UTC
So I guess
I found you by accident
and forgot you
on purpose
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
Black tulips on the marbled floor
have no place here.
They remind others of how we existed
suitable only for that dark journey,
by those deemed more worthy,
under whose azure skies,
only their abodes could shimmer
for we can have no part .
Leaves mottled in their separateness
turn our seasons
into days of lanquidity,
out stretched briars
tear at the stolen codex.
surmising exoteric warnings,
that magpies again steal,
under whose inciting night
can we wade this walkway.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 6:24 PM UTC
With ignorance as a pride,
I dawn on the regular stride,
My mind was weaving its thread,
Surmising ways to spread,
Drowned under the outpouring of lore,
Suddenly a rock hit my core.
There was she, who was to be decoded,
A hapless **** make her slash,
Under the encumbrance of pain,
She did not let a single tear to rain,
Under disgust for her angelic reasons,
She did not stop showing love for the new seasons,
Two paths coalesce under the shrine,
Another cardinal lesson from the divine,
I again started to run,
For the new day under Sun.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 9:15 PM UTC
the edge of green,
egress — conscious permission
of some inundation or cataract
and the raucous facelessness
of passing figures. army melancholia
in situ — past greens of dread
and red, some blue of course (in
dapple of sunlight bordering
sublimities)
i submit to its silence and no longer
ponder its requisites. draped
by fog, helm of pines. the zigzag of
deliverance swindling the disposable
line of fast-paced time-hover.
there's no god here. only the
wind, the trellis surmising a component
of nothing and happening,
and all ephemera cycling across
seasons forever changing and their
obsolescence of ways to retain their
positions until air frizzles
no
longer
than a bated breath.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
It wasn’t her fault but only my own,
I kept thinking there were so many things wrong,
I was high and low pondering her indecent woes,
There was one after another all surmising the same kind of way,
It finally made sense I was the key to loves destitute shade,
It’s a year later and things seem to be a lot clearer,
I’m weary of why I made her run so far away,
She might as well went astray to the furthest reaches of Gods say,
She slept and prayed trying to find the best night to feed her broken days,
I can only tell you I miss where we used to lay,
Not even the world could crush our pact of being this way,
But Alas I have to let you free to be who you are,
And the life you wish to proceed without me.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
Numberless voices are everywhere but those that are calling there sound is rich and thick with telling
They travel farther distances they are as arrows shot from a heart agitated possessed and driven by
Anxiety they are not casual but come with bleeding in them they are relentless frantic they will not be
Denied their words are almost spelled out heavy deliberate they build on themselves they are timeless
Sadly the one being called will pass from earthy view then mercifully dreams will draw them to you in
Darkness from this encounter you draw comfort from these soft images a flutter of dove wings stir and
You still your voice from its calling punctuated with progression of tears so onward the calling searches
The waste places or the finest streets in cites of renown it cuts like a keen sharp sword indifference falls
In heaps before its powerful force the called doesn’t always hear the actual voice but there is an
Unknown troubling a quiet discontent that pervades the quiet hours the distance or time is never
Considered it’s the nature of trying to warn the mind that can’t know the danger who would life is at its
Best you won many struggles you stand at the top of the heap but in victory sometimes the most carless
Acts emerge they threaten all you have achieved the warning signs are missed the calling rises higher
It must reach even the heights that you feel are impregnable never knowing you are in quick sand traps
Designed perfectly for you the scale would tip to total disaster but the calling weighs a constant
Pressure keeping the scale level the world keeps adding material gain but love is the greatest asset it
Never finishes second it comes in all forms it has armor the sword already mentioned and wisdom that
Doesn’t bow to foolish surmising you are the object of desire that has no end or beginning just a
Constant it was with you at birth it never leaves sometimes it is forced to plead it finds no shame in this
You’re worth more than the world what is going to end such longing trust and care only when you visit
Only in dreams
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
Veil is symbol of strength,
people behind them are not weak.
Enemies are my target with
friends I don't play hide and seek.
Those who follow Prince of
paradise they can always dare.
Quran is the Furqan*, an ancient
book, so common yet so rare.
Friends can always advise,
I know It is not good to have pride.
Your words taken positively,
believers are helpers and guide.
I know very well that world
knows one by one's presentations.
And I am well aware that God
judges one by one's intentions.
But your presentation effects
other's intentions as well.
'Hold to the rope and do not
divide', very loudly I want to tell.
Don't use your color black to
divide and target only color green.
When green is turned red in
black anger needs to be seen.
Let me give strength to your
wings fly high, high, very high.
But very high there is vacuum,
you cannot breathe or sigh.
Check ****** expressions,
in shadows please don't find clues.
Friends may tolerate but
enemies will laugh at your muse.
Surmising eyes in shadows
of a rat may see a bear.
Shadow of a little cat a very
large tiger may appear.
My dear friend don't read
too much between the lines.
let me remove the black clouds,
see the bright sunshine.
My dear friend don't read
too much between the lines.
Let me assure you,
everything is fine.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
Posthaste after I begin to ruminate and induce myself into surmising that I've finally ran out of thoughts, you appear in some obscure form. Straightaway, a cascade of endless, unfathomable emotions and indiscriminate memories pour into my pool of thoughtlessness.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
nobody ever really
fully grasps a concept
what we know
are merely shadows
just empty projections
we try to make
illusions of convesations
exchanging nods of affirmation
yet are devoid of comprehension
we dine with strangers
whose whims, whose dreams,
whose greatest fears
we think we know
but no
along never ending
mirror walls, we walk
surmising our reflections
as who we are
even how disfigured,
distorted they may be
all we do is crawl
inside ill-lighted caves
pretending to know
what lies ahead
until we stumble
until we're dead
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
patiently waiting for an indication
a signal worth of chaos and destruction
i said, let me try
your mere existence of admiration
and a whirlpool of unsure emotion
yet again, i said, let me try
leaves me surmising and surely wanting
a pessimistic hope and a dreary longing
a day would come by
a hope is drawn by
let me repeat it, i said, let me try
tiny stardust die every overlook shot
but sparkles every time you lay an eye
a heavy breath which corresponds a weigh
that will surpass every breaking heart
every longing heart and every healing heart
for the last time, i said, let me try,
with you
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 7:16 AM UTC
The Calling
Numberless voices are everywhere but those that are calling there sound is rich and thick with telling
They travel farther distances they are as arrows shot from a heart agitated possessed and driven by
Anxiety they are not casual but come with bleeding in them they are relentless frantic they will not be
Denied their words are almost spelled out heavy deliberate they build on themselves they are timeless
Sadly the one being called will pass from earthy view then mercifully dreams will draw them to you in
Darkness from this encounter you draw comfort from these soft images a flutter of dove wings stir and
You still your voice from its calling punctuated with progression of tears so onward the calling searches
The waste places or the finest streets in cites of renown it cuts like a keen sharp sword indifference falls
In heaps before its powerful force the called doesn’t always hear the actual voice but there is an
Unknown troubling a quiet discontent that pervades the quiet hours the distance or time is never
Considered it’s the nature of trying to warn the mind that can’t know the danger who would life is at its
Best you won many struggles you stand at the top of the heap but in victory sometimes the most carless
Acts emerge they threaten all you have achieved the warning signs are missed the calling rises higher
It must reach even the heights that you feel are impregnable never knowing you are in quick sand traps
Designed perfectly for you the scale would tip to total disaster but the calling weighs a constant
Pressure keeping the scale level the world keeps adding material gain but love is the greatest asset it
Never finishes second it comes in all forms it has armor the sword already mentioned and wisdom that
Doesn’t bow to foolish surmising you are the object of desire that has no end or beginning just a
Constant it was with you at birth it never leaves sometimes it is forced to plead it finds no shame in this
You’re worth more than the world what is going to end such longing trust and care only when you visit
Only in dreams
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 6:10 AM UTC
The sun empties into the mist
climbing to meet the flames of hers
strangers gather on the green
chocking on life, and love
scent of seared flesh
empties into the sea ....
He dampens her gown of glory
in her ashes that are smothering
to the ground, she is burning slowly
for the moment....for her passion
cries for his love, but the emptiness
is to long .....
An undergrowth of thistle choke wisteria
suffers along her eyes, weeds engulf the earth
where blue and white belongs...his passion runs
awhile, looking for his woman, running kisses of
passion... as weathered hands of longing
like lines in an old face of time, vines entangled
the old gate of life, where indifferent lives wander
through empty rooms surmising the cost of survival....
The wind echo's a gentle sound of love
trailing footprints of life, surmising strokes
of gentleness...
Chapel bells of quietness, longs for empty
mornings of want, with prayer short lived
as children cry out their hearts...where
drops of stone leaks out the tears
of emptiness ....
Debbie Brooks 2014
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC