Surmising poems on Hello Poetry

Emily Dickinson

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—

Sansara Justinovich Aug 2010

Marooned

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

MMX

This is basically a revision of my poem Anstoss

My recitation here:
http://youtu.be/v7LdsUwUCEM

echo Jul 2015

Surmising

So I guess
I found you by accident
and forgot you
on purpose

and that's about it then. Toodles.

Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018

however much you hate tom cruise

/             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.

Emily Dickinson

He went by sleep that drowsy route

1662

He went by sleep that drowsy route
To the surmising Inn—
At day break to begin his race
Or ever to remain—

By Hemingway's Beard Mar 2023

the meteorologist

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

#arrogance #confidence #uncertainty #trust #faith #hope #help #fear #striving #weather

Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2013

Shamrock

Oh me Ireland from the green emerald shamrock how you tantalize and share the blarney cool pools
And streams in diverse scattered form you bedazzle the mind I and all others are your prisoner
We fell under the spell of your charm wickedly fun delight smites from the heights of joy we
Stroll even the national theme is to cajole it’s born from the woods where the wee ones abide
They are the pride and honor of Irish lore Dublin the lilt the thrill rolls down the hill Joyce
Found and spoke from his native tongue so well there is the Mexicali rose and the” Spanish rose
That grows in Spanish Harlem” but what I know is those Irish eyes are gleaming makes my
Heart start my dreaming oh soliloquy with haste you make your statement the blends of this
Ancient twist of tree and steam that flows and then breaks a fix point to gather from wind and
Water the beliefs and wonderings of Leprechauns how else could such magic unfold and be told
After you awake conscious thought is so limited walk on my dreams and you will find my inner
Heart there revealed lost garrisons and bastions of thoughts and deeds spread to the woods
And coast spellbinding the listener the cistern of bliss was cracked open it profoundly and
Evenly coursed through city and villages alike timelessness found its place in this land uttering
The wistful richer than many pots of gold it was as distinguishable as a man’s own signature it is
Like a check list it holds close and tight the facts a man who as a stone mason handles the hard
And course and lives with the residue of fine stone work deeply ingrained like the esteemed
And like forth telling words of Thomas Aquinas who had the closeness to God and set forth
Those royal surmising that scorched the earth of his day it could almost be said as it was of
Jesus no man speaks after this order overwhelmed by the laudatory speech it rises on the
Breeze it stands in these excellent hills to walk is to be staggered with emotional fervor the
Bloodline of Ireland runs deep and is abiding what privilege to stand as a voice a teacher for
Such a place that has such great history that is easily exported to other places making inroads
To build Ireland anew in other lands if nothing more than in a small way that is the greatest
Deterrent to war is for all people to meet and share their positive and unique outlooks nothing
Can build quality life like sharing and creating like mindedness in others crafted out of feeling
And knowing of your world and your place in it to dispel doubt and fear and replace it with the
Quaintness and charm that makes every rock and bush in wee fair Ireland

Mary McCray Apr 2014

30 Poems About Language : Before the Spell

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 13, 2014)

Time flies around a storybook story.
After storytime, it’s time to go to sleep.
After sleep, tomorrow begins another story.
Inside the storybook, every picture tells a story.
Not everybody agrees what that story is.
Narrative is just an illusion anyway,
One made necessary for the operation
Of storybooks, some with only pictures telling
Stories, some with impossible surmising captions.
First think, then speak. Unless you don’t believe
In talking bears or thneeds. When you grow up,
Narratively speaking, you should grow out the-need
To believe in a happy end-middle-beginning.
You should rip up every page in the storybook
And throw its pieces up into the air.
The interesting story is how it all falls down.
First things first. Why does this always feel
Like the ruse of 52-card pickup?

spysgrandson Aug 2012

a perverse and lowly redemption of Reltiha (a tale of amorality)

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?

one must determine who Reltiha is...

Deborah Brooks Langford Dec 2014

Tears Of Emptiness

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

#love #sun #tears #empty #glory

David Lewis Paget Dec 2013

The Day the Cockerel Died

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

Sean C Johnson Feb 2013

Blueprints

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...

MdAsadullah Dec 2014

Trick

Let the words do the trick,
Just write anything.
Surmising eyes will
find the meaning.

#trick

mEb Nov 2010

Kid's On ****** Here (For J.R R.I.P)

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.

RCraig David Dec 2016

"Bright Light Antiquated, Thunder Roll Anticipated" by R. Craig David-part 1 to the 2018 romance series

Sometimes when unsure souls are apart, hearts go dark,
finding bitter-sweet sorrow in the depart.
Unconsciously staying far away from "them and they" who filled and smashed then cast away our jars from back then to present day.
In all despite,
in a moment of might,
You walk into my sight,
Suspending the win of "them and their" sins.
It's effortless for me to give in,
the chase begins again.
In spite, it doesn't feel like a chase,
it just feels right.

Smile so sweet,
our eyes meet,
it's like a lightning strike...head to feet.
Hits me like a glowing, white hot flash of tingling electricity,
blinding bright,
striking right down from the heavens like a craggily branch of pure flowing energy piercing my heart and soul,
then surging through every electrical current-driven nerve cell my body holds.
I magnetize to the earth, unable to move, frozen in time…
Grounded as thunder following clasps in the distance.

Staring at your sparking seducing silhouette,
then hips,
then lips,
then surmising eyes,
then smile advancing pace towards me in the street.
A rare chance for us to meet.
The same Lightning strikes twice.
I feel the tingle spiring up to my face,
the sly and subtle serendipity strike setting the pace, the time, the place.

My fears are flushed,
I feel heat blush,
I wish you to rush.
Race,
closer to touch.
The instant innocent "Crush" is much.

You enter my personal space,
Smiling a mile wide.
You close in until my place is touched and encased by your hair softly falling around your eyes and face.
Lightning strikes thrice.
I sense my helpless demise as my heart takes the stage,
Opening night,
Act one,
Scene one,
Cue the thunder.
Will I be undone in this serendipitous theater of surprise or hearts unwon?

Dropped from the highest point,
the largest stone smashes down and holds back all that once made me feel alone.
My soul runs unto to your connection,
our necks connect.
I smell your skin's convection.
Time alignment correction.
The earth is shifted.
My eyes naturally close as I fold into you.
My natural emotion is selected as I hold on to you.
all sounds drown,
our heads tilt down in concert,
seredipty conducts,
a symphony erupts into minutes as though everything I want goes through yourself.
So subtle is the soul-to-soul magnetism adherence, a transference beyond appearance.
Anticipating thunder,
the next minute of our meeting begins.

By R. Craig David-Copyright 2017

Kody dibble May 2017

Oh, the Irony

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!!!

welcome

#random #joy #life #girls #people #places #time #son #father

antony glaser Jun 2012

Night's house

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.

PiLomus Feb 2019

Beauty of her

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.

Pain fade with time,but never goes in vain.

#hope #lesson #she #learning #pain

Leila May 2013

Messages and Meanings

With every passing instant i'm,
seeking the sanctity found in rhyme.
Hardhearted like in my approach,
I may look weary but i've never lost hope.
It’s only cause time has turned me cold,
so many tribulations, you'd think i was old.
So with every breath, I seek experience,
steadfast like, honor gains with perseverance.
From the sun's descent to its rising,
everything inside me begins devising.
All the life within me is surmising,
any doubt I am now disguising.
I hope to hear all of the words,
as loud as the hills beckon for shepherds.
And I hope to grasp the heart of each line,
and define, the knowledge left to the whims of time.

slightly rewritten

Annomous Me Oct 2014

Absolutes

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.

#love #life #absolutes

The Wicca Man Apr 2015

Angel's Keep

What a strange place this is, hovering between the perpetual dark and the grey light of dawn. It was nowhere you would find on any map. It was said to exist only in the psyche, in that moment between sleep and wakefulness. But I found it and, should these words ever be read, you will know that I am there still …

Tall ramparts of the dullest stone rise up skyward. Sightless windows stare out across a strange landscape: it is not possible to make out any landmark for the mists twine in psychotic patterns making the tangible invisible to the eye.

I came to this place … I don’t how I got to be here. As I write down these words, I try to recall my journey but my memories are as fogged as the barren mist-infused heath below me. It is as though I have been here for a lifetime, maybe more. I seem to have a sense of having been somewhere other than this place but it is impossible to draw a coherent recollection from my mind.

It is cold here in my room high in the turret of this place. The cold stone arch that is my only eye to this outside world is presently covered with a ragged curtain. There are faded colours discernible on it; age has dulled them. It ***** forlornly in the insignificant breeze that blows through the window. It is dark outside the window. I know it must be as the tears in the drape are showing no light coming through.

On my writing table is a candle that is burning with a yellow flame. It sputters as the breeze catches it unawares. My candle casts a little light; enough to write with. I look down at the yellowed paper and my words you have just been reading. In my hand is my pen. How old-fashioned; a feathered quill. At the top of the table is a small *** and the trail of ink suggest this is my ink-***. Strange. It seems perfectly natural and familiar to be writing these words in this archaic fashion yet oddly out of place also as though a thread of a memory is tugging somewhere in my brain telling me it cannot be real. My hand reaches out to rub the surface of the table. It is rough, hewn not by a skilled artisan but functional. A shiver courses through me and I draw my rough cloak closer about me …

I don’t know if I had slept but becoming aware of my surroundings, I can see a little greyness coming through the drape over my window. It is not daylight in the sense you would know it; it is never daylight here. The candle is no more than a stub now and it’s flame is gasping it’s last breath. My surroundings are eerily visible now in this dull light. I can see the door across to my right. It is old and heavy with a large handle and studded panels. I expect to see a bed but craning my neck all I can see is a rough straw pallet in the opposite corner. That part of the room is still hidden in shadow so I am surmising that the rumpled pallet and rough blanket heaped against the wall is where I sleep. But I do not remember sleeping.

My pen is laid down next to the sheaves of manuscript I had clearly been working on. All this time, whether sleeping or writing, I had not considered whether I was alone here in my room. There was nothing in that moment I considered it to suggest I was here in anything but solitary isolation. Yet something made me look again at the rumpled bed in that dark corner. I realised then with a start that what I had assumed to be just my bedding had a clear form. Straining my eyes against the grey shadow, I saw an imperceptible movement. I held my breath, unsure if my eyes were deceiving me in this half light. I pushed against the table to lift myself as quietly as I could from my chair and padded over to the bed in the corner.

Crouched against the wall was the form of a woman. Her breathing almost imperceptible, coming in short, tremulous whispers. Clearly she was sleeping but something told me it was not a comfortable sleep but rather a sleep brought on by sheer exhaustion. Her pose was unnatural; half lying, half crouching. Her hands were clasped against her chest and rose and fell with each breath. I staggered backward my heart pounding in my ears, drowning out the sound of her breathing.

Turning to the table, my trembling hand reached for the candle and, cupping my hand to protect the dying light, I crept back to her. In the faint yellow cast of the flame I could see her more clearly. A once silvery gown now grey and tattered covered her small frame. There was a rough blanket draped carelessly across her shoulders. Her elfin face was as pale and dull as the grey light and threads of golden hair hung across her face. I found myself reaching out to her only to brush a strand from across her eyes. In that moment her eyes flew open and stared wild and frightened. Immediately she cowered back against the wall whimpering like a cornered animal. The shock of her awakening startled me and I fell back from my crouched position. Her hands flew up to protect her perfect face and to my horror, I saw they were bound at the wrist. Who was she? Why in all the gods’ names was she here, my apparent prisoner?

I recovered my senses and as gently as I could I approached her again. The blanket had fallen from her shoulders and in the still guttering candle flame I saw what I could only guess were silver feathers seemingly growing from her shoulders. This was impossible. The light was playing with my senses surely?

Reaching out to her I ever so gently touched her clasped hands now held against her face as though in prayer. She let my take them in mine – so delicate, so perfect, so cold to the touch – and my fingers slid down to her bound wrists. The binding was a dull silver, so flimsy yet seemingly strong enough to hold her hands together. There were welts where the bindings had dug into the flesh. And now she stared unblinkingly at me, sheer terror in her eyes.

I let her hands go with more force than I intended and recoiled from this scene, my whole frame trembling, my skin crawling with cold dread. Had I done this? I cannot remember. If I had, why? I closed my eyes willing it to be no more than a nightdread. Opening them seconds later I realised what I knew; that this was real, as real as anything could be in this strange world I found myself in.

I knew then what I must do and turning to my table I looked frantically amongst the sheaves and found the blade I had been using to pare my quills. Grasping it I returned to the pallet and approached her, blade in one hand, sputtering flame in the other. She gasped in horror as I drew close to her. How stupid of me. The poor creature was terrified of me, terrified by the cruelties I must have inflicted upon her.

“Hush, I mean you no harm.” My words seemed to belong to someone else. I placed the candle on the floor and reached out for her hands again. Pulling them toward me, I told her I was going to remove her bonds. She seemed to understand and, though still staring wildly like a frightened child, she let me insert the blade under her bindings. I could only imagine she had trusted me once and was now prepared to do so again. With a deft flick, the bindings parted to the blade and slithered to the floor. She turned her eyes from me for the first time to inspect her wrists massaging them lightly. She looked up at me once more and though she spoke no words, her eyes framed the question, “Why now? Why now after so long?”

I stood up and backed away from her and gestured toward the door: “It is time, that’s all, time for you to go.”

Rising uncertainly from her rude bed, this angel, for that is surely what she was, stood before me trembling. I removed the cloak from my shoulders and placed it about hers, my fingers lightly brushing the feathers on her shoulder blades. I gestured toward the door once again saying as I did so: “Walk toward it; I shan’t stop you. There is no lock; it will freely let you pass. I will not follow.”

The poor creature turned from me and walked to the door. Grasping the handle, it opened with a groan. She passed through and was gone …

In a stupor, I went toward the window and pulled the drape to one side. The sky was still grey but now a silver moon hung in my vision. I sensed a movement to my left and saw my angel soar across the face of the moon and into the gloom.

I walked back to my table and sat heavily down. Grasping my quill and dipping it into the inkpot, I reached for another sheet of parchment and continued to write in the hope that you will find these words and tell my story …

This is an extension of the idea in Freedom & Loss, also posted here

#gothicfantasyprose

Windsor I Guadalupe Jr Nov 2015

Baguio Ephemera

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.

#poem #poetry

Hal Loyd Denton Oct 2012

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

MdAsadullah Nov 2014

My Thoughts On Your Thoughts

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.

Inna Jun 2015

fools

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

a poem a day

#poetry #human

David Gonzalez Mar 2015

Introspection

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.

day tripper May 2017

let me try

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

Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011

The Calling

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

Kody dibble May 2017

Untitled

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!!!

welcome

#random #joy #life #girls #people #places #time #son #father

Carlos Nov 2017

A Portion of Purpose

Make missions,

Go fishing, try eating something with nutrition.

Call yourself Christian, call yourself missing,

Anything at all,

Ride both the rise and the fall,

Horizon overriding, still deciding and surmising minutes while atoms casually colliding,

Not surprising, devising tides inside the pride of prized chastising.

So yeah, prolly go to hell,

******* go everywhere else before I get there and have some stories to tell,

No glory in dull,

Voiding reward set annulled,

Board the encore of boredom to quell.

Withdraw the assorted fortunes from the dormant shells that they dwell.

Implore on Discordia when yore sets a spell.

Call on your awesome, most of all, try your best -

Wish ya well.

#rise #horizon #surprising #stories #glory #awesome

matthew scott harris Mar 2018

Machinations of a Maniac

(no braggadocio! modest rodomontade scored triumphantly!)

Unbeknownst to me, a generic human ape,
an unpleasant surprise
     swished down like an ominous cape
awaited and near smothered me drape

ping that October morning, where no escape
presaged via frisky black cats
     chasing shadows on fire escape
crossed my path after walking under a ladder
     where ice **** ravens didst jape!
**********
Wheels of injustice applied via de
fender, sans Johnny Cochran forced ee
year splitting amidst general public fee
ver rush to absorb disbelief shell shock hee
ret tickle non guilty conviction from key

ping popular culture spell bountious lee
really exhausted viz three ring me
dee ya circus (June 1994 – October 1995) pre
vail ling obvious evidence irrelevant, thus re
deeming O.J. Simpson to strut guilt free

from emotionally charged trial. I awoke
as usual and performed customary bespoke
oblations vis a vis half-hour plus choke
hold asphyxiation meditation, okey doke
shuteye discipline followed daily to evoke

calm, cool, and collected trance zen dental
bliss before motoring on with gist of gentle
lee presented vignette, though me mental
state did not shift gears into a rental

modus operandi, but only partially new
trawl eyed , cuz the then fiancé (one mew
zing chic chick i.e. Abby Robin Zison), Jew
dish us lee spent the night
     at our transitional grew

some domicile) immediately nsync to report do
tuff lee (at the Goddard School)
     raced like a Chew
Bach ha's Dickensian protagonist back up Badoo
two flights of stairs. Like eponymous Aloo

men hum mushing spry feline woman out bitta bing
bitta bang (clanging like hells bells) ding
donging, she immediately flew back fling
all four feet eleven of her harried style jing

ling in an agitated state she set foot to go bob
bing out the door intent
   (as iterated) driving to her job,
and in combination pantomime
   and words crisis did lob

asper like a bot to me,
     she attempted to communicate rob
bing her unsuspecting fount of thespianism
   tub air gritty modicum
   of rationale from putrid slob

name of Leslie (the lunatic landlady)
     thine paramour conveyed clarity mouth ajar
after surmising urgent news
     required automatic action to un bar
driveway, where I parked car,

the previous night surreptitiously venal far
from rational rapscallion most definitely har
bored an axe to grind, and locked Ford Escort par
**** shinned within chain linked fence - war

fore suggestion got made
     (from future bride)
to confront landlady,
     and sternly insist and mildly chide
corrective action taken,

     yet this storyteller defied
said suggestion, and brainstormed
    with betrothed asthma guide
averting compromising neither of our pride

and prejudice respective, sans stevedore
managers would not let us slide
gnome hatter, how we could not
     escape deprecation
     no matter how much we tried.

Prior to heading off to bed
     the prior night, I deigned
to express likelihood to landlord/owner
     thyself and pseudo spouse needed to find

another place to live. The major reasons
for vacating premises? Her grind
ding cigarette no ifs, ands
     or buts smoking mind
less ness ranked (on par
     with chimney didst wind

     burning wood smoke
at full blast) as primary source
     of revulsion did provoke,
and aye came across with homespun folksy
sensitive mien, as a simple country bloke
I expressed honest sentiment at being
extremely averse (where hacking awoke

     the future wife)
     from second hand carcinogen(s)
     extant within cancer sticks. Asphyxiation deafen
knit lee found me choking half to death even
putting towel under the door, or

     additionally keeping
     bedroom window wide open,
the malodorous nicotine wisps ambled - pen
     knit trait ting, wending, curly cued,
     and filtered thru fabric with mischievous yen.

No matter, the twisting tendrils of tobacco found
their way into ole factory nasal cavity ground
zero, sans health conscious holistic being hound
did, what constituted one deranged dame
     the SPCA ought to impound.

Another factor fueling foul accommodations yin
     wanna know offset fine tuned win
Dixie yang,
     which odoriferous torture constituted

     nauseating odor of cat *****
and litter boxes smelt worse than sin,
cuz, they never got cleaned of feline ***** matter
     near visible as a unsightly dangerous shark fin.

Upon summoning effort
     and energy to communicate
bona fide concerns, she responded
     and didst denigrate

with contempt fiery madness irate
psychotic malicious venomous vile
     as dead body snatcher mate
and then insidious wheels

     of malice with tongue flames
crackling, popping, and snapping
     from out her reptilian pate
     began to turn more sharply

     amidst ghoulish clatter and path
     of destruction on her tabula rosa slate
with more danger than
     along axis of evil tete a tete.

She madly paced back and forth
     across maligned envisioned aisle
a small patch of uncluttered space in main foyer
     witnessed seething rage wherein

     carpeted floor boards,
     an imperfect circle shod feet didst dial
no doubt internally
     plotting vengeful strategic guile.

Castigations, fulminations, and insinuations ague
gulled out her mouth
     noxious fumes left exit pronto flew
ludicrous lacerations
     from fiery dragon lady did spew

while yours truly soundly slept
     and without incident dreamt edenic view
she unwittingly trappings to annihilate  Xandu
some personal vendetta. After I washed, dressed as a zoo

keeper headed downstairs,
     the malicious scheme she did hatch
out back became a living reality,
     an empty house doors hooked with latch

(Samir, the other occupant) left hours earlier no match
to tangle with wicked witch absented premises natch
eerily echoed every footstep trod one patch,
after another
     patent leather slippers paused to scratch

an niche 'pon second landing
     (to confirm a strong hunch)
that nary a soul heard nor seen,
     probably out to lunch,

no raving ranting banshee
     demented drunk as punch
No zombie like entity appeared from the “DO
NOT DISTURB” sign affixed
     outside sleeping area, aye did scrunch

brow to compress insight,
     where mangy catatonic felines
     shared coterie holograms suddenly jumped out
     from virtual reality cat n' app cradle
     swishing tails shorn like cat o' nines

mewing obscenities (within/ out
     computer screen, ominous signs,
sans phantasmagoric phantom) lurking
     like a lunatic swing from vines.

Nonetheless, I continued to tread
     down dimly lit said
lower level with glimmer
     of optimism to bolster lead

din heavy mood crossing fingers
     spare set of skeleton keys
     (with cross bones and skull head)
nearly always left tantalizingly
     dangling in unused door latch, twas cred

double wish, thus spirit within me soared
and just as quickly sank to abyss of psyche moored
     sensation felt like poured molten lava oh Lord
Guess what? No such luck. Oh,
     she definitely would not a ford

carelessness, and took precautions okay
hiding temptation to make a getaway
Well…I stepped outside
     to assess situation. Blimey cray
zee myopic eyes forced to glean deadbolt
     found gate shut tight, thence a feeble bray

escaped parched lips, when lo...vix
teased and cross myopic eyes,
     no doubt played tricks
holy glory. Ah, a handsaw
     carelessly got left and altered mix
matched tool chest in plain view, a sudden fix

but prior to acting on the plan, quite do able
I made a few telephone calls
     first telephonically cable
hub rate, and firstly contacted employer

     told tale more unbelievable than a fable
thence to local police
     in order to file complaint against
     goon bonkers malicious monstrous label

quick as the brown fox
     jumps over the lazy dog
escape attempted perilous hell grog
ghee nightmare commenced after placing

     phone back on cradle, whence nog
     'gin set fingers to twitch busily
     sawing into one steel link,
    (an effort aye did slog)

thru to break at one linkedin steel segment
barricading trusty Ford Escort
     so this fellow could hightail with pent
up adrenaline out of nefarious
     steely web and test a mint...,

     whence surge of adrenaline
coursed from head to toe,
     my heart pounded not so gent
lee ready to burst from chest,
     and palms perspired profusely
with unexpected accursed of evil incarnate
     vis a vis hell bent agent

provocateur ready to pounce
     and deliver violent
retribution, which blows
     from blunt heavy object,
   would invariably render me unconscious
   courtesy of cerebral rent.

For better than worse, a kind face
of destiny smiled from countenance grace
sing unseen karma
     smiled smooth as sateen or lace
upon my essence as shaking hands

     furiosly moved saw handle
     back and forth dozens of times until…
THE CHAIN BROKE AND SET ME FREE
     now fickle finger of fate
     got me ought ta this place!

#no #need #to #reed #every #last #word

Leila Jun 2014

Meanings + Messages

From the sun's descent to its rising,
everything inside me begins devising.
All my soul within me surmising,
any doubt I am now disguising.
And with every passing instant i'm,
seeking the sanctity found in rhyme.
Hardhearted like in my approach,
I may look weary but I never lost hope.
It’s only that time has turned me cold,
all these tribulations, you'd think i was old.
With every breath I seek experience,
steadfast like, honor gains with perseverance.
Clear as day, I intend to listen to the words,
loud like the hills beckoning for shepherds.
I hope to grasp the heart of each line,
and to learn form truths left to the whims of time.

Mark Sep 2019

White Crowned Sparrows Over The Mojave

I wonder if an unusual flock of white crowned sparrows
Were there that day, that fateful day
Sensing, by which means I know not;
The carnage about to come.
In a frenzy of panic I can imagine the flutter
The unruly encirclement over the festivities.

Perhaps an onlooker gazed upon the sparrows
Momentarily captivated by crying white birds
Together with an eerie hush from the desert wind
Surmising that this is an ominous sign,
Could this be one last final thought of the departed.

For high up in the Mandalay, thirty-two to be exact,
Malevolence hailed down -hailed on a strip of the Mojave.
Smokey rounds undiscrimately raced, laced,
With hate into the music lovers.
Did the Red Rock echo the automatic distant mutter;
The disturbing sounds of mass tuned celebrators' dissarayed.

To what cause is there for such bareful morality?
What heart on 32 could not the feel the serenity;
Of the soothing, harmless country beat?
Then still, sought it fit to take many away
Away from their sacred land and kin.

Many souls - stunned by the sudden halt to dancing
Directed upwards, towards the sun
Yearning to return for one last goodbye.
Perhaps then, that same flock of white crowned sparrows
Native to the north - were grasped by the fallen
By some divine intervention.

Then to return to the scene in the Mojave,
Chirping farewell to the bereaved,
Gracing once again - the soil of the free land;
They loved, and perished upon.
Then into the abode - well above the desert sky.

2017, many deaths in a Vegas harvest country music festival due to a mass shooting. Rest well in that desert sky

Richard Shepherd Jul 2023

Hang the DJ

Morning has broken
like an arrow through the heart
another mere token
to tear poor souls apart
sun is a rising
in unwelcome skies
minds are surmising
as pain fills up eyes
nothing is clear
everything's black
no ships left to steer
nooses tighten the slack

Star Gazer Mar 2016

We Live In A World

We live in a world where clouds of hope
Plummet upon this vast land mass
Only to be met with disappointment.

We live in a world where love
Is dressed up as a thread tied from above
Forming bonds between two individuals.

We live in a world where being accepted
Is more important than being unique
Unable to strive to surpass one another.

We live in a world where the cruel
Tread upon the kind
Just to signify some surmising strength.

We live in a world where hearts get broken
Where words of love have been spoken
Only to equate to words of a politician.

— The End —