"temperate" poems
You were born of oceans,
glacial upheavals melting
a temperate forest of raining seas
I climbed your stair step moss
to see night stars mingle with fir trees
I watched through the night
only sleeping when stars did,
when birds came echoing
through your woods,
at first light, in mists of fog
verily I slept
in forest song
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 12:33 PM UTC
We wander, we wander,
By moonlight, I ponder,
Whilst sailing my ship towards that shimmering star!
How we who are pirates, so willingly wander, both hither and yonder, no matter how far…
Methinks to myself, “Not a bad life to lead, no longer a slave to the land like before…
The wind at my back, so utterly freed, to seek out adventures, on any fair shore!”
“Why do it?” Methinks, as I stand on the prou, the breeze on my face, lightly tossing my locks,
For any a man would be called crazy now, for braving the sharks, and starvation, and pox!
Is it the gold, that calls me to sea? Where hurricanes howl, and sturdy sails rend!
Or is it the freedom that calls out to me, and gold is not more than a means to an end?
For me, ti’s the freedom, to do what I love, to sail by the light of the stars up above, And stand on my deck, under moonlight, to ponder, how we are those pirates who willingly wander…
My ship, a fine lady, a handsome thing too, a good set of guns with a competent crew, her holds full of treasures, and finest apperal, and row upon row of *** by the barrel!
So drink in the morning, and drink in the evening, and I would be lying if I didn’t say, We guzzle the *** from dusk until dawn, and me-thinks I’ll be sipping it all through the day!
Then we dance on the deck, for the music is playin, the chilly night breeze has our ship gently swayin,
And off once again, for we willingly wander, “But why?” Says I, as by moonlight I ponder…
Wouldn’t we like to at some place belong? Would dropping our anchor for ever be wrong?
Perhaps there’s a place with a temperate climate, and someone to care for a salty old pirate?
But till that day comes, I shal willingly wander, and whilst I’m the captain, by moonlight I’ll ponder…
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 9:19 PM UTC
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
9.8k
You were born of oceans,
glacial upheavals melting
a temperate forest of raining seas
I climbed your stair step moss
to see night stars mingle with fir trees
I watched through the night
only sleeping when stars did,
when birds came echoing
through your woods,
at first light, in mists of fog
I slept dreamily
in forest song
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
What is it about this chase that eludes me
That runs away from me
That seeks to experience and then flee me
Until I get hijacked by another
Consenting to my own free fall into ignorance and bliss
Conditioning myself to transmit
Abundance without reservation
Until shot at the knee
But dragged along for a while longer
By the chains I so genuinely let bind me
And even before the wounds have healed
I don't stop running, I won't stop running
Resolute in a chase that targets me
I do so unconditionally
But you can't hijack my senses
I am not an experience or experiment worth having
I am not a temporary treat to be improperly digested and defecated
I am not an amber that ignites upon initial contact
To then be mediated or extinguished if the temperate is not right
I am not the holy water that you colonize
And shower with to cleanse you
To then invalidate that sanctity
When it falls down the drain
I am not a barometer that reliefs the labor
Needed to challenge the aberrations
Of your colonized and colonizing tendencies
I exist
Physically insignificant
As the earth that birthed me and will bury me
But eternal in essence
I am a permanent presence
I am an unforgettable imprint
I am your equal, no less, no more
The moment that we mutually acknowledge
Each other's existence
I have bound myself to you
From that moment...loved you unconditionally and eternally
And expect no lesser commitment
From you to me, or any other person you meet
And even after the wounds have healed
I don't stop running, I won't stop running
Resolute in a chase that targets us
We must unleash our abundance unconditionally
And when we leave
We will have given
Absolutely everything
That we had to give
During that time of our existence
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
in the somatic nervous system,
acetylcholine (ACh) stimulates skeletal muscle, causing contraction
action potentials
in the 8am physio lecture,
the biggest on campus
crammed with nursing majors,
and health science hankerers,
public health preachers,
OT saints and angels
amino acid NTs: glutamate (+) GABA (-) aspartate (+) glycine (-)
the prof wrote on a distant whiteboard
too many complained about being lost
she made a joke about feeding *******
to mice for her neuroscience research
amines: serotonin (-) dopamine (-/+) norepinephrine (+/-) epinephrine (+)
STEM-dominated
when i'm just looking
to drop my roots
and press that
good earth into
the spaces between
my toes and
under my nails
but the grounds are a garden
of biodiversity from clippings
gathered by migrant habit-clad
founders more than a century ago
the soil is fertile it is temperate
there are water filters in most residences
there is enough here for me
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
your face went on every
milk carton in my dreams
when you went missing
& i listened to a song
about how the churches
in your hometown
were built from the martyred mahogany
of shipwrecks
i dare you
to think i can't rip
the very mood
from your temperate fingertips
when i am cold
and hell bent
on seeing you oceans away, wince
this is not an
"i saw this coming all along" poem
or a "i still wonder about the moments between breaths when your phone lights up" poem..
this is a will & a way
with brass knuckles
maybe a barehanded bludgeon
but i swear i'm trying
to sleep at night
without wondering how cold
it is in your bed.
so mother goose
tell me about
the whispered prayers
crammed into the earthquakes
you call hands
about an ennui
that speaks to me.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Somewhere between eggshells and landmines
Were the creaking floors upon which I played
Carefully, for her wrath could be detonated
At a footfall, just a bit too heavy
From a word uttered under the breath
A mess left too long in the sink.
But her embrace was warm,
Wrapping around me like sheets from the dryer
And when she put on pause her own life
To tend to me at my sick-bed,
Her eyes showed only tender love.
“My baby goat,” she would say, affectionately,
And leave a kiss upon my feverish brow.
She is a living contradiction, my mother:
Churning disapproval shattering the gleam
That she put into the hopeful eyes of a child
Just a moment before.
I lived in perpetual uncertainty,
Never knowing which mother I might see next:
The raven or the hen.
And now she looks at me with disappointment,
Wondering aloud why her children fear her.
Her capriciousness eroded away any trust
And much of the fondness as well
Her hot-blooded adoration
And her ice-cold tantrums
Have mixed so long now
All that is left is
Lukewarm like the bathwater
Left over from when the
Baby was thrown out.
Sep 11, 2023
Sep 11, 2023 at 7:16 PM UTC
Pink and blue
was the night's hue
that you looked at me
and I fell for you.
Brilliant stars
surrounding Mars
light us up
in this home of ours.
Temperate air
emits your care
and the lovely strings
that form your hair.
Lovely hand
that mine demands
no more time
can I withstand.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 10:13 AM UTC
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages ***** and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
.
Feint is the Muse,
that looks upon me,
challenging my existence
with deep baleful interest.
Its struggles hard
to contain its indifference
at the mere mortality
that I conduct.
And conduct I do.
As melody takes
centre stage
in a flight of fancy,
constrained by rhythm
temperate, steady,
and insistent.
The cadenced beat
of skins keeping time
to a fanfare of sound.
But my voice is silent,
conspicuous by its absence,
in mute violation
of speechless freedom.
The words won't come,
no song message birthed
for altruism
nor benefit of composition.
The flight of fancy stalls
and gently rocks in a cradle
of anticipation.
Rhythm drops to a meagre
pelvic twitch,
insistence foregone and forgotten
in a cynical parody
of the vocal deficiency.
Velvet drapes lick
the wooden floor stage,
and the performance
has just begun.
© Pagan Paul (14/11/18)
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
It is not wrong to be white
and to have dreadlocks
Though,
you may look like a pleb
but you offend me not
Nor would it offend
a black rastafarian man
of a temperate manner
I don't know any women
with white skin and
straight hair that get offended
by afro-caribbean women
wearing a straight weave
You're all just too soft now,
you're all just pet peaves
Stop getting offended
on behalf of other people
that don't even take offence
Excuse me,
whilst I build a fence
around myself hombre
Not to keep me here
but to keep you at bay
Cultural appropriation
doesn't exist
Cultural misappropriation
doesn't exist
You're all just
champagne socialists
You should get over it
Yes, you mate
The one that thinks
he's above
everyone
and must decide what is
politically correct
and whose life matters
In the end all this is
is a series of cultural
exchanges and we're
all wading through ****
Face it.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:16 PM UTC
tropical breeze waves washed upon a
soothsayer sand beach whispering love poems between each sigh
seagull clouds baying from above
lustrous sunshine massaging with temperate beams
beneath the waves, turtles twist in tubular turnabouts
bright coral and jaded fish teem in the reef
shimmering sunshine shining through waves
casting shadows and light amongst an oceanic spectrum
we flit through the ocean as foreigners and locals
tiny air bubbles pressing from our lips
unlike the denizens filtering through the reef
we press up to the surface and break through for breath
exiting the ocean of life, we wash upon the shore
driftboards sewn together in matrimony
our clam shelled hands interwoven in the fabric of our souls
sand pressed between to make a glistening pearl
i sit up while you lay down on our thin towels
falling asleep with an upward curve on your lips
i trace my finger down your back like pencil to paper
drawing each crevice, perfection, and blemish
on the landscape of your body
a faint breeze ghosts through the swaying palm trees
dolphins nonchalantly diving through the air and ocean
***** scuttling along the precipice of the sea and sand
waves washing the crooked edges of stones
amongst this equilibrium we are infinite
soaking up this portrait life like a sea sponge
in these moments we are infinite
moments we imagined we had
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
Not against the peaks of protest, these aurulent banners and jasperated jaspe so so jargoon! It's like I was suddenly alive, beat-stretched out of winter neige and into the pancosmic blisses of bright and ebullient spring, plugged with an agromania to abide this new formidable friend in the aeviternal beauty of she and I togetherness. Never to spill a morsel of a minute away from us again, upon the newly conjured spirits unto us both. To be amidst a cynosure of such affiation, to be in the temperate or tropical gardens whispering about our mutual love for flowers nad lists. This that precedes us, bright colliding auras in this newfound numinous kindling of us two. Watching it, making it happen- it unfolding before me made me naseaus with excitement, dithering what our next move out to be. I just wanted to kiss her face, her cheeks, put our hands together so quickly, just to let our amorous fug fill the room with silver albuminious smoke from our breaths. Miles below this, round the Earth to other places, there are the fixtures of bright and corybantic life commoved by other nations and other poised people of the light, that I should not be idle in my desires to usher myself into this grand and briguing introduction. So she said, we will play the question game, the inquiry game, we will state the mark, draw upon deep and fantastical recall, bring from our minds the most immense truths and share them, no matter now feral, or caustic, or melancholy- they will be shared until we explode with each other, our intrigues wrapped in our perfervid and amatory excitedness for one another. Too vast with wonder to be afraid of- am I such a fiend for such resplendence. That we could be vitrified in eternity in a veil of fulgurite. So at this nightfall, this acronychal of bloviating bliss, to write and wonder, incessantly in the finest of provincial matters to settle this garden where Thetis lives to be of her, two philocalists in verdant pasture, heaped with matters of the pen and the palm, in the droves of this beautiful advesperating eve- where first I wrote to you, and then I wrote you back.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
I brush my teeth all the time,
But there are days when negligence prevails,
And I can feel it with my tounge,
Something growing,
In between and on my calcium.
It isn't pleasant but I know not a more interesting development,
For I can feel something, first soft, then rigid forming in one of my most intimate places.
And a coral reef grows, in my mouth of all spaces.
Not pink, blue, or any other hue.
I know not what to do,
My mom describes it as "hairy teeth" but I know better,
If I held a fish in my mouth now he would have the warmest of welcomes,
Into my mouth he would feel at home,
A tropical retreat, eggshell white,
My new fish would try and spend the night.
If all these things continued I'm afraid I would lose my job, and my life.
To preserve my fish in his temperate reef, my mouth would never again open, I wouldn't eat, drink, or swallow again,
All this for my little fishy friend.
I would name him Bubbles,
And he would tickle my jaw with his hubby breath.
He would sleep beneath my tounge and wake me with little fishy kisses every sunrise for the rest of our lives no matter how brief-
But this beautiful relationship would end when we grow more and more hungry and our thirst teases us in this reef,
I can only hold so much salt water in between my cheeks,
Surely not enough to last mare's two weeks.
My oral reef would cut me,
And Beal together would we,
Bubbles and me.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
The original verse by Wm. Shakespeare:
Sonnet 18
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date".
_______________________
The satirical by D. Conors
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art hot, damp, sticky,
too short, too bright
and too ****** seasonal."
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 12:09 PM UTC
I lay down
your creamy expanse
unto the marble surface,
as if milk made love with
the stars in the galaxies.
I write you out
as pleasant simmer
of pulverized charcoal
and bloated glycerine.
I splatter and spread
fine dusts of Carica
in temperate motion
to touch the sleek edges
of the vanilla branches
on your person.
I hold and dip
my feathery digit
amongst rose water
to grasp the flowers
that frames your face,
like light morganites
that hail from the west.
I cast you off
as the blue sea engulfs
the life from the waters
where life swims with
stable beginnings
and whirlwinds of stories.
I finish you
by letting molten pearls
lither your dark onyx orbs,
surrounded by your lakes of gelatinous almond,
like shooting comets
finding rest on land,
as lightning's faint and close
but never quite touch.
I made you
with intrinsic detail and rawness
to give you the life
that you may never have.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 8:52 AM UTC
He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.
We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.
In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.
He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.
This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn ****** through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.
This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.
This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.
I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.
We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.
This was sea-urchin boy,
slug boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.
This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.
He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.
I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.
We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.
He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.
My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
moved away.
We didn't talk again
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
Arduous late Winter
woes amplify in February
false hope
We’re all sick
of constrictive clothes
and cold climes conducive to staying in
Cabin fever running rampant
45° t-shirts & sunglasses
everyone driving with their windows down
Hoping Vernal rituals
performed early will
hasten Spring’s arrival
I’m done
fed up
ready to move on
Going crazy in the cold
writhing to get moving unimpeded
by frigidness and snow
I’m ready for Spring
for Summer
for Fall
I’m ready for the scent
of thawing soil in the air
biking in the Sun, verdance, and flowers in bloom
I’m ready for grass between my toes
Fireflies, crickets, peepers
and warm night stars
I’m sick of frost reddened runny raw noses
sick of numb fingers and toes
and having precious few daylight hours
I’m sick of combatting glacial winds with layers,
of treacherous icy apathy,
and dreary bleak boredom
I’m sick of not being able to sit on the ground
sick of long pants, long socks, long sleeves,
and silent stagnant long nights
So, despite the fact
that I’ll pine for January
every day over 90°
Despite the fact
that when mosquitoes swarm
I’ll wish a frost would **** the little ********
and despite the fact
I’ll get just as fed up
with temperate seasons
I still want Spring
and then Summer
and then Fall
But February brings false hope
and despite the lengthening cheery sun
months still stand
between us and t-shirt weather
mild nights, grassy hills,
and emancipation from an inclement icebox atmosphere
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
Give me more love or more disdain;
The torrid, or the frozen zone,
Bring equal ease unto my pain;
The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme, of love, or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.
Give me a storm; if it be love,
Like Danae in that golden show’r
I swim in pleasure; if it prove
Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture-hopes; and he’s possess’d
Of heaven, that’s but from hell releas’d.
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain;
Give me more love, or more disdain.
2.9k
Yuletide essays read poorly of spiritual love
Save of winter concerns of cold hands and feet
But to me my warmth is from within and without
From sensitive elements and looks of expectancy
All through the year I am loved and brought home by generous arms
Holding my tender heart with simple fingers of gentleness
At Yule my fears are ones of inability to conform
Yet I know that my love will be kept holding small edifices
Of temperate thoughts and radiant hopes
Lest our love is exposed to the winter blast
It has no maintenance worries as we stay locked
Deeply embracing through the chill of the night
In the mornings there may be white blankets of snow
Which drive others to feel isolation and loneliness
But here at Yule as ever our hearts are as one
Despite the dragging pressures of the seasonal presence
New Year is a triumph of milestone epic
Fantasising our minds with future conquerings
Especially as most are timid in their push for reality
Ours has been honed to supernatural levels
Although we look deeply into bringing these to bear
We know from our hearts these are just around the corner
Upon the very road we travel
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 7:50 AM UTC
‘A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.’
And the camels galled, sore-footed,
refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the
terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and
grumbling
And running away, and wanting their
liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the
lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns
unfriendly
And the villages ***** and charging high
prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all
night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears,
saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a
temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of
vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill
beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped in
away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with
vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for
pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no imformation, and so
we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment
too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say)
satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I
remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth,
certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had
seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different;
this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like
Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these
Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old
dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their
gods.
I should be glad of another death.
2.9k
oh but my love is not
a red, red rose.
i chose to replace
every tear on my face
with dying embers
of every memory
you said you would remember.
i trust
that you must know
that i am not a summer's day,
i will never play
at being warm
or temperate.
you can berate
me for not knowing
whether i am to be
or not to be,
but forgive me
if i don't play by the rules
and exit
the right stage
in a wrong scene.
it just means
that your music
is not the food of my love.
i will continue to shove
your thoughts
under a carpet of denial.
do not throw away
any vial you might find
in my room,
you sealed my doom
when you stomped down
that staircase,
tripping on the last time
we went for a walk.
my face doesn't run
smooth like the course of love,
you should have known
this truth.
my eyes are not rose petals,
my heart not a white dove,
my love
when they say hell is empty,
they haven't been inside
my mind -
here
you'll find horrors
of a sweet kind.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
It's hit and miss the ********
We know It's there and needs a kiss
A gentle lick a temperate ****
A delicate flick with the tongue
Then more and more and firmer still
It pops up to show it's thrilled
Then hands you feel on your head pushing you deeper in her cleft
Faster still you thrill her more as she writhes and asks for more
Then finally as her body shakes you taste her as she slips away
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
2.4k