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RAJ NANDY Jun 2017
Dear Poet Friends, this poem was composed as a tribute and praise
to the Creator of heaven and earth way back in the year 2008, & was posted on ‘Poemhunter.com’. The Creator’s handiwork has inspired Poets, Artists, and Humans alike since the dawn of our
civilisation, and shall continue to do so for our future generations! Hope you like this poetic composition. I will be grateful if you comment only after having read the entire poem.  Thanks, - Raj

VISIONS OF THE VAST BLUE EMPYREAN
                * BY RAJ NANDY*

       '’The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,
        The sky proclaim His divine handiwork!’’
                                                   - Psalm of David.

(I)
The SKY is a multidimensional manifestation of God's
creation,
A translucent blue canopy above all and one.
The sky has inspired humans for centuries to aspire
and dream, -
To seek His blessings and guidance from above;
And shall continue to do so for centuries to come!
The sky beckons and lures with its mystical spell;
Making humans with leaping aspirations to try out
and reach, -
Those frontiers where the sky is the unlimited limit of
all our hopes, aspirations and dreams!
The sky, lush, luring, luminous, and sweet, -
Invites, entice, and fills us with a sense of wonder!
How God-like in appearance, and almost human in
its expressions!
The sky has remained as a silent witness to the birth
of our planet,
Since God created the firmament and the heavens,
before creating the Earth.
The sky, a silent spectator since eons past,
Shall continue to see the fading away of old stars;
And formation of baby galaxies in a cosmic drama of
His creation,
Lying beyond the comprehension of Mankind!
While we try to delve His secrets with our space probes,
Which we can neither fully comprehend nor unravel;
And shall only continue to wonder and marvel!

(II)
The blue sky continues to inspire and even melts,
While its blue translucence silently seep into the
Poet's heart,
As he sits to reflect and shape his thoughts,
And the vast expanse of the ethereal sky,
Stretching his mind with future dreams and
visions!
While the azure blue begins to flow through his
veins, and gets transmitted through his pen, -
To convey his exalted thoughts and deepest feelings,
in poetic lines and verse, -
Which becomes the Poet's sole mission.
And at night when the Poet meditates, he catches a
falling star,
And writes a poem on it and keeps it in his pocket, -
Saving it for a rainy day!
And during the silence of the night, when the hours
grow dark and deep,
And the sky gently droops and drips;
The poet wakes up to write, and writes to sleep!

(III)
The sky flows on to the canvas of the Painter,
As he tries to depict its varied complexions and moods,
With his limited colours, shades and hues,
Flashing and spilling his canvas with touches of tints
and tones,
To captivate the capricious, transient and fanciful moods,
which the sky adorns!
The deep blue empyrean is at times blissful and sublime,
Changing from a radiant, opulent, and iridescent, -
To threatening, cruel, and violent;
Both devastating and destructive as the sweeping
tornado or a hurricane!
Yet when God decides to paint the Aurora Borealis those
magical Northern Lights, -
Those glowing diaphanous curtains of waving, swirling
streamers of lights,
With its red, green, blue, violet, and luminescent spell-
binding shades;
How can any artist foolishly dare to compete or replicate
His celestial art?
For the Auroras are a reflection of His live real time
handiwork, -
Which shall never diminish or fade!

(IV)
The crystal blue arch of heaven, a glorious canopy
cover over our head,
Blesses us with the much needed shade;
From the tormenting and scorching rays of the
relentless Summer's sun.
With its varying layers of passing clouds, -
As the sun completes its diurnal rounds!
Those high cheerful cirrus and cirro-stratus clouds
of the Winter sky,
The meditating alto-cumulus and alto-stratus clouds
of medium heights;
And those upward swelling, ambitious clouds of
cumulonimbus, -
Carrying the thunder bolts and lightning of the great
Zeus do confound us!
And finally those low sheets of stratus clouds of the
rumbling monsoon sky;
Bringing incessant rain and lightning darts, -
Flashing like a whip lash across the sky and the earth!
With the speed of sound always lagging behind that
of light, -
Thus thunder bolts always follow those blinding flashing
darts of dazzling blue lights!
While the good Earth absorbs it all like some suffering
soul,
And forever regenerates itself to transcend its
tormenting plight!

(V)
The clouds floating like fluffy wool of cotton and
the downs of white goose feathers,
Adds dimensions, visual depth, definition and a sense
of perception;
For the human mind to behold and meditate, -
Those vast measureless depths of the infinite space!
The clouds with its varying forms and shapes,
At times like the ice cream cones with vanilla
tops and wisps of cream;
Keep floating across the cerulean blue, forming
and melting, -
From one nothingness into another,  below the
arched vault of the heavens!
And at times the clouds coalesce to dissipate as
gentle rain,
With rhythmic beats, or follow some wild musical note,
Lashing against the earth like a dancer in trance!
While it brings down the cool aqua, the very elixir of
life to earth.

(VI)
The sky is held captive by its own void of eternal
silence.
As nature's mirror, it reflects and also shows us a
glimpse of the infinite!
While the night sky by itself exhibits a wondrous
sight,
With the sentinel stars shining like a living hymn
written in light!
And the ebony treasure vault of heavens hold the
sparkling and glittering countless gems;
Of pearls of lily white, rubies with red sheen,
And galaxies shimmering like hyacinth of purple
light!
The sky envelopes the earth all around in an elusive
embrace of unconsummated love!
But each night, in hope and expectations the Sky
adorns itself, -
With diamond necklace and pearls of milky white,
Woven round its dark black flowing stresses;
Casting longing looks towards the beloved Earth,
To whom she is attracted from her very birth!

(VII)
The sky despite its wide range of colourful
spectrum and moods,
Forever retains its pristine colour of azure blue,
behind its gray and somber clouds.
Each morning the sky presents us with a clean
blue slate,
Where nothing ever remains written or etched!
Inspiring humans to make a new beginning,
Before time runs out and it becomes too late!
Yet the sky never forgets to reflect the arched
rainbow over its brow,
Once the thunder clouds and storms dissipate!
Keeping our hopes and aspirations forever alive;
And impelling us to strive in all our endeavours
and to excel!

(VIII)
The sky remains as a revelation of God's immaculate
handiwork.
The blue welkin, God's treasure trove, with its
capricious moods,
Sometimes furious, sometimes iridescent, but by nature
divinely sublime!
The sky a recurrence of happenings, with its speckled dance, -
Of colours, cadence, and of light and shade,
Giving us a taste, smell and feel of eternity, -
Which appears as real, though illusory and ephemeral!
Transcending all our scientific formulas, speculations
and intricate *******-up logic;
Since many mystical and unknown energy forms exist in
our sky and space,
Beyond the realms of Quantum Physics , String Theory,
the Higgs Field and Relativity!  * ( see Notes below)
And forces can even be made to emanate from the human
mind and soul and to transcend, -
To blend with those vibrations in the celestial spheres of
the Divine!

(IX)
The sky shall forever remain a source of exhilaration
and exhortation for mankind, -
And as an exaltation of God's divine and lofty thoughts!
The sky also remains as our ultimate frontier, -
Stretching the dimensions of human consciousness,
Till our consciousness learns to merge with the Divine;
To become one and to blend, under the blue vault of
our blissful Empyrean!
                                                       -  by RAJ NANDY, NEW DELHI

(*NOTES: The five different versions of the String Theories know as the 'The M- Theory' of Quantum Physics, which tries to explain the origin of all things through the vibrations of nano strings. The latest discovery of the Higgs Field, which is said to add mass to subatomic particles; are our humble and insufficient efforts to understand God’s mysterious creation of the universe and space!)
      (ALL COPY RIGHT ARE WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY)
Sophia Apr 2018
a tear drops from her eyes
and it brings no cause
though it quivers with emotion

and the stars do not shine brighter
when polished with her briny tears
but dim their glow and listen
listen!
to her sobbing
but wait
her capillaries will burst!
stop it!
stop it!

its translucence
its opaqueness
the inherent contradictions it produces
and the images it emanates

so while her eyes may open
they are unfocused
and gone
and the click of their judgements is obscene
because her soul has escaped

where has it gone?
she swears she saw it just a moment ago
just a moment
just a moment
just a moment
Marshal Gebbie Dec 2022
Read the words upon the page
Depicting how was such an age
That, then, ensconced in everyday
In truth, permitted Hell to play.

Where age with all it's wisdom gleaned
Should logically be rightly seen
As guidance for emerging youth
Where past mistakes impart as truth.

Though tragically, bereft as seen,
The actuality now doth scream
For youth doth relegate to grass
Aged wisdom's pearls.... as shattered glass.

Dispersed amid the flotsam tide
Lies that which salves salvation's hide,
Lies that which wreaks of God's works, twist,
Dispersed through cold, Alzheimer mist.

The waste of ancient eyes at rest
Expelled, devoid of life, at best
But should a crisis start to burn
Old minds may co-opt young to learn?

History makes the paradigm
That thumps the lesson home, with time,
In squandering the wealth of age
We burn the story, tear the page.

Now delegated to the shelf
Immersed in indignation's self
Old wallow in blue pity's taint
Inhibited by self restraint.

But then the moment comes around
When happenstance, by chance compound,
When youth, of clear complexioned face,
May stumble into mute disgrace....

Thence whilst the Angel trumpets grace
Whence in that vacant, silenced space,
Then flows of wisdom tumble thine
From lips that spake in ancient time.

Knowledge held in Holy Grail
Empirically forth then, when regaled,
As pomp and circumstance decreed
Should all, combined then, .... be agreed?

M.
9th December 2022
Foxglove@Taranaki,NZ.
Oh! the frustration of the aged at being sidelined by the arrogance of emergent youth.
The impertinence of the transfer of power and influence from one era to the next and the ever present wastage of invaluable lessons learned and priceless experience, gained from the labour of the travails of time.
M.
jane taylor May 2016
translucence is rare
withdraw your opaque armor
swim in fearless love

©2016janetaylor
a senryu poem
Nina Messina Oct 2013
Outwardly I am a titanium barrier, inwardly, a net of strings hold me together within confining my true self to my mind. The metaphoric needle posed between thumb and forefinger, sewing patch after patch across my ruined skin, holding in the things that threaten to burst. The thread is my self value, thin and dissolving.
Watching in the shattering mirror, who I am, as tears and blood slip past trembling fingers.  Reaching upwards towards light, but I drown in the darkness. I am swallowed by hopeless misery.
Floundering and toiling in the shadows of my own faith and nearly forgotten beliefs.
Sorrow floods me, consuming in a cold fire that doesn’t burn, but freezes to the core.
Refracting shards of light that escape like a song. They fall like a melody from my lips.
While the heat of the world swirls around me in shades of blue and black. I am bruised and ask "why do I hate myself?"
I never have an answer. Only the memories of a life so beyond dysfunctional that I have to resort to story writing to make believe a happy ending, never truly believing in it.

What were these whispered words that squirmed and infiltrated my mind, what are those lost secrets and memories left to fade away. Tormented, still I remain silent. Suffering quietly. Wondering if I'll go down without a fight, or would I take my own life. It is the loss of my humanity. I transcend in definition, no longer resembling who I was.  Silver tears, dripping from the eyes of the moon, as if such a cold distant satellite mourns for and with me.

Fear remains, as it always does, clutching my heart in an iron grasp. Despite the freedom of a new life, my knees are buckling, I’m poised to run, as if there were a place to escape to. Walls arise on all sides. I am locked in a box, where I hide away from the world, and I become, cold and distant as the moon. Fighting myself endlessly.
Hide everything I am from the world, and put it out of sight of myself, I don't dare to confront it.
I ask myself again. "Why do I hate?" I know a vague answer to it this time. I have allowed the evil and cruelty of a despondent life before this one to shape me, even after my resurrection, despite my belief and faith. I had let it consume me.
My heart, a thousand splinters of ice, would once break, even if it was looked at, or touched, cracked and shatter repeatedly. I only watch, making no attempt to heal myself. Content with viewing my own nails clashing with soft flesh that gives way to pain and agony. Slicing into cold abysmal depths, bleeding a metaphoric spectrum of ****** colors into my veins that then spill down the drain of my heart.

I wonder if there is any capacity within me, for the remnants of a shimmering soul to return to hope?   I'd abandoned love and hope for so long, had they dissipated completely. Do I dare to uncover such a startling miserable revelation?
My voice catches in my chest, as I sing halfheartedly for my freedom. To be released from my anguish. My voice not carrying past my lips, stolen by the wind of despair circulating around me.
I had changed, believed myself worthless and ugly. Melancholy, a kaleidoscope of emotions contrasting with one another. Dripping together to create the painting of my life. Magnificent, yet lonely and sad. Like forlorn splatter-paint tears down the side of eroding walls.

I was told once that I was shiny on the outside, and dull on the inside. Gilded. I want to change that. I cannot hide the scars I have been dealt, nor can I conceal the ones I've inflicted to my own body. I remember each slice to the skin with shame. That I had knowingly marred perfect flesh.
"What value could I possibly have if I'm constantly looked down upon?"  I pose questions like this to myself.
Everything they say makes me feel worthless, like I'm not supposed to be here.
Maybe I'm not, I wasn’t supposed to live was I?
“Worthless. Freak. Stupid.”
Do these words define me?
Are they who I am?
I am a shadow, As I sink into the depths of my own insignificance I stare speculatively, emptily up at the opalescent translucence far above me. I’ve always been worthless,  but now I am nameless. I’ve never been to solid in my own emotions, right now I don’t know what to feel anymore. Where and what is joy? What happened to the light?
I dissolve into toxicity and an almost chemical stasis of depression, seeping into my heart with the thickness of sick black tar, dragging me farther than I’ve ever been beneath the surface.

I become nothing, for that is what I presume I always was, nothing. Only a mirage burning holes into the fabric of lonely hearts longing, a haunting memory left to torment into seclusion and sorrow.
An empty shell of what once was a girl with dreams, is all that remains to decay in the dark. While the shudder of sobs dies down into a tempest of self loathing.
An incandescent nightmare, flares out like the petals of a blossoming flower, they unfurl and cover the dystopia of eloquently disfigured words that curl and uncoil, only to surround the wounds of me that pour from a inky black liquid that has replaced the blood in my veins.
The push and pull of the sorrow and hope mixing into the discordant symphony of life. The sound that is the melody of me.
Steve D'Beard Nov 2012
Empty skies embrace
Sparse cloud formations
The blues fade and overlapped hues
Sparkles crested in fickle delight
Lazy outstretched yawns of natural light
Sun’s glare glazed under Moon’s appearance
Embossed against the translucence of blue space
Everything up there is calm today
No rush or race or interference
Gentle indifference drifts to the West.
Staying dry for us

The beautiful simplicity of being Sky.

Stop and look around.
Cyclists trickle on painted pathways
Student groups pontificate about life
and the lecture they should all be at,
Lunchtime sprawls and *******
never ending spurts of schoolchildren
delirious for sausage rolls and E numbers.

Everyone in a rush to be someone
Going somewhere with purpose,
and yet,
Be indifferent
to each other.

The bland complexity of being modern People.
an uncommon aura Oct 2015
Light flutters,
Butterflies escape,
A blind tongue
Babbles wisdom.

The affirmation of which
Came from lost souls
At the crossroads
Of beauty and treason.

Flowers flourish trying
To poke their  
Budding brains
Through the clouds,

Yet none reach so far
As to make a memory,
Or to make a memory fade,
To guide anew the light.

Wise was the caterpillar,
He who had not seen
Perpetual pain
Through the porous sky.

Vision flooding her words.
Hate born of love like
Poison leaking through
The petaled veil.

Hope can be elusive,
Fleeting as a butterfly,
Or a flower that never
Had the chance to bloom.


Haydn Swan Dec 2020
I see the twinkle still in your eyes,
the grey clouds closing in on your smile,
ambiguous laughter still echo's in my ears,
ghosts that walk through the shadows you cast,
reaching with a hand I cannot touch,
grasping I wish to touch your soul,
there are tears but only in my eyes, not yours,
I see it tearing you away,
like a desert carcass waiting for the rain,
disappearing, fading, translucence.
if I could only wear your mantel,
takeaway the weight from weary bones,
time to rest your head on my shoulder,
sleep only sleep, my sister, sleep,
tally with me and we shall ride the morning.
I wrote this for my sister who is in the advanced stages of progressive MS.
Aa Harvey Nov 2020
Zeitgeist translucence


The spirits are unseen to those who have not felt their presence.
The non-believers will never see them, if they remain faithless.
Without a Heaven to look forward to,
We would have no reason to live right.
God sent us a message of peace; we use it to fight.
We are no longer made of starlight.


(C)2020 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion

Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition

Corporeally preternatural metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama

Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic

Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance

Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineation
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
I wrote this poem at the request of my best friends wife when he was dying of a brain tumor.  I like to think it helped.
Marshal Gebbie Jun 2011
It’s all pretence, I see, my Dear
This facade that you live so well,
Your look, your walk,  the very talk
Convinces most, but I can tell,
That just beneath your garlanding
There lives a soul so insecure,
So nervous in a measured way,
That  every second... you perform
To structure a collapsing day.

Softly and with gentle touch
I kiss your anxious, fevered brow,
Stroke the tightness in your neck
Reassure that you know now,
Your secret is secure with me.
I step aside and beam to you
My silent, warm applause, my Dear
For your command performance
Holds at bay this constant fear.

Marshalg
In quiet admiration.
11 May 2011
Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
to storerooms in the gables
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered
among the wild jagged rocks,
is of an apparent translucence
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss
growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined
with layers of beautiful herring scales
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered
with creamy iridescent coats of mail,
with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Up on the little ***** behind the houses,
set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,
is an ancient wooden capstan,
cracked, with two long bleached handles
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,
where the ironwork has rusted.
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
We talk of the decline in the population
and of codfish and herring
while he waits for a herring boat to come in.
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,
from unnumbered fish with that black old knife,
the blade of which is almost worn away.

Down at the water's edge, at the place
where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp
descending into the water, thin silver
tree trunks are laid horizontally
across the gray stones, down and down
at intervals of four or five feet.

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
element bearable to no mortal,
to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly
I have seen here evening after evening.
He was curious about me.  He was interested in music;
like me a believer in total immersion,
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God."
He stood up in the water and regarded me
steadily, moving his head a little.
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge
almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug
as if it were against his better judgment.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,
the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows,
a million Christmas trees stand
waiting for Christmas.  The water seems suspended
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,
icily free above the stones,
above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in,
your wrist would ache immediately,
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn
as if the water were a transmutation of fire
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky *******
forever, flowing and drawn, and since
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.
Must you be here in such an interesting illusion?
Why must you sit in such... vogue?
Here though, you exist in fashionable cyst.
Bygone futures of blighted sutures
Youngster-stale and eight-hundred pale
Destitute pasts of layer passes present
Horses gather at the gates of heaven
Spitting at me
And in this way, I've given myself nightmarish feelings.
Yellow blocks provides battery-colored translucence a doubt of mortals
Tungsten belated harmony
Rhinestone Kelp May 2012
Mint spreading in elegance.
Some divine blanket of taste in the soft vert.
What meadows of limestone growing
tusks and a peppermint hair!
Verdent tastes of beaming echoes,
Bouncing off the walled caverns,
Body and soul.
Radiating vieled ripples.
The mountain's roots in caverns carved,
the speech of silent wind within,
inscribed on the hollow shell
of a white turtle from the deep lakes.
Waves form energy suppressing noise,
leaving keratin quiet.
Coral growing body soul,
maintaining vibrations of mossy
touch and taste.
Rhinestone tongue of night
Diamond sky.
A granite vineyard in the clouds, and
pitch shaped into a tower,
the glassy eyes of dawn and dusk.
Vespertine.
Translucent dreams.
Bamboo chins translucence,
Escalating moonstone shadows,
fingers spread in wide stretch,
ephemeral hollowness,
of everlasting happy spices.
Fingers locked in thin ligaments,
stones nestled in the crabgrass burrow,
moles' eggs in the nutmeg painting.
Luscious browning melange.
Quartz upon the wave-struck ridge.
Puffs of gray magical,
escaping cavern's entrance,
filling the air with
a fragrance uncompared
and bringing to the stomach,
a funny, fuzzy, filling feeling
called munchies!

*Written by: Simon and Lotus
Sarah Lane Feb 2017
Crystal beads of sweat
It's the beginning of a flood
Their translucence reveals an anguish
That is growing underneath
Causing them to swell
A great heaviness pulls
There is no resistance
They start a lowly journey
Moved in surrender to greater will
As the purest heart crumbles
One drop follows after another
Forming glistening streaks
Along a spotless brow
The tender heart soon shatters
Under the weight of woe
Drops fall to the ground
Like glistening shards of crystal
Where the beads first surfaced
A single crimson drop forms
It slowly paints a stripe
Down that stainless skin
It rolled along the hairline
Over the cheekbone to the jaw
In a moment of uncertainty
It clung there at the edge
With no alternative to release
The final hold was given up
Like a rose petal it fluttered down
Gently landing in dampened earth
Where sweat and tears first fell
At this silent touch of crimson
Broken crystal drops transformed
Color slowly deepening
Dirt glittering with garnets
Each hearts' filth was covered
But their purity had this stain
Marshal Gebbie Jul 2011
Fortune holds
Like a fly on the pane,
Indecent translucence
Like life, it's ingrained
With a terrible filth
That seeps out from the pores
To assault sensitivities
Imagined scores.

Perfidious thoughts
Scrape across the serene
To leave bruised aberration
Where little is seen,
To leave an impression
Across the cold glass
Where sunshine pale
Waits for morning to pass.*

Marshalg
@thebach
30 July 2011
If one considers the tesseract  as a worm hole that gets stronger as it traverses the distance traveled time spent to become the clairaudience clairvoyance of astral projection’s existential extremity……..I mean like what is the nature of  exigence exodus’s exponentially extemporaneous.  I mean given that  infinite possibility is the nature of omnipresence’s omniscience and we are but a refractively reflective embodiment  of its integrable form’s extant:   the residual harmonic vibrations of kinetic supremacy’s trajectory.  
        
So I ask again “Is intellectual sentience the catalyst for the evolution of God?”  Perhaps if we all practice zoomorphic zoolatry on the social contiguities of demagoguery the vicarious recalcitrance of its objectified manifest's dimensional delineations will raise us all to new heights of enigmatism.  
       
 But no, we are but relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity.  We’re not capable of transmuting  our environment with the imbue in the exude of our emote, despite the concoctions we xenobiotic prosthesis.  We are incapable of interceding en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit.  We don’t amount to the seven five six-y on it to eight.  We are more the four-ness of three given the two-y-ness of one.  The 3D macro of the fecundity of micro’s induction's fertility.  

I submit:  
  
“Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to its progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to its innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of its conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of its relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.”  

And

“As the relative complexity of its interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of its conjunction yet the totality of its ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .”

And

Given the theory of ultimate entropy and the probable cyclic nature of existence……and given that there probably was no beginning so therefore an eternity has already passed, ”I have a theory: This spatiotemporal fecundity, this creationism occurs at such an imperceptible rate that positive eons of quadrillions of ages must pass in order for the cosmos to replenish its stockpile of physical matter (possibly matter without atomic structure as we know it) so that a new cycle of infinite big bangs in infinite space can occur.”

       Yes, it seems that basic gravity has extent on the extremity.  Huge sections of it slowly implode until the compression causes a singularity, or so it would seem.  Who knows, perhaps some of these big bangs have different periodic tables than ours.  I mean why would they all be the same, given that infinite possibility is the nature of omnipresence’s ubiquity.  
      
I like to think I cerebral cortex ****** matrix resemble but there’s a vast difference between relative rationality and rational relativity.  Noumenal sentience’s semantic regalia is incorporeity ideology’s platonic proxy incarnate for after all what is the nature of problematic prosthesis to mystic symbiotics?  
      
Protractive analyses of dimensional delineation are in order.  The basic fecundity of spatiotemporal telemetry’s virility had an exogamy with the infinite vastness and the inky blackness.  It’s some pretty inimitable stuff, trajectory extant and all.  
      
So, back to the tesseract perhaps the creativities of imagination’s immaturities are teleportational  translucence to transcendency  verve.  Then again perhaps we are corporeally preternatural finites and adjunctly  juxtapositional is beyond our metaphysical mystique………I like to think not!!!  Tesseract.
Orthogenesis overtures to ornithology horse feathers! !  Retrospectively retroactive!  The ultimate universally inapplicable weather yankee tools to mule kit blue deally romp's resembla blur.  The Martian Warlord's universally acceptable id conclusion on the enigma's entity.
F White Jun 2012
I can see the weakness
in my own words- their
weary Translucence,

even as I
wind my euphemisms and parry
****
snip the comma off,

attempt to catch my thoughts
before venom leaks out
of my em-dash.

but I can't.
Won't.
take back any
noun I flung

And So.

as you
walk down the hall

I see my adjectives
Just-
dripping off your
neck
rolling down the corridor

fat, black
and innocuous

and somehow feel
that I have
completely failed

at English.
copyright fhw, 2012
Jacky Xiang Oct 2010
Dear porcelain, would I were perfect as you art,
Not in dull translucence do you shine,
Gleaming brilliance cloaked yet unmarred,
Mirror mirror of conscious dreams of mine.

The distant chime, chime of deathly knells,
Of shattered pebbles down scented lunar peaks,
Of soft crystal frost into the veil they fell,
Let my masks abscond, leaving eyelids weak.

Such sweet ache plagues my nightly mares,
Loveless lone splendor beneath blacken skies,
Nap 'tween the orchards ripe with pears,
Awakenings torn asunder the happy lies.

Sail-less ketch off candle-lit cavern shores,
Colossal etched symbols of Hecate's spells,
Till desire and woe to oblivion they soar,
Will gladly blunder through all seven Hells.

Absent from day's eye are the auric beams,
Silent be the hymn from above, off-tune flutes,
In motion I stand in fear of reluctant dreams,
Wounded peregrine looking at the open blues.
I dedicate this poem to all the fantastic people I've met at CEDA.
Sheathed in a silken protection of blue
Shielded from new air
Hidden away from all that is true
Without a single care

Wrapped in shields of translucence  
Your vision is unclear
Unfair bias buys you peaceful silence
Yet is that not unfair?

You are softly encased in a warm cocoon
Secure from all chill
To others pain completely immune
Yet, you still think you feel

Come out from that silken sheath of blue
See reality crystal clear
If you cannot feel others pain it’s true
You are not really here
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
sked Jul 2013
Hearts made of glass
Fragile
Bright
Translucent
Small enough to hold in the palm of our hands

The glass is expensive
Irreplaceable in fact
Each type of heart is crafted
Each in different shapes
Sizes
Curves
Carefully crafted and molded
From two other glass hearts
That became one

It is given to us
As gifts
The twinkle in our eyes
Glows as we receive ours

The glass hearts react
To many different feelings

In sadness it takes the coating
Of your tears
And when it fades it hardens
And becomes stronger

When anger hits it
The glass heart will melt
Unable to take the heat

In happiness it will twinkle
Allowing it to shine through
The eyes of others

But as we grow older
We begin to learn
How we care for our hearts

Some of us are careful
Holding our hearts dearly
Cherishing it
So that it can be
Seen by all
Reachable by all
Available to view and to see
The insides and the outsides

Some of us are careless
Recklessly lending it to others
Throwing it
Shaking it
Using it for the wrong purposes
Until one day it breaks
And it needs to be fixed
The glass is fixable but
It never quite returns to its former translucence

The saddest of all though is when
We pretend it doesn't exist
It's when the glass heart fogs up
Not allowing others to see inside
The twinkle once there disappears
Replaced with something solid
The curves still there
The size still there
But in actuality what made something there
Is gone
It stays that way
Until one day
It shatters
And cannot be repaired

The gift of the glass heart
Must be remembered
It is fragile
Which makes caring for it hard
And though we can hate it for its fragility
We love it because of its translucent beauty
We love it because it makes the eyes on others smile and well as ourselves
We love it because it's us
And it's us that should never be clouded
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
A storm blew through early, left frost
etched, lit, glistening, on
a window's waking surface.

I sit framed by that translucence,
my daughter aligns, orders
mirroring matroyshka doll members.

I reflect on an essay*, how
poems are a symbol of  will,
concluding a pact, perhaps

achieved in diction, image metaphor,
adherence to structure, rhyme, form.
Might these devolve to decoration? Or,

trace the transmission of "will to
commitments," expressing “intent”,
"weakly lost or strongly spent?”

Frost etchings fissure, shift, glint, slide
on their emergent effluence,
configure in gusts of cognition.  

I sense a covenant in these lines.
my daughter adjusts her doll's placements,
the promise of one revealed in the other.

Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks

——————————————
Attribution:
Stanzas 3, 4, and 5 are greatly influenced by my reading the Robert Frost essay titled *THE CONSTANT SYMBOL.
The short phrases in italicized quotes are direct quotes from that essay.
180828F

Frost,  Matryoshka, symbol, essay, configure, cognition, covenant, pact, commitments, intent
A L Davies Mar 2012
the hand that rubs my body down
is soft: softly veined &
of a powder-white translucence; transcribed
from dover chalks to run down my
chest, backs of my thighs.

the hand that rubs my body down
curves in sweet musics 'round my soul;
the shrill but beaut'ous rasp of skin
on skin
-- of fingertips tracing strange poetry
    along my spine.

the hand that rubs my body down
holds in its palm a sacred oil;
anointing me at midnight hour. muted
bewitchments; burns the candle
down to a nub.

the hand that rubs my body down
calls for christ in attics of sunday
afternoon ...          crosses its fingers in
spiteful fits
of piousness.

the hand that rubs my body down
takes the shape of golden scarab;
sets aflame my eyes of beaming azure &
finds in me a willing servant.

the hand that rubs my body down
wakes me at dawn, partnered  
with an extension of pinpointed
warmth: the touch of her breath upon my cheek.
product of reading dylan thomas overmuchly
Prerogative presumptive judicature, cantankerous cantilever capacity.  Paradoxical dichotomy greaves, gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts, asymmetrical symmetry.  Objectified manifest's dimensional delineation, intrinsic endemic innate opaque opulence.  Protractive analyses accidence ambience acoustics.  Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's trajectory extant.  
      Prophylaxis protocol annex annul.  Kinesiology kleptomaniac extraversion embezzlement euthanasia extortion, embark embargo extradition.  Aura roan's rainbow mare's nimbus nimiety exorcism.  Corporeally preternatural's existential exigence exodus.  Cerebral cortex's ****** matrix's carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma, apex axis crux, exponentially extemporaneous manumission. Categorical imperative hubris, hectic duty deontological probity.  
      Astral projection's clairaudience clairvoyance.   Tenets and principles, maxims and axioms, and doctrinal mandates.  Exserted protuberance's edifice *******.   Exotically ******, ethereally sublime xylem Xanadu sails. Erotica erectile errantry.  
      Fulham nuance *****.  Formidable foundry of a foyer fracas.  Harpy harsh hast, atrium attrition seditious.  Oak tree ****** nails swarthy ******* swath swizzles and unicorn railway sails.  Anchor pin tachometer troll wood harlotry's root clod rudiments, lightning bow hat pick.  Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist.  Transpicuous translucence alluvium aloof impunity.
Radix repartee.
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion

Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition

Corporeally preternatural's metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama

Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic

Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance

Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineations
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
I wrote this poem at the request of my best friends wife when he was dying of a brain tumor.  I like to think it helped.
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2009
Exultant in hiatus hovering
Indulgent in this paused rewind,
To Jubilantly rob the reaper
Bleeding him of stolen time.

Illicit whispers silenced now
A brooding hue invades the room,
Whispy red, magenta forces
Hold at bay gloom's moody doom.

Translucence in the shadow shimmers
Time and space suspend as one,
Whilst others wither on the vine
Eternity's embraced by some.

This gentle feeling, floating there
The thrill of flying free,
From complications vagaries,
From life's complexity.

The crystal cadence starts to wither
Silky walls do billow in,
Hurled abuse invades the instant
Carping walls of harping din.

Retreating to the everyday
And wrinkled skin again,
The golden days of pause have fled
As time resumes her reign.

Marshalg
@theCoalface
Mangere Bridge
29 October 2009
www.worthyofpublishing.com
In this rare natural preserve,
cardinals cheer from nests in tree towers
sheltered by veils of plush green leaves
as frisky herds of  baby deer
hop, skip and dance
with the grace of ballerinas
on the grassy knoll below.

The keen ear discerns
the whisper of streams
spilling over shallow beds
of igneous rocks
spearing through the translucence
of aqueous purity
not yet muddied by elements
destructive  to the green movement.

F**ar removed from the huff and puff of industry,
where a breath of fresh air
is a luxury long forgotten,
and wheezing lungs abound,
the natural preserve
takes us to higher ground
where the scenes and sounds
of natural synergies
touch the heart,
cleanse the spirit,
and soothe the soul.

~ P (#Pablo#hg)
Algid aether whisked over
pure white translucence;
under twilight’s luminescence
her enchanting eidolon-hovering
afloat, screams off her plight,
sprouting orbs of delight,
it was love at first fright.
Love is intangible. You can only sense its presence.
bulletcookie Aug 2016
Blanc oblivion thinly beckons
where riotous heart requests accounting's debt
in solitary thoughts of Gatsby-born yearning seconds
across lantern's green light ambient water's depth

Mallet's chisel chip lines of marble translucence
ordaining Venus's vague and insubstantial essence
passing on near wings of plovers
shore's dashing burst of smooth liquid love

Spilled words all but mingle in measured metre
fleshing forth anatomy of a mannequin's naked plume
disposed to press black key fugitive figures
sprinting sandpiper legs from sand castle spume

-cec
tread May 2013
Why is it always such a battle to keep the plans we make?

We planned a night of wild *** till we both ached- you changed your mind.

Told me you didn't feel like it. You were gone after one go.

A momentary translucence- made in the heat of a minute.

We planned a late sleep in- an afternoon together.

Beautiful brunch, beautiful walk, no attention paid to clocks.

Out of the blue, at noon, you told me brunch wasn't possible.

You said you would go home soon.

My heart skipped a beat but I played along because it was Mother's Day.

Your mom would be home sooner than expected.

Every time I try to swerve our plans back on course- you opt out.

You say

'yes'

in the heat of a moment.

Transient.

Unreliable.

(I hate using these words to describe you).

One day the plans we've made to be together- might you opt out? How can I trust anything you say in passion?

Sure you say 'no, I would never,'

but

you said 'yes, we'll spend the afternoon together. get brunch.'

you said 'I want you till we both ache. All night. Cover me.'

you said, 'I want you for a very long time. Perhaps forever. I would never leave you.'

It doesn't feel like a lie-
It feels like you have no intention to stick to anything without a battle.

Without my burning myself on anger and hurt like I'm forcing you to something against your will.

I won't believe you about our distant future love

until I can believe you about tomorrow.
this is not the substance of our love.

(you feel like a soulmate).

this is just a scar you keep scratching when you don't pay attention.

and you keep forgetting to look even after multiple bleedings.
Jim Kleinhenz Jan 2012
If Polyhymnia could be
a winter afternoon’s great beauty,
or night, as it fills the moon’s girth
with still translucence restored from earth…

If Polyhymnia could be like the sleigh
we got for last year’s Christmas day,
not so  hot for winter’s snow,  but good once spring’s
trapeze and high wire act started up…

If Polyhymnia could be a spider moved
up from creation’s mold to sewing skirts
for dandelions… Polyhymnia, who likes shedding gowns
for scales, who never sings, who never clowns,

who never tempts the winter’s night with a serenade—
Polyhymnia, disinterested, disinterred, delayed.

© Jim Kleinhenz
Nathan Squiers Nov 2014
When it all boils down to it...

We truly are a momentary blip on a cosmic radar;
A momentary cluster of elements
Blessed with an incredibly limited-yet-inflated programming.

Now define "reality."

But we waste our time with fear and hate;
We concern ourselves with the mundane and the fleeting;
We invest in indulgences that leave us feeling more and more empty.

You are a single drop of water floating in a vast infinity of the cosmos.
The timeline will perceive you the very same way
You perceive that 1/10000th of a second that happened last week
(When you remembered a funny joke and giggled at nothing)

I see hysterics in the world;
Find the same thing when my escape goes digital.
I see people who think too highly of themselves...
(as though the end of their journey will represent a different death than our own)
I see people who think so lowly of themselves...
(that they're willing to throw away the splendor and mystery of tomorrow just to escape the hells of today)

When will we accept that we are human?
Wonderfully terrible, terribly wonderful;
Brilliantly stupid and idiotically ingenious;
Generous degenerates; selfish saints;
Complex-yet-simple humans!
Nothing more and nothing less!

Live not to be immortal,
But to show what greater gift limitations offers us:
Greater appreciation of what each moment represents.
Live for yourself,
So that, when you find yourself at he end of that road and looking back,
You can say "**** yea; I made that fleeting moment my own."

This is not said to scare or intimidate;
It's said to INSPIRE!
You ARE brief!
You ARE insignificant!
So stop concerning yourself;
Anything and anybody can waste that already precious time.
Rid yourselves of the poisons
That would turn the beautiful translucence of the water droplet representing you into a putrid blot of poison that the Universe would sooner forget.
k e i Aug 2020
my feet are planted on these wooden planks,
the very separation of the soil beds and the stream. your hand’s quick to envelope mine in its warmth. dandelions dance with the cacophony of the breeze. the lighthouse stands tall a few distances from where we stood.
the sky gets littered by colors, sons and daughters of the sun bidding their farewell
everything within the expanse of the lakeshore showered in their translucence-
and quite frankly darling, we’re left with no exception.
you were staring off the distance
and in that moment you were almost miles away-but i didn’t mind,
for i was too mesmerized by the calmness
you were pulled under, the amber gold canvas bleeding in with the havoc it was pierced with.
i swear it was there where we’ve been in our safest state.
maybe that was our arrival to the once unknown destination we were targeting to be in all our plans to run away, fake our deaths.
we were a world away back there
and despite the sun sinking,
it breached the start of a hundred different voyages.
your presence was the closest i’ve felt to home.

in the expanse of a moment we were something more-something more than our sadness and all that we’ve stored in folds within the silhouettes.
and to a random onlooker,
we were just two kids content on being stupid and naive out on a chase for an i don’t know why the **** i’ve been put in this sick sad world but maybe we can stick together and make it ‘til we’re grey sort of happy ending.
to anyone else we weren’t anything but misfits, a pair lacking sense, knowing no better, junkies screaming out pent up emotions to rock songs on rooftops
or taking hairpin turns on 4am roadtrips that fueled the adrenaline.
thrill seekers, jaded
to anyone else, we were nothing more than a reckless pair almost making their way to the big screen or a typewritten poem the paper creasing on the edges.

but there we were made out of the sunset way past sets of bones and fractures by the sky,
the sunset looked like us.
now it’s months later, and we’ve let everything fade,
scratched out all that we’ve casted on the future, of long forgotten lullabies, null whispers- you’ve erased all our texts and chats,
in turn i have thrown out the flowers you picked and your book recommendations, the diy polaroids piled up in a box.
i stopped listening to all the songs you’ve sent. the curtains in my bedroom no longer match the shade of your hazel brown eyes.
the places i once brought you to are now ghost towns you’d get glimpses of in postcards 50 years from now-
at least that’s how they’re portrayed in my mind. but not without taking a drive, letting my footsteps baptize the ground they trample on with a feverish kiss,
one more time, one last time
clearly you’ve chosen to vanish, no traces left for a breadcrumb trail after that night at the diner where we spilled our closures
delivered with so much declaration,
leftover longing left caged in glassy eyes the whole time.
you stormed away with the last pieces of vulnerability, everything done with one final cruel exchange, just like that,
all my drunk texts a non-stop desperation reeking of “i love you’s” left to no reply;
that should signify that we’ve gone unto depths just to burn all our remnants
-maybe you more than i did.

here we are, free of the artifacts pointing back to each other,
from everywhere we’ve ever been
only to be proven of its blatant wrongness;
for we’ve forgotten about the sunsets but it sure as hell wouldn’t allow itself to be put to rest,
and it does the same thing with everything once marked by it.
you’re no longer here and our shadows have long unlearned the dwelling
once found on each other’s spines.
and maybe this you that never vacated my head even now, the one i couldn’t just bring to hate even after you’re no longer the you breathing softly beside the girl with twilight underneath her eyes.
but darling, the afterglows would pursue each time the sun sets;
each time, it unearths the glass shards from our fights and the longing and the butterflies crumbling onto chaos, our aftermath.
i no longer have an idea if you still marvel at the quiet like you once did,
as i stood there in the shades reflected by the currents under rushing with their beating.
“now we’re worlds away but sunsets still look a lot like us.”
frances lee May 2011
exhaustion in the creases of my collar
fatigue in my carelessly tied shoes
sleeplessness in slowed speech
stretched to translucence
my heart simply ceases to beat
Amanda Jul 2015
Dr.
Once I saw an x-ray of a heart and I was alarmed by its smallness, its translucence.
A thing we ask entirely too much of.
Quote from Laura van den Berg.
I see the dye, the feelings of my thoughts written in ink. Everything I suppress surfaces, up & up.
ah.
You will be okay. You will.
I will.
I will.
Chris Saitta Nov 2019
Garden of Gethsemane, under your Mount of Olives,
The green-pitted translucence of night, where Christ,
Seer-in-knowing, writhes at the split seed of fission,
Break of night into the morning blossoms of Hiroshima’s ash,
Of mercurochrome and zinc oxides and the red snow of skin,
And his resurrection, forever once-again, in atomic flash,
The smells of honeysuckle and hay of manger,
And his breath of molten potash.
Marshal Gebbie Mar 2015
Fortune holds
Like a fly on the pane,
Indecent translucence
Like lifeline, ingrained,
With a terrible filth
That seeps from the pores
To assault sensitivities
Imagined scores.

Perfidious thoughts
Scrape across the serene
Leaving bruised aberration
Where none's to be seen,
To leave an impression
Across cold glass
Where sunshine pale
Waits for morning to pass.


Marshalg
@thebach
30 July 2011

— The End —