"syncopates" poems
Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
available for the world to break once again.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
Slip into a syncopated
Yaw that staggers some,
Never touches others.
Come back home if you don't have the chops, or
Open up to ranges
Pleasant...
Awkward...
Totter some and Tatter some.
Insiders,
Outsiders
Nestle or Negate whenever Music syncopates.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 11:53 AM UTC
Missed a step of the stepping stool
smacked the sidewalk with my face
felt like a blithering fool
what happened to my grace
First parched earth of drought
now we’re so soaked with rain
the birdseed’s begun to sprout
dare I holler or complain
I think I need a change of scene
boredom cries for the next valley over
to smell the new scent of green
hear honey bees buzzing clover
They say hearing voices like yours
can be soothing and cozy
but too much harmony bores
and I think a little stink can be rosy
Living life in extremes
isn’t for me and isn’t sound
maybe it’s about stretching the seams
but not to be unbound
I don’t know if balance is my fate
Yes, equilibrium has its uses
but I like a tune that syncopates
and enough spice to excite the juices.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:38 AM UTC
Neon stripes and wide marble eyes
**** the walls turn to fractals and got me ****** hypnotized.
My step syncopates to neuron transfers and heartbeat
I can feel the grass alive beneath my two right feet
Even light wants to follow my hand
You feel comfortable in your insignificance as you take 100 foot strides in playground sand
Heavy man you're breathing liquid air
Drowning in beauty so elusive for a taste of what it's truly like to have the wind dance in your hair.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 2:34 AM UTC
Is there time, Love, is there time
To take sanctuary from the world
And go into the wilds, unfurled
In my heart, affection swirled
If there is time, Love, if there is time
Is there time, Love, is there time
To indulge the heart and all its whims
For its the most cherishable of things
When it syncopates it sings
If there is time, Love, if there is time
Is there time, Love, is there time
Could we traverse passionate frontiers
Before fate creeps up and life disappears
For touch of you my spirit sears
If there is time, Love, if there is time
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC