"thrumming" poems
the count starts now (tired of tired)
I read your outcry at 3:00am
posted on Facebook
you are
tired of tired
sick of sick
the only question, will it ever end...
rise this day, start another way...
count your blessing
count against all odds
for there are more than merely one
use both hands
both hands chested to feel the heart thrusting,
for living is a wondrous blessing unique
an unbelievable to believe than so many beats,
born and borne,
by you, a strength unequaled,
you a richness possessed
count that one first.
count my hands holding your shoulders.
count that as two, one for me, one for you.
more? more.
mirror. find the tiny light in each eye against a yellow backdrop.
add two more. for they are a sparking confidence of confirming.
you felt the heart thrumming
go back, feel the breathing warmth breaching forth.
add another. for now known you can never ever be cold.
wash the face, wash away the caution that sleep leaves,
the coverlet of fear that fears you not to dare,
amazing that tap water plain is sacred when it
miracle breaks you out and anoints thy forehead with pure oil like the kings of yore, be a kingly human being.
go out. do not return
until one act of kind is performed and
count that as a thousand blessed, a sum recurring recounted
walk humble and the path will always appear.
walk contented for you can be both king and servant,
there is no difference - you must be both to be the other
one.
and if you still cannot raise the head,
call me.
that would be a blessing for me
and I will hear your blessings sounds mine merge,
dear friend and no more stranger,
that is the simplest definition of our learning to count to
infinity
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 4:33 AM UTC
I am a copper wire slung in the air,
Slim against the sun I make not even a clear line of shadow.
Night and day I keep singing--humming and thrumming:
It is love and war and money; it is the fighting and the
tears, the work and want,
Death and laughter of men and women passing through
me, carrier of your speech,
In the rain and the wet dripping, in the dawn and the
shine drying,
A copper wire.
6.4k
i look at you and hot blood rushes through my veins,
making me weak,
thrumming with energy, excitement,
thrilling me to my core,
warning dangerous dangerous dangerous
the sensation envelopes my body as thoughts of you envelope my mind
you're dangerous and not good for me, but
my heart melts and I can't help but want you
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Myriad summer colours of an abstract view,
Curling up between and under the far away.
I’m lost in the mix, a melting *** full of play,
My own shade of Dark, a subtle blended hue,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.
Beautiful retro splendour, asking me to stay,
Flower in her hair, white petals, edged blue,
Curling up between and under the far away.
Smiling, she raises my soul from feet of clay,
Dark and Stormy cocktail easing me through,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.
Cuban rhythm dancers give a riotous display,
Bohemian sight and sound unleashed on cue,
Curling up between and under the far away.
We sample dreams from an enchanted tray,
Allowing hearts, minds, and spirits to renew,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Curling up between and under the far away.
©Paul M Chafer 2015
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
Eros
In my soul
Taking my breath
Thrumming in my heart
Eros
In your touch
The flitting-fondness of skin to skin
Sweat, beaded-trickle down
Salted flesh
Curly topped, flayed on satin
Eros
In your taste
The sweet tangle of tongue
Twisted-cheeky
Raspberried laughter
Eros
In the presence of your wit
The clever-confines of your mind
Depressed-displacement of your thought
Sophia
Eros
From one being to another
Thundering
Chaotic in my breast
Burning my throat
Scalding-stinging
Across the distance
Eros
In the silence of contentment
With arms wrapped
Smooth
Held close to the rhythm of your light
The hammering of blood
Pacing
Pitter
Patter
Sluggish-slowing
Lull of sleep
Eros, even in my dreams
Σε στιγμές σαν και αυτές που φέρνουν μου όλου του κόσμου για να γονατίσει
(In moments like these you bring my whole world to its knees.)
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
I want to prepare food for you,
Chopping leeks and secretly dropping coriander into the pan,
I know you say you don't like it but you never notice and it really adds something,
The radio sings and fills the spaces between the smoke and steam and my thoughts,
I shout you alright, babe?,
You shout what?,
I walk over to the sofa holding a beer you chose and move towards you,
Grow towards you, lean over and press my cheek hard into your neck creases,
Your pulse thrumming through me like a train,
I close my eyes tight and think of all the times I was desperately alone,
In dark rooms in my mind,
Shall we cycle our bikes to the river tomorrow? you whisper into me,
Your breath warm and sweet,
I add salt to the dinner and you pull out a map and our days and nights are woven together by you looking at me looking at you.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 3:51 AM UTC
Hush!
Listen do you hear the silence above the roar of life?
Hush!
Do you hear your heart beating to your life's song?
Hush!
Do you see the sky above blanketing and comforting?
Hush!
Do you feel the world spinning around? With you standing still upon it?
Hush! Sshhhh! Quiet.
Listen to the flow of earth's blood in her rivers and streams,
feel her warmth from the sun like an adoring parental gaze.
Touch her thrumming life in her growing forests, see her wonders created for us her children.
Hear her lullaby before she is muted, choked, buried alive by us, with
our waste, our destruction, deforestation, over fishing, hunting.
****** the fruitful earth 'til she our mother is barren and useless.
Mother Earth is weeping and above the roar of our selfish modern sound, we do not hear her crying, or see her tears silently falling.
Falling onto selfish mankind.
Gaia that great mother to all, giver of birth to earth and it's universe
is a woman reclining upon the earth surrounded by a host of jealous warring infant adults the fruits of her labours.
Oaths sworn in the name of Gaia, in ancient Greece, were considered the most binding of all.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
to a friend
No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe";
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her--strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!
So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.
3k
A skeletal stag standing ten trees tall
Hanging moss adorning His wide antlers, patches of rocky lichen covering His driftwood bones
Large cloven hooves stepping carefully yet purposefully among the bleached remains littering the forest floor
He alone reigns here, in this place beneath ours
Even the pines fall silent as He passes
Even the stones
The air is old here
Thick with a power lost to time
Only He is left; a dimming flicker in a collective consciousness
Keeping a lonely vigil in an ancient forest a thousand miles deep and a hand's width beside us
No breath is drawn here
The soft rattling of His timber ribcage is the sole sound as He moves
Ceaselessly
Without rest
To a place always changing, never quite there
The ossuaries lay in a heavy silence
He assures the eternal slumber of all who rest here
The hollows in His skull seem to observe them, undisturbed
He moves on
His name has been forgotten for millennia
This sacred ground has become but a fleeting memory
Few old gods remain, lost to the quickening of time
He remembers, as He stands keeper of this place
Of an age before ours
When they would polish the skulls of the hunt with holy oils in His name
Dancing wildly and unburdened around towering flames
Primal sounds ripping raw from reverent lips
Now He is all but a wavering in the annals
He pauses in His endless march
Raises His great antlers to the thick canopy above
He listens
Feels the shift -- another one has faded
He will most likely be the last of His kind
A somber sentinel tasked with ensuring the dead wake not from their final sleep
Ensuring the silence is suffocating
A deep, weighted vibration
As if the place under ours was itself thrumming with power
Though none remain who once spoke His true name in fearful whispers
He will outlast
For all will eventually come to know
The one they now call death
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:14 PM UTC
What am I doing wrong?
Are my "vibes not thrumming to your cosmic song"?
Or are you blinded by the fools who surround you in throng?
And making your decisions by their ignorant opinions
like you're in a sing-along
Wait a minute here....did I miss a beat?
Are you really gonna deny there is heat?
One night of passion and then you retreat
Trading me for an empty hole that's petite
Oh baby! You've reached the height of conceit!
Meanwhile, I can't stop seeing your face
Telling my heart, "This is not a race!"
Trying to accept your rejection with grace
I never thought our scenario would reach worst-case
but I ache every night for your embrace
and get nothing but bitter-sweet aftertaste.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
It sings to me
On the dark side of midnight.
The deep, throbbing song
Courses through my veins.
It robs me of sleep
With its hurtful music;
Woven throughout me a
Sadistic opera of pain.
Screeching aria’s fill my
Head with brain-snapping sound,
While the chorus accompanies
With low, deep down thrumming.
Once begun, this opera of horror
Will sing for hours at a time.
No breaks allowed for this
Captive audience of one.
It sings until satisfied
My body won’t be worth a ****
Wrung limp from the awful music
Of the tortuous performance.
Sung to me from the dark side of midnight.
4/1/11 (c) Peggy Montgomery
Apr 1, 2011
Apr 1, 2011 at 5:17 AM UTC
In my small, soft belly
Excitement builds.
Exquisite little judders pull
As if you possess a magnet for pleasure
And have buried deep inside me
What you want to attract.
I place my hand a little lower
And sigh, wondering why
The mere thought of you sets me a-trembling
Like a first-time racehorse, eager for the course.
I am coltish, nerves thrumming,
Imaginary music humming
Through my heart, my head.
Take me to your bed.
Take me where you will,
To all the places within you,
Make my home
your body and soul.
Eat me, I am gourmet flesh
For this epicurean adventure
I am longing personified
Oh, you - ah - you - are
perfect
Let me taste your heart.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
The sleet is drawing boxes 'round
our mud-and-snow sashed towns.
We'll check 'em off
with crunching footsteps,
slash our gallows grins through static
weather. Nervous laughter fights off winter
while somnambulist nights
hold the anthill days at bay.
And each repeated conversation
coats a thrumming undercurrent
echoed by the groaning rivers
in their arthritic fatigue.
where the ice piles up
like car wrecks.
And, out of those disastrous angles,
jumps up and trips back down.
Blinking eyelids, right then left.
Sunrises. Sunsets.
Dusks and dawns in places familiar
wading through liminal space.
Circles darkened. Footprints filled in.
The heat just circles lazily.
Our flushed and clammy brows
will **** askance
and sweat while footsteps
melt our swaying way through boiling
sidewalks. Nervous laughter dulls the impact
of seared, rapid fire nights.
"Ha." "Ha." Shrug off another.
And all repeated reminiscence
does is hamstring overthinking
of the closing jaws of traps
in these rusting western towns.
where winds breathe dust
by mouthfuls
So, into our familiar mishaps,
***** up and falls back down
melting into neighborhoods
dress down, upbraid us.
'Til our feet do not walk circles
'round these wilting Western towns.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
London,
Beating heart of England,
Charismatic time-capsule thrumming to its own rhythm,
History looming, akin to massive waves splashing down,
Drenching all, the unwary, the scholar, soaking it up,
Savouring every scintillating droplet, blissful, hopeful,
Weaving through lives, changing with every moment,
Variety of race and creed, intermingling, jostling, noticing,
Sharing sight, sound, colour, scents, smiles and frowns,
Pulsing soul of people, thriving and alive, buzzing with spirit,
In Camden, easy-going, a friendly riot of textured-hazy-peace,
Artful structures of Belgravia, magnolia temples of affluence,
Lauding architectural finery while mere mortals pass through,
Mind swinging through centuries, flowing along the river artery,
Bridges carrying us home, keeping their own dark secrets,
Cranes rising high, creating modern palaces, new beginnings,
Old lives wreathed in the foggy past of legendry deeds,
Embellished beyond reality, ghosts crying out, warning,
We can never own this city, never know this city, not really,
Guardian dragon allows us entrance, pours herself upon us,
Takes our love, progresses while we observe,
All left behind, knowing, feeling, sensing,
We are but shadows in her Light,
Dust on her famous streets,
Blessed to know her,
To breathe her,
Love her,
London.
©Paul Chafer 2014
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
As she hears the voice of rain, tapping the window, thrumming the roof,
the song of rain with leaves and stones and woods,
and as she opens the window, the fresh shower of rain touches her face.
She gets filled with joy and happiness like a little child,
holding her skirt, she jumps in the rain and opens her arms like a bird.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
And she starts dancing, calling her little sister to come out and join the rain dance.
Come out, the rain is so fresh and nice, we will dance together,
No, I will catch a cold.
Come, can you hear the song of rain, it's so soothing, we will dance,
No, I will slip, mama will get angry.
Come, it will be fun, we will splash together and make the boat afterwards.
Ok! coming, follow my moves,
Turn, turn around!
As she turns, she notices an eye was watching her from behind the wall.
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The eyes she had never seen before, that sight, she had never noticed before, she had never felt so awkward by someone's sight.
Suddenly she finds the rain very unpleasant,
Oh! it makes my blouse too tight, it makes my skirt wet, my hair clumsy, and she gathers her skirt and goes downstairs,
what happened, come let's dance.
No, let's go down, change, as we might catch a cold.
And from that day the rain dance stops.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Did she notices that she is no more a kid, or the sight made her realise that she can't act kid,
Will she ever, can do a rain dance so carelessly and shamelessly.
Will she ever, be filled with so much excitement to dance in the rain,
Might me someday, but never be so carelessly, as she knows some creepy eyes might be watching.
An innocence is lost and a young confused teenager is born.
**************************************
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 1:51 AM UTC
Where he calls me...sultry
I am
A silken storm of want
Naked,
In the blush of moon...
Night falls long,
Humid, in the heat of ache
“I want you”
Rushes over me in droplets of
Caress...
His voice
A pour
Creamy smooth
A slip-slide down
My throat...
His dark touch
Awakened
Beneath my starve,
Craving the sip,
Drowned in swallow...
Thrumming trembles
The quench of thirst
Beneath the swelling tide
Melted
Under silken tongue...
Slipping deeply into wetness
Pulsing raw
Lust surges strings of silk
Primitive and wild...
Where he calls me...sultry
I am......
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
thrumming bass pumps into my body
an electric pulse, thumping through my bones,
zapping my veins and frying my nerves
creating static as the golden drops pour into my ears
hair flying around my head in a wreath of hell
the speakers sing
*I'm ****** up, I'm black and blue. I'm built for all the abuse. got secrets that nobody knows. I'm good on that ***** **** I dont want what I can get. I want someone with secrets that nobody knows. I need a gangsta, to love me better, than all the others do...*
a tech hum fills my body
bodys sliding in tune with the tempo
hands run on hands run on back and thighs
the song croons with delectable bass
got me up so im barely breathing...
fingers trace my neckline and I bend with the notes
eyes closed hands clasped swirling in a mob of people,
all surging with the beat
the energy is high, and seeping in through my skin
i drink it all in
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
*You spoke adamantly of gentle courage
and sharing spring's flourished nectar,
the swooning rhythm of swaying trees
and the easeful breezes that flow
'tween endearment's sensibilities,
misty moonbows 'neath dusk's stormy skies
lavender sunsets midst rosy horizons,
affectation surging amid life's turmoils
wallowing in self indulgence &
the harmony of olive branch surrender
and thrumming heart strings of patience,
it was then I comprehended, darkness doesn't
last a lifetime when lit by love's fortitude*
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
frantic antics rewire my brain,
almost as if it were never a brain at all—
circuits and switches and copper thread,
my computerized cerebellum, my inorganic head,
as biology becomes machine.
what powers my body,
this metallic monstrosity?
there is no plug, no battery—
only the cogs and gears of a watchmaker's fever dream
and sheer, dumb luck.
because, while they stood around
and waited idly for my parts to rust,
i was killing time in a vacuum,
ignoring the earnest embraces of air and rain.
and thus, here i rest,
with the sound of my own meek ticking
thrumming against these pink asylum walls
but because i stayed awake to tell the tale,
and to rub their sordid noses in the dirt,
i suppose my isolation was worth it.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
Wondering through
the complex mazes
of the wind,
trying to feel beyond
what I cannot see;
trying to see beyond
what I can feel ―
The echoes of the breeze
invigorate the stillness
The weight
of a world heavy
expands like the traces
of life lived
packed deeply beneath
jagged fingernails
Lost in the wilderness
of my soul,
a feral wind
abides silently
as I wonder alone
from end to end
... side to side
through a portal
shapeless as the wind
Blinded by a collective
bioluminescent light
rooted deeply within,
intimately touching
crystalline fountains
as the deepest pools
of innate blackness unfold
in the wake
I reverently touch
the inward rhythm
where a heart strong
runs alone …
feeling its
pulsing cadence
quake and thunder
in reach …
Rivulets thrumming across
the burgeoning blossom
of soothing netherworld seas
Washing away
all the memories made
like the shapeless waves of wind
moving the stillness
beyond
wild is the wind ... 1. 27. 2017
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
My dear, my dear, my dear,
Say you are not afraid;
Say it so loud
That the doves in your body
Stop fluttering their wings,
So that you feel still
For one moment.
Sigh like a pack of wolves;
Dangerous in the right situations
But mostly more afraid of them
Than they are of you.
You worry that everyone
Reads what you are thinking
By the way your
Face colours itself
Like a sunset,
By the way the light fades
Out of you, slowly.
Close your eyes,
Steady the thrumming
In your chest
You are not afraid
You are not afraid
You are not afraid
Anymore
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
listen closely,
listen fully.
hear the thrumming of a beetle's wing,
hear the wind begin to sing.
listen to true beauty,
listen to the reality.
hear the story that the trees tell,
hear the history as the leaves fall.
listen to the ancient wisdom given by the sky,
listen to how well the clouds lie.
hear the grass whisper sweet compliments,
hear the flowers present.
listen to the chiming of the water ring,
listen to how well the rock recite tales so amazing.
hear the call of the animals,
hear the bugs begin to crawl.
listen to the screams of the city,
listen to the sizzling of the toxicity.
hear the pounding of footsteps and daily life,
hear the swift sound of a knife.
listen to the cries of hunger,
listen to the tapping of fingers.
hear the screams of anger,
hear the shouts of hate against others.
listen to the crushing of childhood dreams,
listen to the victims screams.
hear the sin as marriage spiral down to hell,
hear the lies that they sell.
listen to the hits of a fight,
listen to the person who turned away from the light.
hear the life slip out of a person,
hear the person within a prison.
listen to the hatred within humans,
listen to the sadness felt by every girl and man.
hear the death of the hope,
hear the imagination begin to choke.
listen to the thrumming of a poets heart,
listen to it tear apart.
hear the suicide of originality,
hear the death of personality.
listen to it all closely,
and write it all down carelessly.
listen to it all,
hear the down spiral of it all.
listen to carefully,
listen to the downfall of humanity.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Her prayers are
Breathy I love you's,
Warm and pained against your skin.
Your body is her altar,
Her temple,
The cathedral surrounding her
In her heartbroken worship
As she unravels,
Crying,
Shaking,
Clinging to you with
Everything
She
Has
Left.
The shattered pieces
Of her heart are the broken winged swallows,
Flocking in fluttering storms
In your bell tower,
Nesting in your rafters
Alongside the owls you've let be
To this point,
Content to allow them to roost.
Her hands are your bibles,
The creases telling a thousand stories
Of the girl who weathers the fiercest storms,
But falls apart at the seams
For love of you.
Your laughter serves as her hymns,
Ringing through the expanse of you,
Singing in her ears.
Sometimes she tries
Laughing alongside you,
But her voice cracks
Like an untuned piano
Whenever she opens her lips
To add her laughter to
Your songbooks.
You each find a different kind of heaven
In the stained glass windows
Of the other's eyes.
Hers are the ocean,
Deep and stormy,
Only ever calm
Just before lightning shakes her frame,
Rain and froth
Pounding
Against the glass,
Breaking it's way through,
Trying to flood your halls
As the tempest carves new legends
In her outstretched hands;
New biblical stories to lose yourself in.
She finds summer nights in your gaze,
Bonfires dappling damp grass,
And a boy
Laying on the hood of a run down car,
Staring too intently at the stars
To truly register their fragility,
Their mortality,
Even as they plummet from the sky,
Bursts of white light
Reflecting gold through green glass.
The comet-light ripples,
Climbing to the rafters,
Startling the owls from their perches,
And you can feel them thrumming,
Beating their wings against the ceiling of your ribs.
k. f.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
Crisp clear light of a not-quite spring
picks out the round black bin
quietly digesting the stuff of yesterday
Discreetly concealing
the thrumming, busy business of decay
The next act is approaching
in which we find
that nothing is lost or wasted
and the audience sighs with relief
Hoping
that the mulch
of lost loves, discarded wishes
and broken beliefs
will prove as fertile
as the rich brown muck within
the round black bin.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC