"transcribe" poems
I. Your touch is like bones breaking; unforgettable, and breathtaking.
I know that normally people don't associate love with broken bones
but even when you cause me pain, I am still so effortlessly in love.
II. On the day that you made me yours,
you rekindled a fire in me that I thought
had long since died.
III. And in those eyes that resemble speckled emeralds,
I see a future brighter than I could have made for myself.
The feeling is treacherous, to love someone more than yourself.
IV. The thought of you lingers in my bone marrow,
and it doesn't leave, not even in sleep,
you live within my bloodstream.
V. You ignite a fire inside me,
hotter than I knew was possible in relative existence,
and every day I burn for you, slow and consistent.
VI. Sometimes I wish you would strip me down
and love me like a limited resource,
like I'm a priceless medal, or gem of iridescent hue.
VII. You're the type of guy that gets me to put my phone down
and that's an accomplishment in itself.
you're more interesting than the internet, and that's romanticism.
VIII. Your kiss is like electricity, but instead of electrocution,
you send shivers down my spine,
and put the sparkle in my eyes.
IX. They say that home is where the heart is,
and before I met you, I'd never been home before,
you are my home.
X. I've run out of words to tell you how much I love you
so now my next mission is to transcribe a new language,
to do just that.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
There are 1,013,913 words in the English language, and not one of them describes how I feel about you, about us.
I used to say you were my strawberry jam, my little preserve that I would lay and spread on the table each morning, and I would lick my lips and say 'my God isn't she magnificent'.
I was your hero, your savior, your Christ that you had at Sundays Eucharist, and thank God you did. You dissolved in my mouth like that little piece of bread called a body but you tasted of everything instead of nothing, and **** me for thinking of you instead of God, thinking of you as my altar as I said 'hail Mary' and I worshiped you like a school girl with an orange full of candles in her hand, and for that God will **** me. He will **** me to hell but I don't care as the Universe lives under your tongue and everything I had ever dreamed of was right there in the right hand corner of your mouth.
You were my Wendy, darling. You stuck a thimble on my heart and said now you can never hurt me. But you did. We did. And the never of Neverland drifted away like a ship sinking into the sky, enveloped by darkness, smothered by a torrential rain of tears that washed away your fears that we were perfect, as there's no such thing as perfect when you can see your heart in the mirror with a target fixed to its center,
There are no words to describe how I feel about us. I still lift up my shirt and see your name inscribed on my chest, I still wake up and transcribe the words you wrote on my breast. I still touch myself up and think of you bribing me to undress. I still think about us.
If I could re-write my world to involve you in it I would. I would leave a piece of the jigsaw for you to carry around in your pocket so you knew you always fit in the world some where. I would make the sun rise each day through your window so you knew that life was worth living, that life was worth living when you were so what I am saying is I am forgiving. I am forgiving those days you swore at my reflection, and that day I slept on the sofa till three in the morning chain smoking till I was choking, remember? You said 'what are you doing' and I said I was in a smoke straight jacket and I was dying. You went back up to bed and I started crying. I am forgiving myself of those days I lay in bed just sighing. I am forgiving us for not trying.
But most of all, most of all, I am forgiving us for lying.
There are not enough words in the English language that can say I'm sorry like I am.
Or that I want you to move on. But I don't want you to move on.
Or that I want you happy. Because I want you happy.
I want you happy.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
The voyage is set to begin
Behind the battle line
Lingering with aspiration
Billions of others
Just like me
The desire to achieve this feat
Trespass the Zona
Break it free
An amorous key
Essential to transcribe
Me to thee
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
I sat swiftly
on the edge of my bed.
Linking my two soft hands
is a sheet of paper
ready to be
the ballroom of misery.
I held my pen,
and guided it's movement.
I let it dance on the paper
and transcribe my thoughts,
leaving nothing
but ink of grief.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 5:49 AM UTC
a e i o u and opposing thumbs
my woman, she's a
snuggler and spooner.
burying herself on my,
no, in my
double barreled chest,
her blonde hair,
my field of gold.^
she landscapes my life,
paralyzing me with the
simplest of gestures.
she sleeps holding my thumbs.
locks me up.
locks me down.
so I cannot transcribe
the lines of poetry mindful,
landlines shut,
land-mines of verse
unexploded,
till these now,
hours later.
a few notes ago,
a few days ago,
heard an octet,
eight voices singing of
five letters, five vowels,
a e i o u.
you can hear what I heard too.
after you listen,
better understand
vowels are the butter of language.
the anointing oil of connectivity.
more than a line of code,
they are the keys to the code,
that make words and life musical.
I suppose we could mange without them if we had to.
spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t.
but not so well.
I suppose we could manage
without opposing thumbs.
learn to type with my nose,
paint with my toes.
but not so well.
here is how it comes all together.
a e i o u and opposing thumbs,
never give them more than a
never thought, passing over, assumed.
oh yeah, on some tv show,
you can buy a vowel.
these glues are the things that
give me the chance to tell this:
this poem it is a bit about me.
this poem it is a bit about her.
this poem is really about you.
I could live without
a e i o u and opposing thumbs.
but I could not live
without her landscaping my chest.
but
when I share this knowledge
with you friend, it becomes a
verified, realized, acknowledged truth.
So you see this poem is about
a e i o u and opposing thumbs,
but really about you.
In fact, I am thinking,
that if I did not love the title
a e i o u and opposing thumbs
so much,
would entitle it instead,
a wholesome democracy of love.
you, a registered voter,
vote then with both all the
a e i o u and opposing thumbs
at your disposal.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
I believe we once met
in a faraway land,
on a different epoch,
and only your name resounds
recalling us back to this time
'I recognized your soul at first glance'
Oh hear the sound of the wind
the echoes are the only ones
that transcribe the beats of our hearts
retracing us back to epiphany
that we were once in love
in a different place in time
'we are etched into each other's entity'
— I miss you each and everyday
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 12:19 PM UTC
Borrowed words: all to describe
Stolen moments, rented time.
Diction that I now transcribe.
A story that's not wholly mine.
In my bed I sleep; I dream.
Surrounded by walls that seem
Adequate to serve my needs.
But these walls weren't built for me.
The walls have ears--the ceiling, eyes.
Speak through our tongues--our own demise.
Nowhere is there now to hide,
For I (and you) am a loyal spy.
Woven into fabric rendered
To fulfill some view of splendor.
But no one here can remember
Why we stitch torn cloth together.
Too short, too tall, too weak to handle;
Must reinforce to insure it's ample.
But how can I shatter what is fragile
If I am what I wish to dismantle?
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
Let’s go on an odyssey, an epic
we’ll never forget. Let’s turn the world upside down,
fall into the sky, fly at light speed
and wish on white dwarfs and red giants.
I don’t want to wait for the time it takes light to travel
across a vacuum. Take my hand and we’ll reach
farther than footprints on the moon, brush off the dust
and jump. Impossible is the space between our fingers.
Let’s sail across the ocean, feeding fish and taming sharks.
We’ll swim to the depths, tickle coral,
watching polyps break free.
I want to learn to glow like jellyfish,
lose my eyes to detect predators.
We can lay out on the sand and let the sun turn water
into gas.
Let’s shrink to atoms and build proteins,
untwist DNA just to watch it coil into chromosomes,
increase ATP just to expend it.
Did you know one electron makes oxygen a free radical?
It builds up in your system just
to break you down.
I’ll be your helicase and you’ll be mine.
We’ll replicate, transcribe, translate.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
The writer's life
Consists of looming strife
For a writer's eyes are keen
To the suffering that usually goes unseen
All writers are bearers of truth
Wielding their pens like a scalpel that cuts through
All the **** we tell ourselves
That keeps us in denial
A writer seeks truth incessantly
And eventually comes upon the somewhat ambiguous answer
That all truth originates from Love
How does the writer's analytical mind
Grapple with such a fluid concept?
The writer sees beauty in the invisible
Writes poetry on bathroom stalls
Lives life solely for stories
The writer feels things deeply but doesn't speak them,
But rather scribbles her thoughts fervently in a notebook
The words dancing on the page
As they are released from the tip of the pen
The writer knows, sadly, that even though she writes stories to make people feel less alone
That these people will never truly ever understand her and neither will
She ever be able to fully embody the experience of another human
The writer has wounds that go deeper than you could fathom
When no one was there to turn to,
She picked up a notebook instead and released the toxic emotional build-up in her head
Made art out of her sadness on the page
Through poetic words,
Elusive and enigmatic,
She could tell her story, indirectly
And still set herself free from the ******* of unspoken miseries
The writer's life is a privileged one indeed
For we see things, but don't speak them
But rather transcribe them forever in our memories
Until we find a clean sheet of paper,
And write
Write everything we've seen, heard, tasted, felt, known and intuited
Every struggle and every victory
Meticulously crafted upon the bare canvas
Like a war zone with an abundance of pent up zest
Finally unleashing itself upon the page
So, write, my fellow Writers
Write fearlessly
And our stories will prevail
They will impact even just one person
Who thought they were all alone,
Perhaps like we once felt.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
To Transcribe the thoughts
of perfection into words
would destroy the value
and beauty of her
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC
Well polished shoes
Walking well polished tiles.
It's almost time for the escape.
Yoga.
It's all yoga.
In the evening, within the cracks
It's the sound of calm
Going against all that you believe in.
Like yoga.
Frantic needles and nonchalance
Reflecting upon your reflections of
Truth
And the myths of self actualization
All in yoga.
Well groomed thoughts
In a well groomed world
Waiting on yoga.
Put your face between your thighs
Wake up to transcribe your lies
All for yoga.
Fists uplift your desire
To dance with yoga
Freak with yoga
Get down on your **** knees
And be inhaled by yoga.
Grate your smallest desires
It's just yoga
And bite the fat on your thighs
For the love of yoga.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
my mind is a twisted frame
I do not know what to say
all the feelings
kept inside
are too tangled
to transcribe
undending
place with no
escape I do not
understand its shape
will this illusion disappear
if my confusion becomes clear?
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 9:44 AM UTC
Some poets have degrees,
Be they Bachelors or Phds.
But a poet, a poet is really qualified by experience,
And the ability to distil language to the dance of written form,
To transpose observations into song.
Etching stretches of moments too short,
Into something long enough to match the longing for it.
Weaving yearning with touches of genius,
Abstracting epiphanies from cracks in the pavement,
Extending the halls of learning by
Stencilling truths onto toilet walls,
So that even to **** is to experience the profound.
A poet is one who can make meaning out of madness,
Pluck obscurities from the air, exposing the bindings of being,
Or explain how words, in their whirling make the world go round.
But a poet, a poet does not understand that ache inside,
That ache that drives them to write, to whisper and to yell
Words, metaphors and similies, in the constant attempt
To quantify that special kind of hell,
That haunts them, as ravings in their head,
That inspiration that is their constant torment.
And sometimes, sometimes its heaven instead,
But that’s when it’s hardest to write
Because suffering, when transformed to stanzas,
Is somehow easier to ignite
Than that intangible something we call joy.
For something as simple as a smile
Cannot be matched by any extravaganza
Of words no matter how we try.
But a poet, a poet will spend lifetimes trying
To describe that very sensation, that fleeting
Sense of something greater than oneself, greater,
Even than the offerings left in ink at the poet’s
Altar of a page.
And sometimes it will be so hard, this attempt to transcribe
Emotion into a form decipherable to others
That the poet will feel only rage,
And exhaustion,
Till even the point of the pen begins to expire
But a poet, a poet, even in the pits of despair,
Does not retire,
For there, lingering somewhere
Above in the air, is a glimmer of truth
Just waiting to be shared.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
A cigarette is just dragon spit, dragon spit
To tilt the world
Skull writing with ***** hands
Smear of words blind, dizzy
Onto walls of fireless caves
Out of the orange pulp of distant gerberas
Hopeful, and alone
Flick of sparks in air: dissolve
Downward around and everywhere
Like my thought
I wonder, if before me now were nothing
Would I jump?
There’d be no pain nor fear of end
There’d be nothing
I must transcribe this caved orange flower
Blindness somehow
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:56 PM UTC
Two souls beside, tied to a rock
inside arid wasteland
both wanting for
something or other and as the sky
drawing dark tells signs
wanting no more than to ignore
the coming storm, sidle
around in eager circles
Red, washing anger
down in rain
a divine cycle
dividing faith
from absolution's
true face
What do you look like, life?
To transcribe is my intent
but it's hard to begin to find when I'm
your invention, indentured
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
tired autonomies, days keep on flailin', seizin'; darlin', I'd
be bolder if only I'd tried. makin' plans to abandon 'em,
the dark reach and tenements of those towers of regret for
all of my inactivity or self-targeted hostility, and those dreams
meant everything to me until awakening into morning hours
or afternoon, more likely, with the dull grip of uncertainty
shudderin' all the windowpanes back and forth lightly, oh
so **** delicately, and I think about you as soon as I've
drawn up ambition to make any kind of move, the pieces of
the vast puzzle I've called your mind for the better part of
the calendar dates I've drawn up into fifteen gauge shells of
the ghosts of my past, those that follow my footprints in evenings,
the pools of aluminium meltings and lemon extractions
to constrict the summer hours, convictions that bleach out
all other chances of hope.
so relinquish your grip on my red and unfolding heart I've
been beating the syllables of your name with, and abusing
the page width of headspace, serving only to alienate the
froth on the shoreline of daring chances: I'd have given
my all at the sight of romance, but I sit here with no
glimpse of intention from you; the crestfalls I subject myself
to, not for the sake of lack of want, but full lack of what
I'd do if I called and asked where you wanted to go at
three a.m. or five p.m., or any other canonical time of
the day; I'd spend any of 'em with you, and I'd
ask, but I'm somewhat sure you're not that into whatever I
could mean, or whatever my words do seem to transcribe themselves
upon contact with your mind, so keep on existing and I
will do the same.
[or, anyway, at least I'll try]
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC
litter me with your kisses
let your insistent lips echo them
sprinkle me with your eyes’ sparkles
frame me with your hands
transcribe my sweat into wordless sound poems:
your need for heavy showers
will find shiny, never-ending vistas
and during our gay afternoons
forget about the abyss and the sun
and follow the hidden tracks
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
There is a certain birdsong I keep trying to capture
I hear it from outside my bedroom windows
It is mesmerizing that I pause
In silence
As if holding my breath will imprint the waves
And commit them to my ocean of memory
Akin to the sound of twinkling
One that escapes from the mouth of babes
As they swing and slide
Glide from treetop to treetop
Glee
I have never seen the source
But I picture it as the accompaniment
Strokes of soprano notes ascending
While branches sway with the gentle amihan
Teeter-tottering, rays of light playing hide-and-seek
It is
Exhilaration
An aria of falling
But never of fear
There is always a safe place to land
A song of trust
The peaks and troughs are golden lilies
Dotting the field of frequencies
Rising above dispatches of uncertainty
The orchestra of engine rumbles fade
This concerto is for the tranquil
This, this is the song of my heart taking flight
In a waltz with the metronome of your love
Sparkling
I try my best to capture this birdsong because it encapsulates best our journey
Giddy but peaceful
Giddy AND peaceful
It is the ballad I am trying to write but to no avail
Nature has registered our love
No mixtape, nor playlist, nor digital recording, nor lyric can impeccably transcribe it
A wordless duet
The Universe sings, all we have to do is listen
And dance to our music
Crescendo, adagio, rest
Always a soft landing
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 11:12 AM UTC
our love i feel is an ancient love
from a smaller world of greater ideal
a love so touched by the stars above
never to fall so as to become so real
our love i feel is an ancient love
an unspoken word of a long lost tongue
flies on the wing of an immortalised dove
to transcribe in dreams and nightly song
yet this night is upon, this night is cold
and sleep she refuses my welcome plea
this ancient love a story no longer told
white winged doves carry my angel free
now what is left, what is there of me
bereft of meaning, vanquished by decree
yet i will treasure each harbored memory
consigned to sail our love through history
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
Medicine induced hallucinations,
body quivering with ache,
and I'm hearing the sweet chime of bells
In this hour of pain my mind orchestrates.
The next drop from the IV,
helps even greater than the last,
a constant drumming in my head
a beat which was not meant for dance.
The others around me dressed in white
say I'm doing fine and that I should rest,
but when there's music pouring into the room
Sleep is what I must detest.
Can they not hear the wondrous sounds?
The vibrations that reflects my pain?
Those invisible waveforms move visibly
or have I just gone entirely insane?
There is no music, they tell me.
It must be a side-affect to the medication.
The ambiguous tune that rattles my brain,
is death knocking, it is by my orchestration.
But who is to say what I hear
is not real?
The tune in my head I wish to transcribe
but I'm weak,
and barely clinging to life.
So no one will hear this stirring melody.
This is the song I hear towards the end of my life.
In these last precious moments
laying in my seemingly sterile bed,
the tune haunts me 'till I shut my eyes.
but the tune is my comfort, I do not dread.
So take me with you, oh humble melody.
I welcome your amplitude with open ears
Let's take a listen to what you're telling me,
I dare you to move me to tears…..
The warm blanket of the strings comforts me,
the brass section: a foundation, a rock.
Oh, but hear the timpani? It taps to the beat of my near-ending biological clock.
The woodwinds, a sympathetic harmony that aides my despair.
Their aloofness like the machine by my side, filling me with air.
*The main theme speaks to me directly, and I've been worn thin
but I swear the main line is "I've fought valiantly, but this battle I could not win."*
I do not have to open my eyes to see,
that the director of this symphony is myself.
I've created this music on my death bed,
and it was not meant for anyone else.
When I close my eyes this final night,
take a somber breath and leave.
I'll have my tune in my head,
and nobody for me to grieve.
Goodbye to this world around me,
now the nurse come to medicate.
One last final wave of my arms.
This song I hear, mine alone, I orchestrate.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
There's a book of saints that has been touched by my fingerprints
But do not worry, it has not been sought open
Not by me
Or any
There's a book of saints and the others have stolen it from me
Translated it in a language that's is unknown to me
That is foreign
One that is on the tip of my tongue but it won't fall from me
Words like that do not belong in a mouth like mine anyway
I've left the notion of rationally a long time ago
Why reason with a stone?
When it will only be used against you as a weapon
The only breath of fresh air I have is my own
And it's dangerously decaying
Flowers bloom in my bedroom
But wilter in my closet
You see sunlight can not find its way in there
And I can't pry it open with my hands
Because every time I try they become flowers
But they are so beautiful
Executes everything so stunningly
That they leave traces of fairy dust
They are the most pleasant thing to see
It makes me want to shower them in gold
Show the world that not all I do is ugly
Or is unnatural
Because isn't it such a nature thing to do?
Bloom in the darkest of places
And isn't it funny?
How choices can be like flowers
Be alive so unapologetic-like
Except they are so fragile
Yet so elegant
Maybe it's morbid for me to compare myself to a flower
Since we all know what happens when winter comes
And I live in a vicious cycle of coldness
Nonetheless, there is no stopping my beating heart when the sun comes
Nor when the rain pours over my love
Drowning me in lavender
Do not worry I have seen what floods can do to fields of flowers
How they swallow up any life and destroy it
Send it to their death without a second thought,
There is horror in this world
That has been left to swim unchecked in these prairies for too long
Ignored and said to be harmless
Ignored when they drowned my fields of violets
So no I will not grow into a rose
I wish for you to follow me with this
Yet words to teach you my language are untranslatable
There's is nothing I can compare to the feeling of making a home out of one outfit
Nothing to make you understand when I say I'm okay I don't need to change
There are no words to transcribe the feeling of being content with your body
And what it can bloom
Oct 8, 2020
Oct 8, 2020 at 9:52 PM UTC
We found a rock looking out over the river
And sat there until the sun went down.
Little bear, tell me our love isn’t bound
by ancient sadness, interred and bland.
Tell me that like this twilight, this brown water, this red sky,
we roll in the world’s performing heartbeat
and clasp life in our childish hands.
Look at me. Our touch is calligraphy.
And we transcribe uniqueness in each other’s skin.
We deliberate on dug out tattoos,
climbing ivy and on pruning the dead-heads,
hallucinating our springtime as scars.
We live like the reeds, the Thames willow
plunged in the pavement drinking at mud.
We turn like the catkins, the knotted branches and
ducks lined in a row. We’re tidal, in a flux
demanded by a drill sergeant moon.
This is a vision of permanence at night
and this vast imagination is an echo.
We perch upon each other,
like sparrows upon the fences of history
Roots in your dress. Your lips sowing.
Nations are being re-sketched by our pencils,
so many have died for a line in the sand.
She’s heard the screech of the ***** the robin’s call to arms
but chooses the sunrise, to roll with the seasons.
In springtime together we reap the hay, its grows again.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 5:55 AM UTC
All right, dear—
open your steno book and
transcribe every other word:
I, I
missed, missed
you, you.
When I ripped the first bag of chamomile,
distracted tearing packaging,
and on the second water’s boil
and on the bittersweet lemon peel I
threw in on a whim,
and when I cleaned the dishes, not well enough,
your earlobes lodged in my mental faculties,
and when I emptied the soap so you
wouldn’t notice.
I made dinner—don’t write down that I
burned all but the potatoes, dear.
I want you everywhere; transcribe that.
There’s a vase in the cupboard but
let’s keep the flowers on the bed.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC