"suspending" poems
•helping the kids with homework•
no one told you,
was part of the job description
paycheck earner a-ok,
gruff but tender lover,
knowing her special places,
building a tree swing,
a tree house safe and satisfactory,
one the neighbors envy
taking them to the hospital for
broken arms and chemotherapy,
part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable,
going to school to give that principal a look
that will make him think twice before suspending
one of his for defending himself
you remember your daddy doing the same for you,
forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later
the tucking in, the pretense ouch
when your end of day
scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies,
carrying tissues in a toolbox,
never heard of, nevertheless done,
tho not a memory defining the future inclusive,
definitely a learning ability, a likeability
doing homework, nuh uh,
no way jose, don’t dare let them
know how you never got a gold star,
always sat in the back row, outta sight,
all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery,
and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary
which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much
ain’t exactly his strong suit
sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him,
know where the on/off computer button hides,
the rest is up to them;
got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am,
how to address humans with respect,
i’ll promise them anything
but not doing any homework,
unless it the kind that that makes
“a home work”
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
poetry builds
a bridge of light
extending
from our
imagination bright
suspending across
the vastness of
the
Milky Way
highway tonight
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
A soul welcoming spring,
the heart of autumn.
Gentle leaves flailing, A scene of pictures falling.
Rapture of one's old past,
but rain was out of site.
The roads were a barren land, as birds did not sing.
As days were meek of the night,
though I was aware:
My seeking heart desires, seasons through the eyes.
Sweeping a material dream,
fading out of sight.
Till it came to life,
suspending what bridled me.
And everything changed, a future beyond the wall.
Luminous summer:
vigor upon meadow fields.
Her daffodils blooming, heat of the breeze within.
Written on the wind,
the scarlet tied between our lines.
Transcending all is well, an image of a childlike faith.
My ought to trust and wait,
for now, I'm brave enough to tell.
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
A quaint little bazaar
In the heart of the town
Tells a story
Of a thousand moments
Dal Bazaar as they call it
Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know.
I have fragments of memorable memories
Deep within my mind
The smell
The intoxicating smell of spices
Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives
Of Merchants and Beggars
Of Buyers and Sellers
Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia
In the hands of the old *****
The sunlight baking
Bags of turmeric.
Suspending the scent
In the minds of men.
Capering clouds of black and grey
And the sudden squall
Stirring the monotony
Of the customary.
The pirouette of rain
The one that excites the plainest of the plain
Painting the whitewash with shades of grey
The chalky walls
Dust
Moist corriander
And the relief of earth
Conciliating
So rewarding
For the ruins of the bare sun.
This flashback into my soul
Where all my senses seem to be so awake.
The feel of the wooden veranda
Scent so inexpressible
My eyes devouring the sunset
Tasting the heavens
Hearing it all.
Feeling it all.
Oh the plight of poets
The ritual to end a poem.
Painful.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
I
The shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay:
And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her ***** clung,
A Mother’s song the Virgin-Mother sung.
II
They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng.
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother’s song,
Blest Angels heralded the Savior’s birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.
III
She listened to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she pressed:
And while she cried, the Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.
IV
Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music’s loudest note, the Poet’s story,
Didst thou ne’er love to hear of fame and glory?
V
And is not War a youthful king,
A stately Hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him Earth’s majestic monarchs hail
Their friends, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh.
VI
Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And wherefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father’s tears his child!
VII
A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
He kills the sire and starves the son;
The husband kills, and from her board
Steals all his widow’s toil had won;
Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.
VIII
Then wisely is my soul elate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease:
I’m poor and of low estate,
The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn:
Peace, Peace on Earth! The Prince of Peace is born!
2.7k
That brief moment
Walking into the shaded apartment to find you reading in flannel
And everything in me jumps
The camera obscura of my iris snaps,
Suspending you in amber light.
The tapered elegance of your fingers across a page
A glint of Versailles blue-gold eyes
And fortified ramparts of your shoulders.
I will carry this vestige with me
In a petticoat pocket
Until we are old
And your arms do not lift me as you just did
The last strand of your hair is silver
And your cheeks sink with age like your father’s.
These small gems of youth
Of promise
To keep in a sleeve until they are needed
And the mirrors show reflections we cannot change
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 9:11 PM UTC
Patience
(no one noticed)
hardly moves its wings
Playing the atmosphere's
instrument
Poetry
Plying
well-known
Instincts....
Sensing lift of thermals
curling physics
with feather tips
Hanging
motionless
effortless
in love...
...its own
dynamic
unaware
Precursor of imagined--
tracing wind
taming flight
suspending
beauty
Soaring
in the failing words of winter
Slaying
energy
in disbelief of air
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC
trending
trending
trending
the collective's trending
is unending
this form of trending
has proven to be mind bending
trending
trending
trending
it's as though the collective's trending
won't be ending
nor in the foreseeable future
will it be suspending
trending
trending
trending
would appear that the trending
is always ideally lending
to the collective's
trending befriending
trending
trending
trending
aren't tales of trending
made for those
who enjoy the extending
of a happy ending
trending
trending
trending
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC
Under this silky whiteness,
Cloaking a hominid likeness.
This frosty awareness,
This thought-suspending numbness.
Dare I lift this veil?
Dare I solve this blanched myst’ry?
Dare I expel disbelief?
Dare I ***** anticipation’s hope?
The whispers of curiosity,
The desire to make visible,
The familiar face of serenity,
Render the boundary risible.
Under that shameful shroud,
(The face is familiar no more,
Serenity submits to Torment.)
Finality abounds.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
I place my bet
on strings pulled
by the sun.
crows in their
black plumage
are silhouettes
suspending
mustache sunset.
my pockets are
empty—
no lint,
crime
or cash.
I am broken
but will not run
into the darkness.
no
let me maunder
with the ephemera
of passing day.
I need a friend to
talk to.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 4:22 PM UTC
I'm
F
A
L
L
I
N
G
Through thin air,
Nothing is suspending me.
Falling.
Falling
No one notices.
And then,
I'm gone.
Fallen
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC
They asked me to define how hours
could see lovers
calling out for water
when they turned life's wheel
of loveliness.
So, I drew an outline of burning fire
around the flower of miracles
growing in between a love
that knows no rest.
I showed them letters containing precious memories
as reminders of horizons
with rising answers
only considered by the sea.
Then, I became a still small voice
and one by one
showed them blank pages
now filled with moments
love had somehow
called out to be free.
Hours stirred two hearts
suspending them inside their own music
where they flew on wings of delight
in quiet ecstasy.
Until time ached to feel no more
and could only send in hours
to fill those blank pages
with the answers
to why lovers called out for water
to protect the love
that grows
between you and me.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
We are to come and leave and not return,
But hand our secret scroll to those who'd be.
I'll pass the writings on which passed to me,
And shrink to blackened ash with flameless burn.
As far as those who'll be--of whom will earn,
That secret scroll containing some of me,
Quite like yet quite unlike, in no way me--
They'll mourn for I'll have gone and won't return.
To live on in a heart or memory,
Is not living or life or anything,
But trite consoling words of sympathy--
A metaphor or best a simile--
suspending truth, and grief that loss will bring.
In truth no more am I nor shall I be.
(C)2015, Christos Rigakos
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
A Sky Of Melted Butter,
Harbors The Setting Sun,
Suspending It Above,
Flustered Waves Of Blue
I Smell Like The Sea
The Sails Against The Sky,
Have Turned To Silhouettes,
The Gentle Waves Caressing,
The Edge Of The Horizon
I Taste Like The Sun
Seabirds Have Flocked Together,
And Are Now Flying Back To Shore,
Slumber Has Teased Their Eyelids,
For The Jaded Waters Are Vast
I Look Like The Stars
The Moon Has Floated Upwards,
Casting An Ivory Shadow Below,
The Wind Has Now Become Calm,
The Blue Waves Have Become Still
I Sound Like The Breeze
The Salt Encrusted Wind Cooled;
The Sky Was No Longer Gold,
Sails No Longer Dragged Their Cargo,
Across The Blackest Of Ocean Waters
*If You Were To Touch My Soul,
You Would Only Grasp A Word.*
Home
© Sydney Victoria 2014
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
I am in the change
the shift
in between winds of soulful words
suspending in their own reasons
I cannot gather to understand them
How I waste to wonder through it
as fleeting Muses cease their inspiration
all the while delicate time passes
what quiet hours fall into me
pouring my soul over
and over
my heart wonders
which cup will my Muse
serve me
my new words
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
I saw you between buildings
working in sun
network of light
letting liberty reconnect.
Wires buzzed
high voltage streamed inside them
darkness questioned its own shades
sparks dripped into night's gulf.
Fervent as LIGHTNING
lathering rooftops
sizzling bolts spying timber
smothering scars.
I saw you tunnel down
infinite pure light
shattered by solitude
entering bold, courageous
down into dark mines
soldier who never stumbles
suspending notes caressed in silence
protecting seeds, engaged by yearning
I watched you grow
twisting up
gnawed by roots and rocks
begging for water
circling wider than galaxies
melting skin, taking down drapes
promising to visit me
in tombed up places
dizzy as smoke
curled up by desire
amnesia searching for identity
drafted by absolute fire
changless architect
rerouting for change
vicious as dawn rising in Saturn
gentle as mist leaking from
her melted eyes
swallowing his compassion
vanquished revenge to steam
her savage attack whirled
in amorous sheets.
I felt you unveil arousing
every heartsick wish
blasted down by wailing wills
puddles of December gathering
reflecting on above
while drowning below
who is it speaking kindness
after rippling screams uprooted trees
volley my soul
back and forth
between worlds
consume this spark
encircle your breath
with goading light
dancing inbetween
two ruined buildings
I listened to rocks slurring for mountain
I heard trees lust for water
I felt the cries of troubled voices
flare across two highways
rerouted by dark and light.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
I was hanged once. Seriously. Hanged.
If you can believe it.
Stupidly and innocently the rope was
Slipped over my head.
The waggon was pushed out,
Suspending me twisting slowly turning
With untied hands. Can you see me?
I was as good as gone.
You'll have to believe me.
Take my word.
You can't look it up.
Seriously.
You can't find any account.
Nobody reported it.
All the same.
I was hanged.
Left like Eastwood.
But, then we were opaque.
Not like now,
With clicking phones.
There aren't enough incarnate spirits
To be snatched away by the number of photos.
Everything is snapped.
Everyone should shudder.
If you think with a click you're good to go,
You're good as gone.
As reported.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
the tides are impossible these days
moving in and out of focus,
leaning and falling back from shore
clawing the ground as they're pulled.
they sift through the rocks
like a child looking for shells
or burying his feet
as deep as he can in the gravel's warmness
before the cold comes for his ankles.
the water moves faster than before--
now that the moon's in an ice chest
shedding dust and gravity
somewhere in a ship far from shore--
and the men who caught it
have hopelessly lost their way,
victims of an all-too-sudden high tide
and violent, rushing winds.
it turns out it didn't take much
to take the silvered old rock down.
moonlight is spun like a web
down in pillars to the ground and water,
sticking to sea spray and the clouds,
suspending in the air.
a couple of fishermen caught it
while filled half-and-half
with sleep and moonshine.
they said it wandered near the edge
of the cliff where night meets the day
and when they threw the net up
the moon's web got twisted, tangled in rope
and pulled it right down with them.
some light floats on.
broken strands of silk take to the air,
still attached to the ground and water,
though the connection's cut at the other end.
they're waving away today, in the sky,
like a luminous greeting:
hello, or goodbye.
people watching onshore say it's pretty
to see the moonlight like this--
they say it looks like a field of tall grass
pushed sideways and whirling,
carrying fireflies and ladybugs away
from the overgrown--
and they feel like the insects
buried deep in their own glowing forest,
talking to the sea and moonlight with waves.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 2:54 AM UTC
Deep inside my Tum
Whether I am lifting a Van
Storm clouds above
A damp weatherman
Tension hooked in by the side
trampoline
suspending the moon
in our wildest dreams
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC
Pendulum hours spring slow forward
seasons swaying trigger festivals
and the dancing banners
on windy streets
spell sales
for slack jawed jugglers
eager to pedal wears to the weary
under the growing sun of a dieing season.
I am a beast in the cage of these streets
one way bars holding back barbarism.
My snarling is better suited for the trees
my guttural bark out car doors at street performers
better suited for stick beaten drum circles
spinning madly under the moon.
I lap from the sewer grates like a lost dog
too proud to die their like my hero
on a post above
to me
the raven quoth, what a bore.
Only men behind electric glass have seen me
on drunken nights
I confess my heart
and dance away my soul(s)
before their iron eye.
In this city I do not sleep
my heart glides to grassy groves
when my eyes close
to lock out the bright and unending
street lights that are suspending
my cowards heart above the darkness i still fear.
I am a child
take me to where the wild things are.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
hypnotic dreams, what are you telling me?
I feel everything, I feel myself unraveling
the beautiful ribbons suddenly choking me
I can't breathe, I can't see
the winding road ahead, me ever leaving this bed
possibilities are endless but not in my head
there's only one way or else I stray
cannot see myself set ablaze at the stake
I thought I was magic
turns out I am just a magnet for tragic endings
suspending my beliefs, diving deep
I hope I can reignite the spark in me
the sparks I bleed and not just drown in this sea
heaven watch over me
Nov 12, 2021
Nov 12, 2021 at 5:48 PM UTC
In the audio recording you sent me
An hour of touching yourself
punishment for misbehavior
you giggle and cry at the same time
With a trembling whimper
It's too late now, for a confession.
We were never so honest, as our ***
Violent, passionate
suspending reality momentarily
Life's one true sin, objectification.
And now, you are a recording.
Your eye begging Me, The Cuckoo Bird
To Free you from your own fingers
like the cuckoo bird
My religion
Only gave me one hour
To howl, at passing time.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC
Is it cold there I wonder just beneath her chest does the wind howl with a bitter sigh
is the land covered with frozen riverbeds holding back icy tears
a flurry of unused emotions hardened into ice showering everything it touches in a hail storm of self-pity
A pint of warm whiskey chips away at the frost bite numbing the boarders of your heart
but it only leads to a blizzard of regret
The harshness of this tundra burns through flesh and bone and sinks into a man’s soul suspending it in a seemingly endless winter
where longing congeals into sharp jagged shards of glacial malice
Yes it is very cold there, but I remember better times when the cool air twirled around me embracing me more like an old friend instead of passing through as an unforgiving gust that chills already achy joints
I would lay there flat on my back, and sink into the velvet snow,
indulging in bliss as I am taken in by inner warmth
Catching crystalline snowflakes with my tongue as they melt into something that tastes of something salty and sweet
ending in rapture with a shiver then a sigh
I would imagine, hope and pray to never leave her winter this home my frigid paradise
I would imagine being her absolute love the only warmth within this white abyss
No matter how cold it gets I’ll be here, I would say as I lay on my back
and stare into her pale blue skies
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
emergency repairs to broken roads,
being less than expected,
i prompt some to ask too much.
damage,
storm-related damage,
a million surrenders
by early november,
i throw my arms up
suspending the normal.
wind, waves washed out
every east-west highway,
bypassed permission -
no such thing as
waiting for a good day.
bring in the guard and
hire flaggers, rebuilders
take gravel and rock from the
brooks and rivers,
reduce the cost of me,
consider me open to
no lanes of traffic
crossed-off gates in an absence of hope.
major reconstruction,
let's have a conversation about
existing doesn't mean just fixing
wounds suffered from the storm;
some words of warning -
be careful buying stake
in a girl who's longing for
the day she'll wake up and feel
relief from drowning.
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 4:15 PM UTC
the woes
the woes
of the poets did
compound
for there were many woes
around
the woes they couldn't
surmount
woes that stayed on the estate's
mount
poets tormented by woes
day and night
and there was no respite
for their plight
the woes were never
ending
the woes not ever
suspending
the woes such as
plagiarists
taking works in pilfering
fists
so too the trolls on
patrol
on them no firm
control
woes
woes
woes
besetting
the
poetry
community
woes
woes
woes
permitted
to
act
with
licensed
impunity
woes
woes
woes
of
them
not
much
immunity
woes
woes
woes
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC