"transposing" poems
I'm just composing all day
I'm just transposing all day
I'm just eroding all day
I'm just imploding all day
I wonder what's for lunch?
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
Prayer the Churches banquet, Angels age,
Gods breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgramage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav’n and earth;
Engine against th’Almightie, sinners towre,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six-daies world-transposing in an houre,
A kinde of tune, which all things heare and fear;
Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse,
Exalted Manna, gladnesse of the best,
Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest,
The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,
Church-bels beyond the starres heard, the souls bloud,
The land of spices; something understood.
2.3k
There I stood
In a long hallway
Stretching thinly
To a lit point
Lined with doors
Opening as they closed
Its prisms transposing
Euphoria as it shone
Lifting my chest
It dragged me breathless
Down its stretches
As I was reflected
In my own projections
Of sentients
Until innocence
Was all there is
And that is
Where thoughtless
Narrative lives
Where languidly it gives
Wordlessness meaning
And that is
Where fraughtless
Intentions can win
Acting replacing thinking
Incentive in Zen
Awaking and thinking again
Was is and gonna be
Everything I believe
Even while deceived
In sets of themes
Numeric categories
And the tragic stories
Of grander things
Things of grandeurous dreams
That I wring out in the sink
While winking
The well wishes away
In splashes
Of graying
Paint
My hate
Is displayed
In the mourning
Of Mondays
And with relatable monotony
And some mundane
Everything goes back to the same
Or at least
That's the philosophy
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
Some think this world a vale of tears, or worry and of sighs;
That Life's a great big lottery, in which few win a prize.
I read some hopeless verses once that don't deserve to last,
They told how the mill can never grind with water that is past.
I'd like to change that fallacy which has caused so many a tear,
And by transposing make it bear a message of good cheer
And point the way of winds of hope, like pennant on a mast,
For I know that the mill can grind again with water that is past.
A mountain stream comes trickling in the sunlight down the hill,
And gathers volume until it has strength to run the mill;
It happily continues then, upon its useful way,
Turns other mills still further down, until it joins the bay.
Its temporary mission o'er, it sweeps out to the sea
With other useful waters bearing it company;
And there all peacefully they rest, beneath the shining sun,
Who seems to think their mission is scarcely yet begun.
With gentle force He lifts them up in vapors to the sky,
And gathers them in fleecy clouds in His domain so high,
Where kindly winds then waft them back to that mountain home,
From which a few short hours before we saw them start to roam.
The cooling night then causes them to fall in gentle showers,
A blessing to that mountainside, to grass and trees and flowers;
And in the dawn of early morn we find them back once more
In that same little mountainside, but stronger than before.
They gather volume as they come a-tumbling down the hill,
And then with added vigor again they turn the mill;
And then in play they rush away, through meadowland and town,
And every mill again is turned as they go dancing down.
The brightest day is no more useful than the darkest night,--
Our troubles soon would disappear if we'd view them aright.
Good fortune may be holding back her best things to the last,
For I know that the mill can grind again with water that is past.
And that same little mountain stream
Has always been to me
But one of Nature's many proofs
Of Immortality.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
Here we shared the slips and reels of earnest conversation,
An interweaving counterpoint of dialogue
Wherein I bled the truth of loving.
Heart’s secrets shed
And shared.
And by and by transposing the antiphonal chant
You guide towards consonance, harmony,
With gentle lilting phrasing
Encouraging sweet concord within the cantus firmus.
And yet you say you do not sing?
Surely our hearts beat out the song of love and life
And all our narratives are ballades sung in open form?
I have heard you sing your madrigals
With melodies of hope and peace and grace
And tried to catch the tune.
Here, have rich harmonies been played out
And love songs whispered on the air.
So, if God grants, a final cadenza let there be
In a lullaby that’s sung for me.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:25 AM UTC
looking at the mirror
even if not apparent
there is another image
another world, another half
on one side, the fanfare
the other, the silence
resilience amid despair
on one side, all I hear
the other, all that is left unsaid
and I still insist
to remain conscious
apparent
in one hand, nurturance
in the other, discouragement
absent
transposing every moment
that I still stopped
silent, talking
looking at the mirror
even if not apparent
there is another image
another world, another half
in one hand, the missing
and in the other
too.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
I am the universal signal mixer
On frequency h-u-m-a-n
Intaking and excreting vibrations
Decoding and synthesizing inputs
Receivers attuned and continuously engaged
Transposing matter and energy
Into light patterns of thought
Touching all waveforms
As a lover touches himself and others
Energy frozen into matter
Love frozen into form
Stretched to the very limits
On the blueprint of time, eternity
As dreamed by, yours truly
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
Through dreams I learnt to live
And in waking how to die
The golden hand of the morning sun
Would pull, tear and rive
Culling my verve, plucking life away
Time spent nether the burning sun
Never seems worth staying awake
I have seen the land of roses
Whilst skimming the blue tract
I know how Albion looks
Two hundred metres up
Towers that sink into the soil
Transposing themselves as trees
All wonderful things i have seen
Through nightly visions and dreams
Jan 13, 2010
Jan 13, 2010 at 8:41 AM UTC
Stories swirl free
Memory fantasy dream
Constellating stars
Blurring transposing like art
Lonely snowflakes weep,
Wishes for gifts meant to keep
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 8:08 PM UTC
She was a spectacular tree.
People called her the flame of the forest,
for she was obviously striking, vivid and classy.
I need not narrate the superlative majesty
of the flame – tree, for one time or the other
we have all been breath-taken by her peerless glamor.
What matchless artistry!
I am here to quickly share
my ruminative gloom for that lovely assembly
of flower, leaf and wood, which grandly stood
in a grove of possibilities, and possibilities can be
such a torment, such a calamity.
❋
For years galore, caterpillars of choices
had been steadily eating away at her core.
They came from different directions,
at different trajectories,
with varied objectives
and fluctuating proclivities.
Sometimes, they came rushing in as family,
and sometimes they came slowly,
a little formally, a bit watchfully,
somewhat officially.
At times they came in fiery fascination
and yet, ever so often, they were charged
with marauding indignation.
Many times they arrived as blazing ambition,
but more often than not, combusted the flamboyance
leaving behind an ashen illusion.
Oh.....those craving larvae
of oblique, wily opportunities.
❋
The foliage was feverishly guzzled
till photosynthesis was no more possible.
From my distant window from where I had once
watched her variegated flair,
I felt the Poinciana moan in simmering despair.
❋
With biting sensitivity, I still look on, a tad tearfully,
as she continues to tumble into conscious torpidity.
My words may slip and sway, as with each wilting leaf
after each withering floret, she progresses towards
an abject decay;
imploding methodically, and transposing gradually
from being the flame of the forest
to being a sprouting forest of flames.
Jan 22, 2020
Jan 22, 2020 at 9:11 AM UTC
Your nose scrunches up in normal conversation. It makes you look a little bit like a piglet.
Trust me, that may sound like a backhanded compliment, but it's adorable.
When you yawn, you sound like you want to cry.
Nothing freer than you transposing your tears for the sake of singing sad songs,
To Children you've never met, as if you've never slept.
We're both a little too sure about what we eat, and
The times you sit on your hands are the days when your guts moan...
[Others would call these imperfections, but the little things are always the best parts...
Birds flapping their wings (hollow arm-bones)
Tree-roots burrow and anchor (lungs)
Grass pets your eyes]
Always busy, the words form on the tip of our toes, everything I say
Is written with our silhouettes.
Outlines pigment the natural world...
Like a horror-show,
Hallways stretch for hours
(I can not currently see out this window).
Your open sockets spill waterfalls of true understanding from a crimson sunset of genius scars,
Like open wounds of the best silence, only the sound of teeth clashing
Between stretching lips
You hook your palms into my cheeks, bones creak
Gazes reflecting thoughts, unity in unmerited shame,
Our legs conversing softly, hair intertwined (snakes on our necks), and all night...
I keep playing a triplet between your ribs
A simple arpeggio archway under moans from dead skin in light,
I hold you by the red skin, carve you, for just one moment
Until we're living art. Skin static, roots spreading wings.
No expiration date for us, just a point when our bodies no longer parallel
But after that, we speak in clouds
We paint murals for each other in abandoned city parking lots
Or empty train halls.
The moon is our vanishing point,
All eyes on craters.
My language is something undiscovered to me,
I don't know if I want to let all these words go.
You mean Reincarnation to me,
Some jaw of life, some whale's mouth.
I am snow.
Everything loses focus but the stars...
Like teenagers.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 10:55 PM UTC
Snatched in betwixt'
The Shifting
and Switching
All midst the alters..
and moods..
The hasty cyclone..
The Rapid cycling..
The Stumbling..
The hurling..
One after other
All these emotions'
transposing-
From exhilaration.
grandiosity.
The loquacious episodes..
To Exasperation.
Despondency.
Despise.
Remorse.
The floating. dripping.salty..rampage.
And
amid all frantic..
all the chaos..
There..
this effete voidness..
Gleaning selves up'
unhanding 'em again
Gleaning.
Unhanding.
Gleaning And unhanding .
Over and over
Again
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 8:46 AM UTC
People walk this earth with regret.
Regretting the decisions they choose to make time and time again.
Transposing every detail as it were a lucid malfunction of the past,
short-circuits of effervescent impulse. Done at a very whim.
Action over impulse. Impulse over action.
We are caught in a natural disaster of our own errors.
It's all the same. Pseudo-visions coming from an all too familiar source.
Radiant aren't they? So much they engulf my iris in a torrent of contradiction.
These are the times we live for. Nostalgia is no longer in our vocabulary.
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 8:35 PM UTC
War makes its’ wicked artistry
Upon the flesh of humanity
Tearing skin
Inversing flesh
Transposing bone and skin
Organs and eyeballs
Such a sickening alchemy
And even when
The flesh remains
Untainted by such warring ways
The soul destruction reigns
Savaging mortal wits
Breaking stern hearts
And turning gentle folk
Into to mad man made monsters
All who come and go
And even those
Who come no more
Are disfigured by the
Horrors of war
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
A differential equation really tells me that reality can be examined by as many factors with as many changes over as many dimensions as imaginable.
And that orthogonality, tangency, surface area, and volume are basic orienting points, along with rates of change, and that I can transfer this data into a set that is much like a map.
However, it tells me only of concept and not the world, or only basic geometry of the world.
It tells me a lot about space and the symbols and numbers that represent such concepts.
Yet language tells me of my mind, and this math only points out that any change, volume, space, or objects in a dream can be seen with numbers and symbols - that spaces can be exact.
Which may say something about the future, but it can never tell me of the afterlife.
And that spirit/soul even in my materialistic theory means very little when confronted with a new universe.
If I go to another universe, universe B, from this universe A, then even with the transposing of *** and evil into companionship and innocence, in my understanding, these two changes would make the rest of the universe differ greatly.
Thus, the thought of the afterlife will always empty my mind of this universe, leaving me with no real full knowledge of life as I have yet to even use my senses in the next one.
I then always return humble while the atheist considers this universe to be eternal already, without prediction to experience anything greater than its synchronicities.
I have to give them a hand as I imagine this universe overfills them and are forced to deny the spirit rising beyond our cosmos, but rather affirm the spirit that is the totality of this one.
It sets no stage for memories, unfinished karmas, or meeting with the peoples of history.
Therefore, it places a great significance on today, a great significance on love that exists now, and a great significance on the works our forefathers left us.
I would say that this is superior for creating a sense of progress, a sentimentality for others, and a need to experience an openness with all this universe.
Above all else to check off everything on my bucket list.
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 4:27 AM UTC
Your words are just words,
empty airborne promises
Mind not matching where your heart is at,
sleeping here like walruses
Not far from a hide-a-bed, I
write down things that should be said
Transposing from inside my head,
pen and paper falls like lead
Wishing we could be
something we're not instead
Things inside were kinda dead
from open wounds already bled
My mind, it goes from black to red
(and) I'll leave here again someday,
... But not today
The lier and the thief come undone
their shackles are my own
All the scars that could be known
from all the fighting that's been done
Sweat,
like sanity,
slipping down the side of his face
(Washed in grace)
I've reached my peak and I've gone past
feeling like I'm falling fast
Fleeting times of good and bad
nothing ever lasts
Spent miles alone and sad
broken bones, you signed my cast
Forgotten hate and had a blast
took the wheel and we still crashed
Wrote about my long lost Dad
went back to the bar for another glass
Realized that I'm still mad
made penance and had daily bread
Now I'm starting to get fat
Regretting the Life
I still
Never had
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
The Farside's Face.
The wish of a painter or poet is to transport
the spirit's deep emotion by pausing
in awe at day or night's high-vaulted scene,
transposing its beauty to dreams,
then viewing grass as more than green.
An alchemist with no interest in gold
invests time between folds,
finds in the sky thermals on which
to soar on fancy or some surreal whim
to make jasper of sea, jade of dawn
and perceive gems hidden in flora's form.
A seer catches the farside's face
and traces that world in sentence or paint,
chimeric in nature an artist
whose eye encounters rock gives it heart,
transforms by description
accepted mundane into mystic meaning,
adds soft to feather, colour to blur
and improves the initial by seeing further.
It is said that fine art opens doors
to show the extraordinary as but normal,
for the good poet or painter
ranks as foremost importance a felt magic
when met with empty paper or canvas.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
My friend said
I talk like another language;
like I’m transposing
all my sentences.
I told him he was right.
But also,
my computer friend said
the sense I make isn’t enough;
like I’m switching instruments mid-song.
I told him he was right, too.
And so dance around the fire
mouthing the words off-tempo,
knowing the set may collapse.
Or instead,
All the ordinary windows
can drop watery curtains
while we sit in the rain.
Feeling the pitter patter
drops percussive
and wanting the next
refrain.
Oh I’m so bad at rhyming!
With such horrible comedic
timing.
And it’s so hard
to know what to say
to different types.
Dante warned against
not taking sides,
but I’m held ajar.
Oh didn’t I cover it all already?
(Burial, Chess, Fire Sermon, Death by Water, Thunder, and the Notes.)
I want to feel
sure that I’ve said too much
so everyone
has a little bit of something.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:54 PM UTC
Banks super lives, super-way, any union folded web of life,
conceal slights, only if we deliver the Arachnoweave Amoeba
in the ear of the Nordic ghost. The magic does not silence more
pro spirit, pro livelihoods rotating wheel terrified, provided the wheels of more to come, beyond, carried on tireless arms, washing the shoulders of my Maximus, along with its Grandfa Bernardino, with soap detergent on its soothing back, slipping his eternal dilatant lives ... while I moisten the cloth in water from your derogate juice Violin bilge her new life ahead. Coax, beings who now they mess up good news this spring. Makeup oils in their faces, multipole smiles, high orbits both love you, about back again,
Work hard in defining access mechanisms, and the answer to this question is implicit in the submissive book, lignum passed here concludes dyslexic and putrid for many feces on your gums !!! . The Faltering history shows that new developments that were unimaginable arise every day.
One or two generations before, and they are supported by all desiccated knowledge, tribal smoke signals or Bosca Stove in my lotus mind ...?, from the Tungus to the Mapuches Indians, speaking alone with such rage at the edge of each split hill, chemistry beautiful tree or river, who would like charmed life well made., falling prostrate with his dry lips, both parties pray to the life pattern and Earth for a dignified life.,
Utterance: Proverb by Default is flashing words of luminance beings, nothing encoding, it is only a proverbial asthma magical literary wanderings the illiterate time, whose purpose is to propose ranges of understanding, achieving suppress oxygenation even in the art of live. By transposing for new paths excelsus poetry, to deploy new signs and indications of communications prophetic.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
Some of lifes greatest lessons I've learned, are ones that have hurt me the most.
How I could have been so naive,I’ve asked, and why didn't I know better foremost?.
Why did I not listen, when friends said to me, it was better I did not believe?.
Lessons taught,and learned on my own to this day are the lessons I grieve.
I let people inside my life,and to them, I gave up my unearned trust.
My willingness to give away something so sacred,left me completely nonplussed.
I did not understand,nor could I fathom, how people could be so cold.
It’s as if they looked at my trust to be garbage, not a gift for them to behold.
The lessons each one of these people taught me,were nothing like I’d ever known.
Yet through these life lessons, born out of pain, I know now I have grown.
As these people have come and gone in my life,I’ve learned to somehow move on.
The ugliness in them,transposing on me to become a beautiful swan.
Life lesson are precious,I’ve kept them inside of my soul,so I’ll not have to learn them again.
They are pieces of gold ,more valued by me, than the people who have taught them.
Looking back at the lessons, and those who have taught I really am grateful, you see.
They must have wanted the goodness inside of my soul,and from those people,I am finally free.
Randy McPeek
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
Zealots will adore you
as they forgo romanticism for coercion
as they offer their insecurity
stemming from insidious roots,
a hardwired smorgasbord
of rejection, remorse and resolve-less apathy
they can barely stomach
so they get high, but never high enough
to make ecstasy drip off their sycophantic tongues.
They aim for the stars
waiting for by-proxy fantasies to be fulfilled
hoping that talent can implant by osmosis
through transposing kisses
you’ll want to scrub away
in the harsh light of day
when you want to forget the regret
but it’s sat right there
along with the denial
that it’s more than just about
holes filled and hours killed
that you were more than
just a body to strip and ****
with only a façade left for protection.
It’s called sex-positivity, apparently
don’t say what you mean
make them feel special,
spin a tired old narrative
because you’ve got nothing else to give
then take it away in the harsh light of day
pass it onto another
and pray that they’re naïve enough to believe.
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 3:54 PM UTC
The running water of time calms life
Bearing fruits of blessings in one's day
Lasting breathing glorified nature as did plants
Sheltering a skin like a sun that shines
Moments of darkness deserves adoration
As one rest so nature rest in a transposing position
Bringing in skillful thoughts to harness human in due time
Greenish plants fade greenish plants rise
Life is a bounteous gift
Like a beautiful tribute to a dream
Up and down the sun rises and fall
Up and down our heart grow like trees
Respiratory a pain as we clasp our eye
Insect inspects us at the night
Their voices makes daylight
To come short for it's nature gift
Written by
Martin Ijir
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 7:04 AM UTC
Earth Fights Back
Mercury, methane – it’s not retaliation.
Earth neutral, holds not a grudge;
It follows laws, the sludge of ***** oil
And the sea that whitens coral
No revenge just law,
No matter how ****** awful it may seem.
As I react so it reacts,
Our pact with nature and its every star.
Perhaps the verb to fight is faulty.
Not a fight, just a response.
Not a response, just a reply.
Earth answering, perhaps with love
Obeying laws within, above.
I propose a theme in prose, transposing theme
To poem for those
Who also think in meter
Satisfying, clarifying thoughts,
Allowing them to peter out in symmetry,
Some understanding, amity and harmony,
Satisfied if poem when through
Gets through to you,
In which case
Phrase fights back
Has had impact.
Earth Fights Back 1.28.2017
Circling Round Nature II; Our Times Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 4:57 PM UTC