"transpiring" poems
The parasympathetic nervous system
is responsible for regulations
unconsciously transpiring
within the organs and
the glands of
the body.
Such as:
urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and
lacrimation
(noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin.
from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’).
It’s why I cry
even when I don’t want to.
You are the parasympathetic nervous system.
The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system
is responsible for the mobilization
of the fight-or-flight response
and constantly maintaining
homeostasis within
the body.
It acts
rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and
the necessary and critical ability
to suddenly escape
on pulsing legs or
cling to survival through
brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles
and dilated pupils.
It’s why you live
even when you don’t want to.
I am the sympathetic nervous system.
The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems
are two of three essential nervous systems which
compose the autonomic nervous system
(a part of the peripheral
nervous system)
that manages
involuntary
functions of the body. Such as:
swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and
heart rate
(noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’.
usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you).
Individually these two systems oppose
but compliment
each other like our hands do—
pressed together and omitting equal force;
veins meeting
at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists
but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise.
You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to
breath,
love,
sweat,
and live.
I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you
but grudgingly willing to fight you and
ready
to
leave.
From the deepest lower half of my brainstem
and from every nerve
in my cycling body,
I’m sorry.
From all of my chromaffin cells
and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian,
I am sorry.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Who is now reading this?
May-be one is now reading this who knows some wrong-doing of my past life,
Or may-be a stranger is reading this who has secretly loved me,
Or may-be one who meets all my grand assumptions and egotisms with derision,
Or may-be one who is puzzled at me.
As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Or as if I never deride myself! (O conscience-struck! O self-convicted!)
Or as if I do not secretly love strangers! (O tenderly, a long time, and never avow it;)
Or as if I did not see, perfectly well, interior in myself, the stuff of wrong-doing,
Or as if it could cease transpiring from me until it must cease.
3.9k
An airplane crashes into an uncharted island and hundreds of people die in the burning debris, and somewhere a group of boys and girls are taking selfies as they stand next to a burning office building.
Thousands of teenagers sit on the couch and eat ice cream until the buttons on their pants explode off.
Kids light themselves on fires as if they were monks from the Tiananmen Square, trying to gain acceptance, their dreams of stardom translated through a series of YouTube comments.
We can't afford books for college because the tuition is ridiculous, but these glossy tabloid magazines are only a few bucks; pick one to set the course of your life.
Middle-aged people spend their lives indoors, away from the thirsty, hungry, withering children, and check how many likes did their photos receive on their smartphones.
Pornographic images in front of our tired faces, our eyes locked to the screen and we do not blink as our memories become embedded with objectification.
So we don't look up and see the chaos transpiring.
Cat memes and colorful gifs hold our attention while our parents slave away at their boomerang-shaped desks, trapped in clustered cubicles.
I saw a post on Facebook of a girl who was sexually assaulted at a house party and now her name was being hashtagged and kids were posing in photographs, laying on the floor, legs and arms sprawled out, left and right, trying to mimic the injustice.
We swipe right to find our future hookups, but what if our future husbands and wives were on the left?
Society spends millions of dollars on drinks to numb our conscience, until our brain cells are wretched like the homeless guy on the street corner drinking liquor from a coffee mug.
Israel and Palestine battle each other day after day while our generation gossips about Solange Knowles beating up Jay-Z with her patent leather purse as if that news conquers every other bit of information out there.
The world will always be corrupt, but it suffers more from the apathy that belongs to us.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
1343
A single Clover Plank
Was all that saved a Bee
A Bee I personally knew
From sinking in the sky—
‘Twixt Firmament above
And Firmament below
The Billows of Circumference
Were sweeping him away—
The idly swaying Plank
Responsible to nought
A sudden Freight of Wind assumed
And Bumble Bee was not—
This harrowing event
Transpiring in the Grass
Did not so much as wring from him
A wandering “Alas”—
2.6k
ambient glances
transpiring from ashes
and airborne oceans
my senses surfing
the evening glow
honeycomb lights spinning
restless with bees
and could-have-beens
and what-I-might-do-
if-you-were-downs
it is April
in every sense
of the word
incense swirls around a
strange foreshadowing
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 1:09 AM UTC
Wasting words on half thought speeches,
and steps on roads we walked together.
I waste my time in empty parables,
in parabolic signatures that trace my life from one loop to the next.
Me, the black dot in a line of ink drops from the tip of a pen in God's hands.
Gone are seven dirham taxi rides in Broken Arabic.
Wasting furniture on empty apartments,
and music on crowded subway trains.
I waste my time in black-and-white fantasies,
in bucolic boulevards that draw my life out like lines on a map.
Me, the modern Mediterranean man on the Eastern end of Cabbagetown.
Gone are the nights of grape-mint sheesha on quarters of round tables.
Wasting memories on that "American Dad" episode, and memories again on events transpiring when the room went dark.
I waste my time on lofty balconies,
on silent poetry that recites my life from one page to the next.
Me, the unfinished Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 10:27 AM UTC
Apperating into the distance it flawlessly exceeds my view
Effortlessly sailing higher- transcending into the nothingness
Beyond the clouds and into the blue
Transpiring into what must of been the fabric of existence itself
A void of any distinguishable colour or shape
It's black, blue, grey aura is all that's left behind
Like lingering dreams in the dwindling morning hours- just before they fade to black and leave us in silence
Gazing out into the nothing around me, my feeble eyes hang motionless
Stricken by what was, what wasn't and by what could have been...
Only to have woken in uncertainty- Lucidity clinging on in the last dying image of pastel reveries...
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
If my sexuality consistently gets used
Against me
Then it becomes my weapon
The wisdom that a man's greatest weakness
Is simultaneously his greatest strength
Becomes realized
Reflected in domesticated animals
We give up our instincts
In an environment where the wild
Doesn't belong
After years of suffering
I grab my wand for the first time
Although lifetimes ago I may have done so
This time matters the most
Because it is happening now
I grab my wand and wave it through the air
the journey to learn how to use my Magick power
Enemies draw closer
Only to get blasted down by light
Aum harnessed from my throat
I will use fire to protect my life
Hovering owls in the night
All according to plan
Magic birds witness
The transpiring of balance
Coming to this planet in need of healing
Divine feminine we are here
Mary Magdelene is near
Absolutely have no fear
Lilith is on the sidelines
Visiting dark beings
In human minds
Kali is by her side
Tongue hanging out
***** for fresh heads in her multiple hands
Yemaya stirs in the ocean
She howls, "Just leave me alone!"
As Bolon Ik traverses time away from her twin flame for longer than she can bear
Exposed in a terrifying way
But men cannot Divert their eyes
As The most beautiful women
Exemplified
Turns some into stone,
Others to salt,
Ashes,
And only the righteous of souls -
Deliverance as The Call To Rise
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
we all coexist within another.
father time, granting us a constant movement of life
a cloaked, bearded man with the power of an hourglass.
an endless cycle of highs and lows effecting the world
as above so below.
alas, without love, the earth would turn to dust
drawn together, since the beginning of eternity
father time founded mother earth.
intertwined out of chaos, a nurturer was born.
to create out of love,
trees alongside the sea
time never catching up to the speed of light
equality of the unknown, transpiring its purpose to live
granted, the universe aligns in peace
nirvana at its peak
solely, as an individiual
we seek the hidden purpose
beyond ones navigation of life
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 5:38 PM UTC
His left hand flourishes
But
The audience watches intensely
There
The motions dazzle
Is
Everyone paying attention
Something
Unexpected
Else
The illusion is shattered
Transpiring
The magician takes a bow.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:56 PM UTC
Intertwining and overlapping
Fingers wrestle to weave its tresses
Silky and smooth as it rests atop its lair
The light frolicking on the surface's glare
Bustling conversation and echoing laughs
Intertwining and overlapping
Diverse aroma's are transpiring and lingering
The sound and the silence are successfully mingling
So prim and proper they sit prepared
Dressed to impress in their clothes so bright
Intertwining and overlapping
A chaotic order concealed by the wrapping
So carefully selected and beautifully disguised
An assortment of emotions concoct within
As i enter the room it cues the clapping
Intertwining and overlapping
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
The sun's setting,
though it may leave you darkening,
is the start of the burning
far under your soles.
The browning now crinkling of
Summer's endlesseeming greening
is but the start of Springtime's
asylum in Xylem.
Phloem's sweet ware will
flow in 'em somewhere
down the line.
It’s pithy, I know
but life is born in death.
And though, come Fall,
trees seem seemingly sapped,
there's an inspiration transpiring.
The firepit's cooling
it's embers cast only shadows
and shades of memories of warmth
and story
and light...
None gather round, the gloomy.
The dormant circle
an ashen reduction
of oak and of fir
but its blackdust when wetted
(yes, ink!)
and dipped in by brush
will one day,
with luck,
be the source of a poet's
enlightening words.
The monarchs have gone -
a silent orange rustle
and, all at once,
the milkweeds go dry;
the once-green
stalks stand stock still,
Rods of Asclepias whose
seedlings are ever
the earliest snows.
Leaving home:
wherever the Earthbreaths may
take them -
bleak, brokenhearted,
hope in a coma...
How unlike the joy of the
flutterbys whose time now
has fluttered by, a chorus
as uttered by
the ungiven hope
who, though unasked,
has wandered the winds
to bring its daughters
(each healing, each hopeful)
a deathgiven panacea
to lands now in their
own limited unlimited Spring.
And you! I know
your (sic) fiercely pretending
not to be crying.
Hell, to never've cried.
I know your lifework is
'manly' (your words) or
some other idiocy (my words)
and unbroken. Hell, unbent.
But think on this:
if she's gone far enough,
far enough along,
far enough away;
enough time gone by
since you broke into One
('broke in two' is NOT how it feels),
if enough not enough Her
has passed,
then she's also
more than halfway back
to you,
to Whole.
Nothing can go,
nothing is lost
for there is no
'away' within this Here.
No one now, either
at a loss -
for the knowing
is nigh.
Even the knowing
cannot be going
for long 'fore returning;
the yearning is turning
from far-off to nearby.
The Sky lives as well
in every dark puddle.
Its blues, now on Earth
where all even All is at Home.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
The red soil rises in the garden
Upon a wrought and coiling mist,
Then collects the stems of morning light:
Old Future's endless sift.
These mornings when the flood plains swell
Instil great peace of mind;
Tireless are the crossroads of
Transpiring, morning light.
Set down the blade,
Spread far the grain,
Inhale the rice-fed air.
Now rake the water's fervent edge—
Reveal the waves of golden.
Sep 15, 2022
Sep 15, 2022 at 9:47 AM UTC
witness dusk on the top edge
of a mountain higher
than the largest problem man ever created
Having a best friend is a wonderful happening
its a wonder and a **** of the head
a twist in the neck
like the most interesting engagement
transpiring right now
the pink sky fading on a girl's birthday
and a disposable snap shot
of a moment
where two girls smiled
arms outstretched towards infinite sky
individuals independents
fond over memories
of a friend somewhere
out of reach
they pull out like a ruffled note
in a pocket
during times when great things
are happening
but no one to bask with
witness the dusk
we found ourselves there once
except we were dancing above
the problems
Joyous Goddesses content
with blindness in the fog
heading for dawn
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
Her breast of broaden chest
uncovered slight
by a sheet pulled across in the night
tangled by twitching feet
a mixture of movements
unsure toes singing
songs of unsettlement.
And her brow
furrowed as her teeth set
and clench
What does her throat yearn to garble?
instead of yarble
as her wrists slither along
like Cleopatra's snakes
that whisper trails of burnt red
and blotched white.
Bedded portrayals of lovely betrayals.
Because the guilt is clawing up
transpiring from the floor
like a mutant through a wall
weaving through taught bed springs
as a mouse after cheese
bursting from the indented mattress
like a monster in a horror movie
to grasp her
and pull her
until her screams ring out sharp
and scissor through paper dreams
before the weight crushes her.
Decapitated
as the Red Queen did to cards,
It was only a game
and always,
as silly games do,
someone had to lose.
And she
unfortunately
Won.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
whenever there's a need,
a gap to fill, imbalance,
you find a way to help,
to pull up in your old
white toyota that we
always know is yours
by the flashy lei hung
around the rear-view --
to say **** you" to
whatever scales we
seem to be required
to conform to, and
fix everything with
your jagged defiance
(or ruin it, but that's
how it is when you're
dealing with scales).
i can't express the joy
(and relief) that hit
me harder than you
hit the brakes, when
you pulled up today;
you were all dolled up,
just enough makeup
to bring out your blues
with the single gold streak
in the left you share with
another, and to accentuate
the soft angles of humble
cheekbones, followed by
black cashmere and jeans
that kept their blue only
by the notes in navy ink
scribbled onto them like
a hundred school children
had used them as paper bits
but forgotten to pass them on.
it was a clear sky cutting
through the trees kind of day,
and we consumed it with all
the relish we could muster
in light of recent events, which
i've always thought is a funny
phrase considering the events
transpiring recently were the
very essence of dark times;
but we chose to navigate
away from such topics, even
though they were all plaguing
our minds -- like
the fact that reality has driven
mercilessly into you like an
industrial-grade nail gun;
your ash, your little light
was stolen away from you,
and even though it's probably
for the best, no one ever said
you had to be ready for that.
or like the nifty new pills
you've been taking to ****
your emotions like bacteria
and let their unicellular corpses
drip away in the shower drain;
better them than crimson from
the canyons carved into you
by the raging rivers of this life.
and even still, you retain such
goodness in you, such wisdom,
but the sandpaper hardships
have worn down your caution
and sometimes it seems like
you're ready to say **** it"
once again and throw
the whole plank into the fire
to keep the rest of us warm.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
Graphite embossments littered the page.
Each groove and curve leaving imprinted scars for
the eye to wonder but is limited to the imagination.
Back and forth, inwards and out, and up and around; but in
essence leading you to where the eye first left off.
The rays of day breaking light coming from the window
besides her has left shadows against her face and neck to disperse perfectly along
through the spine and around the rib cage. Continuing on to the
inward gentle slopes of her lower back as well as her ample arching hips down to
the definition of her legs while descending to the petiteness of her toes.
Compositions flood my thoughts, transpiring one to stain the mind.
Her pastel smooth skin creating curved tones, while her figure gently leads me
around each indention that follow her distinguished yet unremarkable features.
Featureless of defects and abundant in beauty
her form keeping me attentive of the lines I begin to choose and commit.
With one curved stroke, the line implies her seductive form, then another, and another
suggesting the composition as a whole.
Beginning from my sight reverted to my mind down onto the textured paper below;
capturing the pigments so remarkably sharp.
I round brighter tones highlighted by darkened grays to extenuate
the contrasts of the room in relation to the delicacy her physique.
The charcoal and graphite I precisely placed on the picture
plane has my finger tips caressing and imitating the curvatures of her body.
The tones and shapes caught by the eye travel from her onto the crisp white blankets
entrapping her on the firm white bed she lay on. The brightened tones of the window enhance the distinctions between light and dark and heightens the intensity of my interest to
make this compositions one of my best.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 10:53 PM UTC
It's a lonely ol' night
I feel so tired but I can't sleep
all I can do is just think
how sweet it would really be
to have somebody cuddlin' up next me
watching a movie, playing footsie
underneath the sheets
transpiring into some heated body language
with a whole lot of touching
kissin' and huggin'
making love all night til the sun comes up
then we just both fall asleep in each others arms
oh yeah...all I can do is just think
It's a lonely ol' night
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
I watched him
He stepped out into sunshine
Stood staring around as if lost
Then took ten steps to stare at the sign
Memorial Hospital was what it read
And I couldn't imagine what thoughts
Were transpiring inside his head
I followed at a distance
To see what his day would bring
No thought of interacting or distracting
Just along with him I would string
He walked along for a mile or two
Just taking in the sights
And I almost started laughing out loud
As he fell backwards staring at some kites
Felt better when he took a seat
He just seemed to find pleasure walking
Easily he was distracted
By the birds the flowers or the kites
To these he was extremely attracted
What goes through his mind
This huge hulking man... like was carved of stone
On the third day he sat on a bench for 5 hours
Staring out at the ocean seeing something only he was shown
Those 5 days that early June I followed him
9 a.m. to Twilight's dimming veil
So Friday morning was as usual
8:30 a.m. coffee at the Sidewalk Cafe
When I saw him standing at the rail
Once I noticed him he stepped around and approached
Excuse me he said do I know you?
I've noticed you've been following me
But I haven't known what to do
I think... I think I have it figured out though
Then he smiled a smile and cocked his head
I'd be very pleased if today you would walk with me
Unless you'd like to continue following instead
Although....
he softly said ...I'd be grateful
To share with you each wonderful new surprise
And share the joy on your face knowing
That I'm seeing it all for the first time through your father's eyes
There are some things in life that are not to be denied for right then and there I laid my head down on my crossed arms and I cried and I cried wondering if i can regain my ability to talk as he stood quietly, solid as a stone until I looked up and said thank you I'd love to join you on your walk.
My name is ...............................
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
ambient glances
transpiring from ashes
and airborne oceans
my senses surfing
the evening glow
honeycomb lights spinning
restless with bees
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
i've been the other woman
before
i've listened to those words
like daggers to my heart
hollow empty promises of
impossible futures that you
never actually see transpiring but you
whisper in my ears like
sweet nothings because
by the time i realize that you're
full of ****
you'll be long gone and i'll be
the one bleeding
the one left to pick up
the shards of myself i'll never
piece together into a
coherent self
again
but you aren't married
anymore
you don't go home to another woman
your first choice
and hold her in your arms
reach for her when you
wake in the bathing light of the moon
you aren't with a wife
who has your heart and love
yet she still hold your heart
captive
you aren't legally connected to her
but i still pay the toll
stopped on the freeway of my life
because you see her in my eyes
and will i forever be forced to
pay for her transgressions
will you always see me as
the same
as the woman who shattered your world
erased your ability to trust
the ***** who seeks
to be ******
the hurricane that destroys indiscriminately
though how could you ever
think that me
the one who loves
the one who tells you i love you
would ever do that
if anything it's you whose
motives
and intentions
should be questioned
i'm tired of being the other woman
to my boyfriend
who isn't legally married
but is still irrevocably tied to
the pain she tore into him
pain for which i must pay the ultimate price
how could such a horrible
vile woman
ever be loved by him
and what does that make me
the one who can't be
doesn't that make me
even more contemptible
than her
doesn't that mean that i'm
a ***** piece of trash
i wish i'd never met you
i wish i could disappear
or go to sleep and wake up
to a brand new world
without you
because at least if i'm alone
i don't have to constantly feel
rejected by the person i love most
i hate you
but that's a lie
i wish i could hate you
but i'd rather tear myself apart
slice myself to ribbons
***** my insides until
all my vital organs have been expunged
i'd rather die
than live a day
without loving you
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:38 PM UTC
Under a temple of sequoia,
I do not fear your ravenous wild
which lives in everything
flowering desire.
What drives my folly
drips longingly with mad nectar,
finds your mystery alive in my eyes,
mystery coloured in vibrant azalea.
There is no forest, just
deciduous portals to other worlds.
Beneath an outgrowing meadow
of detritus, decay has a lurid scent
of pine that lingers. And your roots
guide my descent into the darkest deep,
a thousand years into the Holocene.
Show me
how to carry this endless dream.
Make me remember where
I am and will always be:
in raindrops streaming
to the understory,
in hollowed trees pulsing rivers
of sun in between,
in conifer transpiring seeds
from branch to leaf,
in earthworms relishing
the sweetness of skin,
in the enduring vision of you
that exists in the marrows
of me.
Maybe in time
touched by waterfalls of memory,
I will return to your world again
cloaked in dirt and evergreen.
Jul 16, 2024
Jul 16, 2024 at 8:30 AM UTC
if i **** myself, will i wake from this dream?
a half-remembered reverie floating
at the periphery of my anxiety.
will death free me from ennui?
will my final breath
bring me liberty
or will this life be but the passing
of one ship too many on a moonless eve?
if i **** myself, will i wake from this dream?
the doctor told me to
swallow a fistful of pills.
whatever you say, doc.
i've been striving for lucidity
so i might achieve some measure of restraint
a way to constrain the hellscapes
when i drift unconsciously
listless within my psyche.
can i project my whims
into the astral plane
to attain a degree of peace?
if i **** myself, will i wake from this dream?
endless possibility rests
just beyond my fingertips.
to soar serenely
over lavender mountains
past fields of magenta glass.
magical realism birthing infinite possibility
from the labyrinth of night-terrors.
if i **** myself, will i wake from this dream?
it's been said
that if you dream of falling
and you reach the end
you won't wake up ever again.
but my deja vu is transpiring endlessly
as if i was trapped in an abyss spanning eternity.
am i caught in a vacuum of space-time?
am i adrift within a void?
am i going through the motions once again?
the doctor told me to
swallow a fistful of pills.
whatever you say, doc.
repeat. repeat. repeat. repeat.
...
is this a dream?
is this the real world?
am i already dead?
if i **** myself, will i wake from this dream?
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
We float over solvent crystals of life
Glistening in the all glory of our stars might
The wind winding round us
Sweeping up minute glitter
flicking the crystaline particles of life
As sparkles of radiance on our skin
A complement to sparkles in our eyes
A temporal tunnel borrowing the depths of faith
A moment hung in eternity
A transpiring of unspoken gifts and promises
Asilent understanding
A pledge of love in every realm promised
Agreement in the slow blink of an eye
sealed with polite fervour as a
Kiss over the salt waters
Cleansed and anointed by
The salt of the earth and holiness of the
Eternal presence the one who spoke existence
Consecrated by the eternal agapi in the struggle
Of the mystical meanings and the free will of our love.
A living story.
Dec 27, 2020
Dec 27, 2020 at 9:04 PM UTC