"transfuse" poems
being a poet is not planned
**~for Gabriella Garcia~
~~
*a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots
what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking
was he thinking?
that it was an ejection
that it was an ***********
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?
that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?
try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too
who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?
knowing well and full
now
the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas*
~~
upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
______________
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
Once at the guillotine
Now an out-of-focus angel
"Crime is shame, not the scaffold!"
She's got a '45 strapped
To each of her thighs
Speaks French with a Martian accent
Wishes she was a siren
When bathed in happy thoughts
Wishes she was the ladybird
When her wings
Confuse amuse transfuse
Into dreams of blood
Lukewarm prisoner
Detained for seven years
Now lies beside her
Asking for a helping hand
She loosens her corset
But tightens her grip
Jan 3, 2022
Jan 3, 2022 at 9:10 AM UTC
Pained intake of breath
Hot air against my cheeks
You’re wrapping white cloth over my arms
I’m watching red seep in like ink bleeds
Faintly, behind a splotch of black
I see your eyes grow wet
And though I am barely holding on
I can feel the tremble in your fingers
And an echo of a voice
Calling my name
You’re desperately trying to push paper into the wound
And I’m feeling myself bleed out despite your efforts
You take me to a doctor but still I leak
Transfuse your own red into me
But it just leaves through my eyes and makes me feel weak
“What have you done to yourself?!” you cry
And I sigh through a fit of tears
You’re trying to take the pain out of me
And i'm disappointing you with every breath I take
Just like you cannot will another moon into existence
You cannot love someone out of an illness
Apr 19, 2022
Apr 19, 2022 at 10:24 AM UTC
For my embalming, Julia, do but this;
Give thou my lips but their supremest kiss,
Or else transfuse thy breath into the chest
Where my small relics must for ever rest;
That breath the balm, the myrrh, the nard shall be,
To give an incorruption unto me.
2.3k
Look at all the flames ***** look at everything you've done
your gonna have to let me excuse
excuse you from this verse
*** you just think of it as some sort of abuse
and i know this may seem like its somewhat overused
i know it seems sometimes i always reuse
but thats just my view
its kinda like getting lost in the group of the whose
who only to get caught roaming around without your shoes
and now you just don't know what to do
Its whats you always wanted
just to infuse what you feel just to transfuse
and provide with that ruse that you choose
but you gotta pay your dues
pay your dues to the world
for we are all caught up fighting for our lives in the middle june.
were all caught up fighting for our lives
every other minute
every other hour
so what do you do?
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
You are a tulip seen to-day,
But, dearest, of so short a stay
That where you grew scarce man can say.
You are a lovely July-flower,
Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower
Will force you hence, and in an hour.
You are a sparkling rose i’ th’ bud,
Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can show where you or grew or stood.
You are a full-spread, fair-set vine,
And can with tendrils love entwine,
Yet dried ere you distil your wine.
You are like balm enclosèd well
In amber or some crystal shell,
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.
You are a dainty violet,
Yet wither’d ere you can be set
Within the virgin’s coronet.
You are the queen all flowers among;
But die you must, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.
2k
wanted; - Liverpudlian rock stars
to sing fer me - the queen,
I'll pay yers all in corgies -
n transfuse ya wiv - caffine,
gorra bloke called ringo -
fer the bingo - inbetween,
support act - chewbacca -
n maca - in submarine.
Alan nettleton
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 10:43 PM UTC
1689
The look of thee, what is it like
Hast thou a hand or Foot
Or Mansion of Identity
And what is thy Pursuit?
Thy fellows are they realms or Themes
Hast thou Delight or Fear
Or Longing—and is that for us
Or values more severe?
Let change transfuse all other Traits
Enact all other Blame
But deign this least certificate—
That thou shalt be the same.
1.8k
In another life, I was born a painter.
Gliding colors over canvas to imitate emotion.
Stepping back and marveling at the impressionism or the modernism or the realism of what I just created.
And people could look and gawk
and give gracious complements.
In another life, I was born a dancer.
Helplessly allowing melodies to transfuse my blood and move my limbs the way ocean waves move water.
Elegance in my bones, loveliness in my tendons, beauty in my ligaments.
Boys would leap toward me
and I would jeté toward them or grand jeté away from them.
In another life, I was born a singer.
A voice of gold and diamonds
that people love to eat
and bathe in.
Like summer sunlight in the springtime,
snow on December 25th.
Things people love to experience.
But, in this life, I was born a writer
so I live with what I must.
And I'll paint with my words-
give them color and life and realism, with just a hint of impressionism.
And I'll make my words dance-
across white pages, dressed in black, the smell of sweat and blood soaked within their skin.
And I'll make my words sing-
sing the ballad of my heart and the ballad of my mind and, maybe, even the ballad of the world.
Words are not inadequacy,
even in a world of painters, dancers, and singers.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Dear Universe,
Bless the poet's and their pearls of pain,
Steel them, so they may return to write again.
Bless thier jewel encrusted crowns of thought.
that every delicate word of verse is caught.
Let them pour out their soulful words
to transfuse our bleeding hearts.
Scrolling pages to guide us
through our darkest dark.
Lighting our highest joys
and deepest passions,
May we always preserve
these sacred bastions
May the poets never truly heal or break,
nor stop thier cries;
lest their flowing rivers of verse run dry.
That we may ever bathe ourselves
in rivers of consolation and joy
sending empathy through thoughts
of comfort and care,
to knit us closer in understanding
through words
in universal prayer.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
*Smoke emitting from our lungs,
truth and lies dripping from our tongues
Again I will succumb,
strung out on a dream that may never become
Real
Jaws as blunt as guns,
But used to shield wounds that I never knew how to heal
Wary to feel too,
unresponsive or despondent
For the fear that I may never come back
But I'm unsure that I'd even want to,
continue to want you
And use you to conduce an excuse,
for what's wrong with me
Transfuse my confusion unto you,
Because really I don't want to face the truth
Austerity I'd have to spit out like a strong whiskey
So truly, what's the use in this abuse of romance?
Advancing on a mere chance that your soul might want to dance
With mine-
I feel cornered, confined,
But dare I cower ?
Or feel empowered to believe flowers can sprout from gunpowder?
Now we're years past a simple encounter, now or
Never is a little too late,
ground work
of slate and mistakes
...If only I could promise you that it will fade*
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
As my illogic breaks, I'll robot make
to be this soul's chamber,
robbing a piecemeal joy from misfit toys
tossed out for fine tuning
by toddlers cheery mad to gorge on fads.
I'll take their T-Rex head,
with droopy lids that wink as if to drink
the world's wide-shallow stares,
plug its plastic prongs in torso of tin
while twin squeeze-box arms splay
to tie magnetic bows round pads below
gold, plush lion cub's legs.
This moppet of mixed breeds I'll learned feed
with animate cunning
to be ruled by charmed laws that give it pause
when whole-sum circumstance
tangles fuzzy circuits. Then a circus-
wire's unbalancing act
I'll paste from templed flesh to doll enmeshed
by transfuse rigging,
and as coil comes to slough, just as I'm off,
I'll flip that gilded switch,
implanting my spirit into a bit
of copper-hued country.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 9:49 AM UTC
11:00 PM July 7th 2011
Outside Delacorte Theater,
Home of Shakespeare in the Park
Central Park, New York
~~
What wretched wags
we have become,
sold rhyme and couplet
into slavery and meter sacrificed,
upon the altar of expediency.
LOL and BRB, the hallmarks
of our
insincerity,
forgetting that civility
is resurrected when
we employ the poetry of speech
in our plain and
simple communiques,
most especially in the simple,
please let beauty hold sway.
Brutalize our tongues,
thus our lives,
compression of our language
into single words that celebrate
the mundane, as fashionable.
yeah, yeah, yeah...
Our speech, its fragrance lost,
sublimates but does not sublime,
one liners demean our humanity,
grunts of yeah and cool,
are awesome not,
our future hope is in
the details of our expression,
whereby we inject
into our verbal demeanor
a grace that sets human
above the existence animal.
So touch this screen and
let us begin,
to take our measure
by our measure
of the care we demonstrate
when we communicate.
These words have transversed
from weekday to weekday,
soon at morning prayers
to the gods inside of me,
David's hymns and poems
I'll recite,
a slow eloquence will infuse
my hallelujah eyesight.
Plain truths will be spoke,
in rhyme with
diction apace,
transfuse my soul
elevate us
severally and jointly
above the confused noises of
the prison of nondescript lives,
leaving me a believer that
all's well that begins well.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Beyond the city limits
These lights swarm the sky
Instead of the ground
An orb it does form
Squeezing everything inside
Together, for better or for worse
It's there where I see you again
The buildings feel so far away now
Only a room do we stay in
Enclosed but not locked
Let me sit on your bed for a moment to
Inspect the condition of which your skull, hands, and spine are in
Our eyes meet and suddenly
I'm looking from the inside
Out again
While I'm staring so deliberately,
I find a piece of me
Lodged inside your ear,
So deep it sleeps on the pillows of your pretty pink pipes
That flush with the most vibrant of colors every night
It stays quiet while you draw near unconsciousness
Then when I say "goodnight" to you,
Into midnight I soar away and try to break the walls around your mind just so I can whisper
Goodmorning to you in your dreams
The sunrise must be astonishing from this far away
I wish, somehow, that I could stay
Here alone with your warm gooey mind
We would both cry while we watch blue transfuse into golden strands
Over a wide, open, greenish space
New skies arise from below our toes
Dissolving the salted stars and igniting a crisp morning fire that
Warms the pale skin off of your face and
Engulfs the walls of this room with flames until
All that's left is the stone-cold ground
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
The whiteness of the milky way
witness your name invariably
in the corner of chaos and order
Inside fragments of settled sediments
There are words that I await
to stream from the fountain
the base of the veined heart
Inside a core to be uncovered
Phrases that wish to be whispered
the nudges of intentions held back
collapsed and clasped in a clap
the ribboned truth that fades
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Pronouns and nouns of love and hate
Proverbs of the scent of your breath
The Jasmine that roasts your tongue
Let it's smell infuse my jumbled being
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Taboos and tattoos of eternal love
Traffic and tarmacs of the road travelled
The lavender that seduces your mind
Let it transfuse my animate system
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Songs and secrets of the bright sighs
Sums and seams of endurance
The cinnamon that spices your life
Let your kiss evaporate in my mist mouth
Tell tales of the indelible ounces
Nuances and notes of our untold story
Novices and nemesis of the unnamed race
The rose that savours your sweetness
Let your hands caress and weaken
As you tell the tales in indelible ounces
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
With our backs to her bed,
Lady Brett and I had a picture
taken and sent--
our chance: then--
brief and spent,
oh how my fingers
went fidgeting,
begging for a start
or
an end--
from time to time
they still do,
when I drink the milky
skin of fabricated twin--
In sighing, cracked parking lot,
lit by tired moon--
Lady Brett glanced over shoulder
as I cashed kiss,
turned and fled--
a weary drive
lit by bent cigarettes
and a whispered,
"goodbye lioness."
I long to transfuse
Lady Brett's cynical spine
with two bottles of wine--
an evening in ether,
a ballroom bedroom heater,
until all yesterdays
discard,
carried by wind,
obliterated in sawmill,
scatter across new babes,
seed,
a lesson in imminent sin.
But Lady Brett
and I,
will scheme more than abide
will degrade more than refine
will die more than find
fruition--
all our ashy, planned action--
a century apart,
125-miles too soon.
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
Vibrant yellow back
Defiant black streaks
Deceptively cute
Solid almost artificial blue unlike the sky or ocean
Speckled with the night
Assuming an artificial rainbow
Small eyes that radiate innocence
And an equally built body
Your diet is of alkaloids
Psychotropic substances
You use them to protect yourself
Psychedelics have brought you questions you'd rather not answer
I've indulged in the natural poisons
I can see beauty in harm, purpose, necessity
But if I let you be, I know you're no danger to me
Though, I'm a little too late
You're delicate and I am clumsy
You've warned me not to get to close, I’m bound to get hurt
I yield to what yearns to cradle your amphibious nature,
so unique to a monochrome world
Physicality is your weapon
An open wound lets your corrosive membrane transfuse my blood
You flood me
And oh, I moan. Action potential discharged, the sensory impulses to my brain.
You stop feeling slippery in my hand as I begin to rust
Little one, you escape my hands
But I am paralyzed
Thickened blood, what went so wrong
Tender in touch, I didn't hurt you
But your defensive, corrosive skin reflected your inner malintent
Black mamba venom indisputably pierces the skin
Harsh betrayal of curious wonder
Black widow toxin, an unblunted destruction of the dermis
But you came in celebrated color
How am I to trust visual credibility of sinlessness
You're a poison dart frog
When the beauty that once enticed me
Has hardened the sanguine essence that filled me with vitality and awe
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
wanted;
Liverpudlian rock stars
to sing fer me - the Queen,
I'll pay yers all in corgis
and transfuse ya wiv - caffine,
I've gorra a bloke called Ringo
fer the bingo - inbetween,
support act - Chewbacca -
and Macca - in yella submarine.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 12:50 PM UTC
I’m full of
the ********
that resides in my
corridors—
these hedonists that slice
at my skin and my soul.
I’m old and tiredly awake.
The ******** won’t let me sleep.
They bite my guts with greedy teeth.
I become water…I become grain…
sowed by sadism and adultery.
They transfuse
into me and
I evolve into
something horribly new.
No more my artistic aura,
my classical sense—
Just a specter of gloom
and dust floating
in the structure of a self I can’t really recall.
This is my holy downfall.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
Explore who we adore. Implore a devotion.
Not an unheard of notion.
Just pure emotion.
***** gives you the blues.
Alcohol is flammable & doesn't freeze.
It ruins your liver with ease.
Another shot of whisky, "please".
Refuse to self abuse.
Just brings bad news.
Choose to confuse my muse to amuse.
Tattoos can't be washed off with shampoo.
No use with your lame excuse.
Nice try.
Lost your shoes on a cruise?
What else is new?
Santa cruz or peru? How is the view?
Transfuse but do not misuse.
An olive branch was the tool.
It was what you drew.
An art to accuse.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 5:13 AM UTC
We portray things to be so off-putting
clashing words together
building them up to eventually fall from the ceiling
Leaving these previously spoken ideas to die with time
Embarking on these imaginary journeys
just to have them left and forgotten behind
By the start of a new conversation
or the words are interrupted
to transfuse into a new formation
If we truly seek to pursue these thoughts
we must not feel distraught
but grateful that they were able to be caught
Knowing we have to work for them
for they cannot be bought
So go out and capture these journeys
These are no longer pictures from our imagination
these are no longer just thoughts in our head
you are no longer talking with your friends
or dreaming in bed
For the first time
You are alive
not dead
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
an operation with the wrong instruments
a nod of the head
a turning of the shoulder
replace bones with kindling
exchange organs for red phosphorous tips
transfuse diesel instead of blood
like a dying dog on a cold night in the middle of the highway
laying down
waiting
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC