"susurrus" poems
Let me be your Isis
I'll scavenge the land for the pieces of you they've stolen
and fit each and every piece back together with delicate fingers
Your kintsugi astounds me, each and every break so beautiful
It is not my reflection I admire as my eyes dwell along and ride
the golden rivers you try and keep from me
Let me be your Isis
let me see the melancholy spill from your eyes
the snap of your spirit when my words are like sin
I am not perfect, and I will drown in my folly like gin
down my father's throat
my father does not know how to swim.
But your pain is like a gasp of breath sometimes
when it reminds me that you are of the firmest birch tree
your bark does not bend to just any wind
and the symphony of susurrus that accompanies the midnight
breeze, escaping the ivory lamina of your leaves, each note
leaping off of every blade like a dancer,
are NOT composed by just any sultry sylph
Let me be your Isis
Be my Osiris, a masterpiece
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
If trees be poems by the earth
In avid joy I read each one
Florets writ in fragrant verse
Inked with beams of the morning sun
In shade, a fruit, a whiff of air
I rest beneath wide branches spread
A cavort of emerald canopy
Bestows comfort upon my breath
I lean against the bark, recline
And think of how it stands in time
Through tunneled years it's stoic trunk
Stands proud against frost and rain
Drops it's leaves to nakedness
Till spring dresses in green again
On but an arm, the koel sings
'Tis home to birds that weave a nest
Haven to sojourners ache
Clasp around, hold close to breast
I trace the names of love engraved
Now forgot; asleep in graves
On felled bark my soul I pen
On papyrus the past I feel
The murmured songs of sentiments
In susurrus as branches kneel.
Nymphs would hide or fairies entreat
With fireflies in silver light
Creatures tip toe on their feet
Lithe, in the darkness of the night
In engraved lines meaning I see
What better song, what poetree?
Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky - Gibran
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
*He is
My Azure Dreambird,
(The Sovereign of Songbirds)
That soars upon
Skies of Resonance.
His sapphire wings
Weightless by valor,
Hallowed every doubt
That
Cursed my shadow
Until credence reigned.
He is
The Musicality of my Soul,
That I climbed as
A stairway
Into
Gates of Aether
Upon
Porcelain keys
Of an impearled
Grand Piano.
His sound emittance
Ascended in frequency until
Pitch became subliminal
For height
ceased to be
Height,
And depth,
Ceased to be
Depth,
It was
Ineffable harmony
And resolution became effortless
With
The touch of his hand.
He is
The Wings of the Dawn,
A Sweeping Rapture
That raised
Me
Beyond the stratosphere
Until graced by
Untarnished embrace
Of the Baptistery of the Sun.
I burst
From Light’s Intemerate Womb,
Renewed and
Gazed upon Terraqueous Gaia
Then for once,
(Yes, for all eternity)
Succumbed to
Faith in the Transcendence
Of his tender affections.
Woe was existence
Before His lightwaves radiated
Within my heart,
For when I purged my pulse
Of that quaking rhythm
And
Hollow cries
Upon his ears,
He stood moved
And remained
Doughty in his devotion
To me.
In that moment
I fathomed his soul
Glistened
O, for he had not forsook me.
I bear a pilgrimage.
One sought to be
Heard,
Seen,
Felt,
Breathed,
And
Divined
By my
Once
Somnolent spirit
Been
Roused
By the incendiary thew of
His ardor.
My revenant soul
Hath emerged from
The Chrysalis of Time as
The Apotheosis of Astral Flame
(A Reverberation of the Cosmo-Plexus of Love)
That since
The Days of Time Immemorial
Guided by the
Whisper of the stars,
I now cleave
To that celestial susurrus:
To the solace buried beneath
The Soil of Afflicition
(For anguish was all I knew)
In repose
Yet yearning to be
Resurrected
In The Dream of Acquisition,
To for eternity behold
The timeless fervor
That doth layeth
In His heart*
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
In spring, green along the river
amid ancestral foothills, we walk deer trails
wild in the woods of scented pine
of silver sycamores, silken barked
stark, they pale against bluest skies
their new leaves green and glistening
we are listening for songbirds, for a language without words
transfixed, through this portal, reborn in this world
warm winds speak sweet and susurrus of spring
melodious they sing, leaving far behind
the cold, the dead of winter.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
you and i are split skin. split skin in a cave.
shadow craven sparks in the nonplus of our one up
you and i are this djinn, white marble lathe of sparrows ,
ravenous larks upon our dumb lust, such
universal slit wind. It's bent in a wave.
hallowed pavilions, susurrus the rhombus
of love's knave
who cuts up.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
If I die
turned hard and cold
not given a chance to grow so old
Bury me not
six feet down the ground
For I won't hear
no susurrus
no sound
If I die
pale and lifeless,
no more failing
on life's test
Burn me not to ashes,
I'll leave no trace
Keep me in mind
not in a vase
If I die
lying in my coffin
a candle lit night
a lot of people staring,
cry for me
but not for long
Be firm as my body
Be that strong
If I die
and years have passed
forget me not
please not that fast.
Remember
my name
and who I've been
Let me die
but not forgotten.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 4:48 AM UTC
Words
words to say
words to say for those who possess a quiescent soul
vibrations forming into susurrus breathes,
spun by Love.
Love is an oxymoronic, overly celebrated,
seemingly sempiternal happening that is eternally ephemeral,
lasting
a
very
short
t
i
m
e.
Love speaks with words that no matter how
dis-joint-ed
sound wonderfully euphonious -
a sonic euphoria
a billet-doux made from absolutely nothing
but
the very
rawness
of being absolute.
Love is a little more than
chimerical.
Love is a clinquant aubade that requires redamancy.
redamancy.
Love requires love to exist in it's eternal shortness,
to exist
in the mere seconds that are allowed
to exist in the ephemeral time frame of a blip in space
of decades and decades that no one will rememeber and that will not matter to the masses
and
will mean
absolutely nothing to everyone else except
for the one that is awake enough to look directly at
Love.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
Even he was envious of her solitude. She was never not cloaked in the warmth of her own bubble. She was consoled in a demure susurrus, and never missed a kiss with the mist of air, alluring every inch of her body to coalesce with ethereality. Her skin shivered. So did his. How did the stillness linger amidst the commotion, the row, the function? It was inevitable. He almost believed she was only a feast for the sightseers, a prey for those who despised idleness at night. But good God, did she move! Did she swing her fingertips in a melodious number! Did she blink her emeralds to blind those with unfortunate, degraded gems! And did she turn to look and lift the corners of her lips, into a form that could be misconstrued, both if it were and were not responded! And did his body defy his mind, when he could only see her go, and witness his failure to speak and his success to listen. And did his mind defy his heart, when the path to his love was obstructed by the thoughts of no one but his own.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
I shouldn’t have eyes for you,
What ripples do you cast?
I would describe you in 100 words,
A sempiternal love elixir isn’t necessary,
I would hold the umbrella because your dry palms deserve to be held in my hand.
We could live nearby a lagoon,
The petrichor would be perpetual.
In the off seasons we could migrate to a bungalow,
The mellifluous of the wooded area would strengthen your leisure time.
During our elder years we could rest our days away in a lighthouse,
The scenic view of the offing would be the denouement.
Revamping the future is the main goal.
Don’t act demure around me,
Be you around me.
Soon, I will susurrus “I love you.”
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
A nascent society gluttonously feeds
on the palingenesis of hyaline paragons
forged by stolid and archaic eremites.
A whilom friendship leaks a susurrus
of tristful regret,
while pernicious ***** maunder
puerile attacks on munificent
intellectuals who only wish to
augment risible souls and divagate
from vertiginous roads too often traveled.
Such a chimerical respect for tradition
is too rigid to be broken alone.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:09 PM UTC
she was hopping hopscotch with the children in the sunset lawn,
At the dusk her pellucid eyes would glare the intense orange..
She was hopping from one rectangle to another as he was peering love through his eyes,
The sunset veils her shadow:
Her hair vacillating on her chin and his eyes blink on her subtle smile,
She sprawled her legs at the end of the box that is drawn on the land,
She sees the rested stone through the space of her legs,
And her immediate turnabout titillated him,
horripilations tickled his flesh,
Sprawling,spanning and love placating:
Thus Susurrus smile spake to him,
She Shouted a few flying syllables as she picks the stone in the celestial joy,
Subtle zephyr billowing on her confluenced lips,
The evening zephyr as cold as her breath,
He saw her only once,but he remembers every subtle detail infinitesimally..
He only saw her once,but he couldn't forget the voice of her eyes forever...
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
You speak too quietly that I forget you are suffering.
You move too silently yet your touch is deafening.
Your gaze burns heatedly, it should be frightening,
yet your touch comes too gently, still terrifyingly captivating.
I reach blindly, caught up in the whole of you, searching.
I grasp tightly, not knowing what I found, yet still wanting.
I am confused. I do not know the depth of your soul, the extent of it.
I cannot comprehend it. Yet I let myself sink slowly.
I am drifting. I am not afraid.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
Imagine he were a tree
See the leaves, the beautiful leaves?
See the beautiful patterns as they dance in the wind
Now imagine time is the wind
Imagine I am the child
See her so happy, see she loves the leaves?
Imagine the tree is her's and she is the tree's
And imagine time is the wind
Imagine she plays on the tree
See how she hugs it? See how she loves it?
Imagine her sorrow if the wind blew her leaves away
Now remember, time is the wind
Imagine the wind is mild
Can you see all the patterns in the wind?
Creating dances soft and mild
And yes, time is the wind
Imagine the dances
See all of nature join in
Hear the song that nature gives us
The susurrus of the leaves in the wind
Imagine the leaves a-blowing
Imagine all the patterns in the wind
The leaves; they're leaving, they're going!
Recall, what was the wind?
Imagine the tears of the child
As she tries to catch her leaves again
She can not bear to see then going
Oh, time, you wind!
Imagine the sorrow in her heart
Running, running; never stopping again
But she can't stop them, but only gaze
Upon the patterns in the wind
Imagine her running, oh, the child
See her stumble, and fall to the earth?
See her dirt stained tears as she watches her love, her life,
Vanish in patterns in the wind
Imagine, as she lies in the dirt
As she lets the tears of sorrow run down her face
See, the wind brings back a leaf; just one leaf
Oh time, you wind
Imagine her joy, when she sees the leaf at her hand
See she hugs it, she loves it, and plants the seed within
She wants to see her tree, but growth is in time
And time is in the wind
Imagine her joy, imagine her peace
When she sees her tree again
See the leaves, the beautiful leaves
See how they dance in the wind
Imagine the child is happy
Because she now has he, the tree
Dancing with leaves and the wind
As she watches all the patterns in the wind
#14_10/8/13
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Hounds
The hounds are barking again outside my window.
they are snarling and snapping with teeth of ice
that rips my tears into a tundra of frost.
The indifferent air carries their hunger
under the unhinged door in my head;
a gale is coming, feral and wild.
I am not comfortable in my head right now;
Chain smoke to keep my hands to myself.
I wander through ash and fire: what have I done?
Planets
I am helpless against my misfiring neurons;
numbed against myself and you;
Pills streak like comets across the bed.
In the sky the stars peer in confusion,
planets misalign again, a sun implodes,
Earth groans and shifts, somewhere something dies.
Swirling galaxies light up the synapses
Serotonin battles amphetamine
Orion stalks the twins and unsheathes his sword.
Submersion
I need some water on my feet, my head;
submerge me in the Lethe and bathe me in forgetfulness
the room grows hot and I swallow another star.
I am swathed in your concern, smothered by your regard.
I need clear air to think,
the night and the susurrus of hibiscus bathed by the moon.
Inside my room in my bed
white noise and white sheets wrap me,
bundle and bind me tighter than panic.
No, I will not go outside tonight.
The hounds are barking outside my window-
they come for me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
II
Envy darts her wicked tongue
So slick with black desire
To chase the blood from passion and suffocate
The heart of ire
III
Inertia places her hips
Over barren seas
And drinks the lust to fill
Her
Insatiable greed
IV
Solace rests his blunted fangs
Too late
On torpor mottled skin
And echoes haste through empty halls
Still labyrinthine vessels
I
Curiosity ensnares
Mortality, the wander self
With susurrus pulse and love
Drives caution to the slaughter
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
I am not a poet.
I am the air before a storm.
The weak in your knees.
The smile on your heart.
I am. I am not a poet.
I am the aftermath of sin.
I am the godlike sworn into pages.
Scripture is my tongue, to fold like weak genes
That strike to be like matches
I am beckoned fire. I am not a poet.
I am not a believer.
We were raised by the last unfortunately; I do not believe in
“leaders” or “followers”, I do not believe in “society” or “democracy”
This generation is lost.
I do not believe in found.
I do not believe in freedom.
When we are only “free” to be everything but our souls.
The truth is…I do not write poetry.
I birth it whenever God needs a favor so
When my pen bares fruit know it’s divine nature refined.
I define nature. HOLD UP. WE define nature.
Eve am I in the garden of Eden, feeding the Adam in my spirit
That speaks in tongue,
I taste the susurrus sounds swishing like a serpents swearing
Bite into this forbidden, swallow sin, make ink stain of this metaphor
On the fabric of your perception
The truth is, I do not write. I create life that’s been a part of God’s plan
Since sonogram; my divine right.
I am not a poet.
I am a contradiction.
I am everything including nothing.
I am the song the caged bird sings. Once it’s freed.
I am the silence before a bomb.
I simply do not believe.
This generation was raised by the last, but I would rather raise hell
Then praise heaven to be a place where the gates are too white to embrace the black
Of the sin I’ve committed
I am not a poet.
I write because I want God to hear me.
This Chose ink is the closest voice from heaven like, blessed cursive
Curses curved like
Sacred scribble
Revised, I’ve rised, correction, raised.
I revise like rewritten history; I’ve witness lies, yet mystery
Lies within the truth, somehow.
I’m no doctor, but if I were, I would prescribe patience.
I just want God to hear me, I will listen…but for now
I am sincerely seeking the God within self, I believe in
Other.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
Incendiary asperity:
The world's existentiality
Agony, the Merciless & Mercenary
Scourging me entirely.
The Angst of the Aeons
Are the pedigree, the genealogy, the history borne to emancipate Me as a Vessel of Sanctity
For the valiant souls
Are the souls of transcendence, who revere in remembrance
The Amour of the Yore
My Vestibule Heart
Expands, contracts, being consecrated demands just as
Starry-Wombed the Cosmos, we
Must grow, burgeon through our learning & yearning, deserving & pining for the Promise of Morrow
For we were not formed
To wallow in sorrow.
As I gaze to the heavens
O, ***** and Gomorrah I remember
The Wife of Lot looks back forever: emblazoned as a Petrified December,
Then Fire & Sulphur descended, mankind nearly ended;
What is the lesson?
Of faith we are descendants.
Why do you
Roil my ravaged and brutally savaged soul?
Must bitterness be the wage for days spent having prayed
On my knees, for armistice, by The Empyrean One’s decree?
Though I have fallen,
I shall rise up
For the Fate’s Auric Visage radiates light upon the leaven,
Dost ferment the flesh dominating mine spirit.
Hearkening to
The susurrus of the Sovereign of Songbird’s Sacrosanct Love.
Let the Ethereal Tides of Time
Bathe me in baptismal & divine tribulation, trial
For a writhing while,
Sacrality is a war,
The Primal Instinct’s Immemorial Diminuendo.
Where has fake paradise of the Sylvan Shine
Those forested, emerald Eyes
That glisten in mine dreams gone?
Your visage twas my divine.
Though I am forlorn,
The Cosmo-Plexus of Empyreal Love hath sworn
To the Days of Yore
That I shall soar once more.
To my Enfettered Soul,
Excelsior.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
Like an upside-down stage curtain, steam rises
over a half-empty cup of ginger tea,
obscuring the dreary view of yet another rainy day.
The woman leans closer to the window
(she’s certain there’ll be an oily stain where her nose
makes contact with the icy glass).
Raindrops are mutating over cracks in the window,
their shadows filling in the blank
blotches in her eyes, camouflaging the liver spots
(themselves otherworldly mutants)
over her hands— sewerage on plumbers’ gloves.
She drinks her tea and whimpers his name.
Scalpel-blade shivers creep over her back,
over the folds in her pantyhose;
chalk marks on the road become visible—
she remembers it like yesterday
when she cradled his broken body in her arms:
police car and ambulance sirens
conjured a dust devil that reeked of young death;
it clung to her designer clothes,
and complemented the purple stench of brake fluid,
petrol, and the god-awful breaths
of bystanders who’d gathered like a swarm of flies,
the soft susurrus of their conversations
intensifying till pencil-lipped, beast-like groans,
ready to feed on the hole in her soul,
salivating to take a bite of grief, and replace it with remorse;
she recalls the sound of her car keys
on the hot tar, which took a chomp out of her left knee,
and warm blood seeping into her every fibre.
Steam and chalk marks fade away into the past.
In front of the refrigerator,
on the grimy vinyl kitchen flooring, a ginger meows;
the woman ignores its pleas,
and reaches for the upside-down picture on the window sill.
A liver spot sprouts from her neck.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
A nascent society gluttonously feeds
on the palingenesis of hyaline paragons
forged by stolid and archaic eremites.
A whilom friendship leaks a susurrus
of tristful regret,
while pernicious ***** maunder
puerile attacks on munificent
intellectuals who only wish to
augment risible souls and divagate
from vertiginous roads too often traveled.
Such a chimerical respect for tradition
is too rigid to be broken alone.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:06 PM UTC
It was a green time:
a rose tree time.
Oregon spring budded children and
washed away five year goals and strategic plans.
The summer was scented with blackberry blossoms,
growing wild and thorny and sour and sweet;
They tasted of timelessness
and the utter lassitude of youth.
How charming it was to be charmed
by the low music of the chimes on the
beams of the back porch;
wine in hand, children on the lawn, blossom floating
like fairy tales on the air.
Time like a fish turning in the river
Quick smooth glint on the green water
Sun bulb flashes, then gone with a flicker.
Youth is a lot like that
Don’t blink or someone will die.
The world seems medicated today
susurrus of tires on wet pavement
while nicotine swirls like mist on graves.
The desert air collides with my memories
sharp and acrid, it ***** the water from my skin
leaving wrinkles and age like a kiss.
The past beckons
its hands are dark and translucently cold.
The blackberries are frozen in mounds of snow.
They won’t grow again.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
On Death's midnight hour I had not dream
The days hath gone away -- I couldn't deem
That the elder of these angels left the throne
And flown so sorrowfully by thee alone --
But thy lonesome soul shall limn to see
Not one hovering spirit free --
And where -- shall the asperity scythe cast
Over visions of the shadowed Past --
Of torrent of tormenting trauma
Filled with Manichaean mount and karma
Restlessly rolling down necropolis
Past foot-hills of the dread that drop polis --
Or of the sound of a susurrus winged-sylph whom soar
Yet thunder her voice in a stricken Lion's roar
And uphold herself on heavens vault
And dare to curse that its all my fault --
So what now -- what now when the worst
Is the Devil's tempest durst
To ever define me to what I am today
To ever price my soul to what I have to pay
When the final price was paid when the Lord bled fast away.
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 2:17 PM UTC
I could rip off the skies for you
and keep the brightest of stars
but nothing could match
the twinkle of your eyes
and the endless galaxies
which whirls in your heart.
my soul yearns to hold you
the divine which you are
and my heart whispers in a constant susurrus
of the cosmic celebrations
it would indulge in
upon the meeting of our souls
that are yet so far.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
My love says she likes me
because I'm such a great deipnosophist,
a sanguine fellow
whose susurrus musings
crepitate with a farrago of meanings,
a protean and hortatory munificence
that brings her to her knees
in delight.
I adore her as well
for the beatific rapprochement
she accedes to
even when we expatiate
on and on about things mercurial.
Yes, I will always adore
her lissome acquiescence
to the inexorable germanity
of the simple fact
that we're simply
head over heels
for each other,
if you know
what I'm trying to say.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
Stygian shadows devour my fall:
Incarnadine structure the greatest of all!
I fathom this flesh by transgressions been moored
In depths of iniquity forevermore.
Dreams been hallowed in glistening chest:
Thought sanctity born to be laid to rest!
Clouds of soil drape the skies,
My chalice strewn in grave on high.
Shockwaves emitted from brain do rend
In soul conviction of celestial mend,
The thew of ebony phantoms draw
Blood from heartbeat left unthawed.
A parcel wayworn and torn by winds,
And by time: the fruitage of illusory sin!
In lungs my oxygen laced and maimed,
Tis’ miasma of youth impaled by pain.
Are pining for flight the days of yore
Into the horizon of virtue’s dawn.
Yet a specter reaps my holy days
Until incorporeal, for eternity shamed.
Yet is there hope for the soul accursed?
A susurrus spins a tale of mirth:
Though once incarcerated by dirges doom,
A melisma tranced a deluged moon.
Forlorn in the skies by nebulous stars,
Yet efflorescence cocoons that body marred.
Gravity transcended by a coronal soar,
Lightness abides at aethers door!
Prophecy of the cosmos exhales at last!
Rapture divined red-shift once masked!
O extol His radiance, O relinquish your souls!
That The Transcendental shall forge ye whole!
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 11:41 AM UTC