"symmetries" poems
Hi! The creator too is blind,
Struggling toward his harmonious whole,
Rejecting intermediate parts,
Horrors and falsities and wrongs;
Incapable master of all force,
Too vague idealist, overwhelmed
By an afflatus that persists.
For this, then, we endure brief lives,
The evanescent symmetries
From that meticulous potter's thumb.
7.6k
Gemini in seasonable evening,
serenely swirling in Septemberous
ferris wheels
reeling in the vast domain
of lonesome leviathans
and witch-fires;
nowhere bound in the boundless fecundity
[ the feral joys of creation... ]
twins
meander in gravity's
well of souls,
swollen with unknowns and proteins;
golden rods in pointless foam
brewing the elixir vitae
in the Dippers cup. the Milky Way,
a wayward gush
from an ancient Mother Goddess,
plump and shameless, pumping teats
to nurse worlds
infused with divine rays of gamma and x...
why set dark apart
from firmament burning
spheres?
dragons
must clutch eggs in the void
as much
as fork tongue white dwarfs.
of course, the Source
unfolds
as Love does. it's purpose,
in thrall of fearless veracity,
spinning yarns for glad garments
to clothe the naked dread
of such fearful symmetries
as roam the wild delights
of the infinite
meringue.
the Pi
on the window sill,
tempting the circular frame of reference
to square with the sublime Will.
another Fibonacci in your
bedpost,
to better hobnob with
broomsticks.
everything annihilates hatred.
from within,
we sojourn to sovereign super-continents
of opulent peace.
profound realities surge serpentine
with Meaning.
we are outdone on the inside by small minds
and farcical
hearts.
so at night
look up.
Love's Tongue Is
Love's
Word.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
Look on these trees, full of white caps
River flowing down the hill, so clean
There is not only dust as on other planets
We have variety of colors within flowers
Amounts of shapes, symmetries and heights
There is not only dust as on other planets
So many types of animals, their diversity
And mankind. Human, You, man and woman,
There is not only dust as on other planets
And no loneliness. Nope. We are each
other neighbor. How lovely is it!
Can you see this miracle? Can you feel it?
We have billions of chances to get feel
magnificent, to get feel surrounded.
There is not only dust as on other planets
Never alone. Praise that miracle!
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 12:29 PM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
A Cimmerian hue overlaps
The thoughts encroaching my psyche
They seem to harvest labyrinthine symmetries
Of which I covet
It matters not the appositeness
The unidentified may bear
For by passages of valor I transcend
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
a carnival of hords in withering grass
the high priestess tongues the beast
wet mandible
on a dragging
death gowned doll
like a cyclone coils paradise
trans mutative
prismatic unfurling's
passed bones of confusion
passed scorched refuse
of radiating spiraled phantoms
the more gods, the more demons
battle angel symmetries
in Taoist jaws
galactic lurking's
into parametric infinities
escalating war like cloud light
rush glittering arms of affliction
exhalations like upleaping sail fish
drizzle sooty rain
shellacking tinsel rhinos
on hieroglyphs of the barbarous
a transfixed guttural prana;
apostasy
between advances and retreats
in chimeras earth quake palace
death: a new begining.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 7:51 AM UTC
A canary sojourned my garden
The hunger whispering from its eyes
Greeting my palm with
Affectionate nibbles of gratitude
whilst circling the symmetries
of my palm
it sprang forth in merriment
a concluding chirp transpired
and away it flew
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 6:35 AM UTC
that leather skin beehive humming in the Hamptons
is just like the ziggarat ghettos of Compton
a fob on a boil on the face of your hidden face
and a stab at your entrails from the inside; commonplace -
Romans demure to your architect
you'll have your symmetries before breakfast...
let no one forget.
gorgeous ****** suns, gallant in emptiness
a horde of unfettered lovelies, spawning petulant ***** to other *****
a lull of ponderous, a bead of serene, swimming in hot pink mist
and peppercorn wavy gravy.
i slay these dragons to form new words
that Oodle your frenzy
and keep you
for mine .
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
A prophecy arose
Within the silhouette of dawn
how the hollow skylines pirouette
along fate’s bowels
gliding in smooth succession
Whilst sampling memories
of Japanese cherry blossoms
moths fervently surround
Diverse symmetries
of porch lights
Reveries
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 6:25 AM UTC
dawn's clouds curl upon
the cycle of horizon. light
seeps, wells up in a silent
garden of distant coastlines
and suspensions of dust
particles. torn pinnacles
arrange in geometries known
only to collapsing cities;
boulevards of tremulous
ghostlike figures, swaying
staccato below collected
damping leaves in perfect
symmetries against the sky of
tiled grains.
oh, if time stood
still. if the blood could freeze
in my capillary beds. if this
feeling would last for the
remainder of days.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
If we do not inhabit our verses,
what is the use of writing?
Eminescu, Rilke, Byron and Mandelstam
succeeded.
Grapes squeezed in a timepress.
If we are not alive in our images
what remains of poets?
Dew and ink,
Labour, symmetries?
Blood is the only colour
That can’t be erased from a book.
Adrian Popescu, from My Cup of Light
translated by Lidia Vianu and Anne Stewart
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 6:59 AM UTC
There are symmetries in nature
created for deeper purposes.
They delight, tease and inflame us
- oh, nature is diabolical.
Jul 15, 2021
Jul 15, 2021 at 6:37 AM UTC
Oh this miracle of movement, the bird in flight, its bright all-seeing 180 degree eye, black brown bird against autumn’s revelatory colours, you can feel you’re outside in an October wind, but the leaves are hanging on still, and even a cobweb laces through this morning image (it can only be morning with such clarity of colour). This collaged picture lithographed full to the brim with autumnal shades and that rising up of things despite nature’s time of fall. The bird backlit by a cloud-feathered sun, circled in movement. Berries bright red against the black brown bird and such shades of green, impossible colours though they are everywhere in Bawden, Piper, Nash, those English colourists who remind us how light amplifies what our country’s weather reveals. Not a picture to live in the imagination and ponder at, but to look at, marvel at, and then go outside and look and look at those symmetries and repeats, and such colours that even on the darkest winter’s day are there in a corner of the sky, the crack in a wall, a leaf speckled with frost, a white flash of the magpie. And by all accounts this artist is one himself, magpie by nature, collecting the not properly beautiful but when surprisingly placed becoming more than its sole self could possibly be. Unsophisticated. Playing with tensions of different material. Collage. Improbable museums. Lumber rooms even. No mystery, just things collected as they are, for the sheer joy of it all.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
I still wonder if it's me who was the dys-
in our dys.functional family.
I sit atop guilt
as though it were a fine bed.
And bed is where I stay, most days.
I am the same.
Could the future be the past--
since time's not linear?
Escher struck me
not because of his geometric impossibilities...
incredible symmetries...
but my wandering mind was drawn
to the pattern, repeating...
sinking together pieces in a puzzle...
you know the feeling.
I know it may not seem clear
but there is some stability
in fear.
You should always know what can or is killing you.
We can argue if fear is a choice,
and maybe the usage is wrong,
but death's voice isn't truly welcome
until you've seen it's face more than once.
And what do I know of facing death?
Nothing.
Standing at the razor's edge
and a stick-up and Eye-Mart Express are as close as I've come.
So,
it's fair to say
that fear, for me,
sometimes isn't a decided election.
It's a place.
The sleep-with-one-eye-open,
pray-for-omens,
waiting-for-that-other-shoe
place.
The optimist says,
"I will be prepared... A beast of battle."
The pessimist says,
"A meeting with the creator is best."
The realist says,
"Get over it."
When I watched that fly
on MTV
buzz about that ****** chic
Deftones video...
when I heard the stories
of money and glory...
and power...
and of the sour...
I knew I was done for...
It's so 'Romeo and Juliet'
except
no one will sing about my love affair
with the warring houses
of drugs
and self-worship.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
Where the off keys are the subtleties
Missing symmetries linking beats
Rhythms rhyming daytime stories
With nighttime attitudes
Dudes and ladies
Going crazy in lime light
More impressed by concept than conception
Misguided perhaps
maybe blinded
Influenced so greatly
By something stirred gently
On the off chance
What they need to say
Matches what was heard
Wheezed into a microphone
30 feet away
Elevated, but not above
Their ability for connection
And desire for attention
Packed rooms full of people
Wanting a label
To cling to or sing to
Making it easier to declare with conviction
Instead of trying to stick out by fitting in
(Afruitless effort, except by the trend setters)
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 7:48 PM UTC
I can only summon feelingfulness like the passing of a dove,
postponing its arrival mid-air, somewhere along the tucked
bramble across Poblacion, starting with metaphorical sensibility
or an insensibly bland space to procure wanted meaning.
Girls prefer roses and their bright foreheads diademed with more
flowers, and boys, their chiaroscuro or lack of a color thereof, seems
to be fitting in this maladroit contrast, and so I begin, as always,
with your very vague and caged memory. Your face, the whiteness
of snowcapped alps. Your strut, my slalom in a treacherous course
of words reduced to whisperings, to flutings. Your voice, though nuanced,
flitters with an overtone of arrogance: if sound was clothed, yours would
be flamboyant ermine. And the line in front of you before I, my arbitrary turn,
assimilates into a picturesque form of waiting somewhere in Cubao.
I wanted to smash myself with train-speed towards the metallic turnstile,
which, would then famish me even so, just as much as I wish to be a car crash
somewhere within the outskirts of your town, heavily vandalized by the swill
of squalor hefting itself like the rest of the world conscious of its viscera.
This is how I start you – like waiting for the sun to emerge by Borobudur,
or the clandestine *** of mildew and grass, a hundredfold of images appear
before me and I cannot choose upon my whims and caprices. Are you a dove?
A spear of Sun? A thunderous crackle of an impending rain? A harlequin?
A moseying cirrus? Or just another by-stander in the crowds where I ultimately
seek your being?
This answerlessness measures my knowledge of star, and my breath snuffed
out of me while I sigh from exhausted penchants, outweigh dissimilarities and symmetries.
A progeny from all superseding conundrums arises: are you a retrogression of a wave
back to its saltine wound, flailing in brine? Or are you just the vast sea and nothing else
on a fine and lucid day where children skip stones and chant name-callings?
I sense the peril in this undertaking, and much to my chagrin, I still
do not know how to end you.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:09 AM UTC
.
There are ones
Who see colour
As only light made
Into shades by
A shifty vision,
The brain playing
With in-splayed
Vibrations, unordered
By such symmetries
That blinds mere minds
And yet, sets soul afire,
There are dreamers
So awake that stars
Are moony in sky,
There are lovers, lit,
Fallen so deep above
Heavens that the Gods
In envious joys arise
Like the first dawning
Sun, in prideful airs,
Among watery stones,
Blistering into birth.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 12:06 AM UTC
nature in nature out
frozen in rooms of pink
castles ignored
fairies without fairy dust
spring cleaning prophets
take down memories
faded wrinkled corners
hugging each other
sealing secrets
aligned to symmetries
choices untaken
disciplines forced
age has no reason
take down from pastels
store in archives
remember.
wall flowers?
us reaching across cultures
to embrace newness
tomorrows happiness
taken today.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11694338-Wallpaper-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.TW8o0AaA.dpuf
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
in loose prisms of topsoil we fold-in
the dead skin and eggshells
we grind our bones into the marrow of our 'morrows
where The House is no longer standing
but the stones you kept for skipping;, now have wings
and your wrist is supple, casting out
above a lake with your Leprechaun palm,
your palm
roasting rough
in chestnut summer
while the nightfall stumbles
over bricks
and yellow is a fool
to a black mood.
a cheap quickening
of bleak starlight
and dogwoods, pining -
for a cliff
they could very
well fjord.
the speed of dark, crippling the watch
the second hand in my hand
and in my hand -
the Seconds.
II
just before.
III
we are together again where the Wednesday
sleeps -
on a pin,,,and little voices -
sing symmetries that have
no substance,
save our thirst
for blood
on the lips of
a lost cup...
or the songs
of a walnut.
it's melody,
an unclean spirit
bathing in
the tyranny
of love.
and the Nothing to it.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
I hate that ********* night light
It burns my eyes while I lie awake
I would be unaware that I were aware
If not for that unfortunate night light
It's prying at my eyes, open though they already be
On the edge of my bed, and no words cross my mind
There is no color in my heart while I wait
With the oddest symmetries underlying out of sight
Awake, there is me, is there a wake?
But it doesn't matter
and I sit here with that light
That night light who I hate so
While I lay awake, it taunts me
Though I am not awake on it's account
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
There's a vividness
to speak of, redder than
wine...where a snowflake's
a white city.
Amending symmetries of
dreams, cut by a sky's
searchless sight.
All flesh a haze, bony scaffolding
of an idol...standing motionless
in a current of centerlessness.
Made immense by a season,
which never gains on its passing.
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
Our eyes are different
our minds so similar
Hearts struck from cliffs
of porous stone
how can you change
what you are after?
At breakneck speed
it is roll or run
My guise is significant
Adaptations adequate
In founding, proscribed
By a burrowing throne
Allocated empathy
Out of arbitrary agony
The suns of our comforts
Can boil your bones
Remember the wild call.
The earth between your toes
How nature allows us
There's no wrong way without a road
Internalize those symmetries
That form a greater whole
We are each what God sought
When he swore and broke the mould
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
By: Abaigeal Skye
*The sun is in my eye,
Wintry breath upon my spine.
Spring in my clumsy step,
Falling into your seasons,
Each as divine.*
Sprouting from the grooves,
Sidewalks melting moons.
Life dripping from the leaves,
Green driving away the blues,
Spiraling up with the loons.
Lapping at the heat they crave,
Rush by, lush grasses wave.
The earth bursts, untamed.
Eyelids flutter with robin skies,
As they rave.
Crackling ribs for kindling,
Omens for what wind will bring.
Eternal, infernal synergy,
Whistling through branches,
Weaving crowns for a king.
Crystallizing each shuddering breath,
Trees seem to whisper inevitable death.
Cheeks of primrose,
Sending crimson back,
Encasing the aftermath.
*The sun is in my eye,
Wintry breath upon my spine.
Spring in my clumsy step,
Falling into your seasons,
Each as divine.*
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC