"transversing" poems
If this blanket is an ocean,
And the ripples are waves,
I'd travel the opposite miles,
So we could collide.
Along we roll,
Transversing each other.
But waves are waves,
While this blanket has a different story.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
its the end of the old beginning of the new
but i can't pretend to walk through this new door without any residue
without any trace of you, or memories
starting a new project, transversing a new lane
i wish i was as sacrilegious and vain
as i used to be before i was beaten black and blue
until i encountered you and my confidence was rocked
until i encountered you and your mind games won’t stop
even after i have burned away every trace
even after i have burned away at the stake
you always find a way to worm your way into my peace
disrupt and unplug, mistrust and vengeance
but what really is love, i just crave revenge
Jan 10, 2022
Jan 10, 2022 at 8:20 AM UTC
She is preserved at the greenery
fading inside the floating yellows
her mellow as the sun set strikes
face wondering on the future mirror
She longs to encase inside her cocoon
unhurt the pain pierced in her ribcage
the spent morrow of blunt perceptions
wavering the chronic deserted day
She is alone in a world of within
without the touch of the yester clouds
the tremor of her upset is unreliable
watering the chronic ail she donned
She feels the crystal pain on the dial
rails of entrust and forgotten tense
the troubles of the self sacrifice travellers
*trespassing ***** gates of wired shield*
She knows when her well is overfilled
finding a self that can embrace life
the compromised placid meanders
flowing the alive esse of a today
She moans of eons undignified
trying to excavate her sinking soul
the one that made her feel like she
revealing the reality of her unusual peace
She jumps like a seasonal seesaw
illusions parading the absolute truce
a muse of delicate authentic flavours
transversing the idealised time and space
She knows herself best when isolated
when the moon sinks and the night draw
when vagaries explode in the chaotic skies
when the pearl starry sun stares in her iris
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
where did all the dreams go.
once soaring
over river sea desert arctic ocean
roots and veins
deserted glistening ringing
over yellow red and purple
poppy fields temptatious shimmering
now I am souring
I ate the forbidden fruit
and rather than being sweet
it was sour.
where did all the dreaming go.
I recall transversing convoluted causeways
unconscious
uncontrollably wandering then falling
toothless
standing amidst the spider king
I ask if I can bring a date to the wedding
the king replies, 'No, and I hath stolen the ring!
you must sing for me, lest be spun and forever left undone.'
and rather than being sweet,
it was sour.
where did all the dreams go.
I recall traveling charging at the one
the one was forever in my view.
I challenged the one
cross-eyed concupiscent cyclopian nightmare,
the siren song always draws me in
and rather than being sweet.
It is sour.
*I wake up and think rather than say,
are we all not just elegant decay?*
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover^
My Children:
Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer
Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.
Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.
Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.
It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."
Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.
Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.
Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.
For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.
Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.
*Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.*
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
for Maria
you want to ask,
knowing in advance,
the answer is a scream
even if it is silent traveling,
on a frequency transversing,
that humans cannot discern
so strange is it,
that the imposition
of the interrogatory
is the almost harder part
of the two dance partners,
question and answer
a simple
"how are you"
is simply inadequate
in every respect,
it is almost,
disrespectful
for there is no how or are
and for sure, there is no
you anymore
how could there be,
when pieces of your flesh
by hot combs inquisitioner pierced,
levying cuts impervious to
medicinal magic
asking
how was your weekend,
beyond absurd,
what matters the day of the week,
when the unrepairable ailment of thy soul
has a permanence that makes
calendars superfluous
but on certain days,
certain worse than others,
because they freshly dress
the still red scars,
fresh bright pained painted with
unrepressable, unsurpassable memory agonistes
of seeds and wine
so you ask dumb,
you ask blind,
waiting for a
shotgun blast reply,
hoping you will be
the forgiving kind,
but prefacing the inanity with
a forgiveness plea confession,
"I don't know how to ask"
and you reply
*"there is no correct way,
and
there is no correct answer"*
and neither the interrogator
or the interrogee is content,
the Yankee boy and the Southern gal,
unless it is to scream,
till the air in the lungs depleted,
and when replenished,
having screamed to the heart's content,
the heart impaired,
cannot ever be contented
your own insane humanity prompts
to ask again, no matter,
for the only correct thing
is the asking~caring,
even though advance notice
has been given,
there is no correct answer
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
those f-words and s-words are like little space ships,
transversing into restricted territories,
portals into the un-explored world of adolescence,
a rite of passage from childhood to teenhood,
a small crack of the innocence.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
around the time Hurricane Matthew was
tearing through Florida, it was 10:34pm in
Divide--
A Coors bottle pressed into your beard,
settled on your bottom lip in contemplation
a boyish reverie spun between us when you spoke
softly relaying the genealogy of the Hatfields & Mccoys,
Ole Ran'l, Devil Anse piping in, your accent seeps through
real Midwestern like--stops when you're on about prayer
trees and La Llorona
But I was deeply introspective,
heavily burdened by a Randy Travis song
how earlier that morning your fingers
had found their way around my hips--
mine around your waistband, down your spine
a helpless explorer driven across the mainland
transversing shoulder blades, fascinated by chains
around your neck, nooses, playthings or jewelry
how around 3 am your gravely voice sought me
out across a sea of torrid thoughts to ask if I was cold
yes. probably.
and when we start the decline, tripping lazily over moss clumps
dead grass, fallen trees, I storm and plow ahead because
when in doubt, race yourself.
Sheltered by the truck gate,
you've come up ahead and stand
in front of me, unassuming
both hands complacent--
so I ask you to kiss me
and there's a fiddle playin'
in my ears, a highway of
country streamin' through
my veins, or,
something
like that.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
so many
crossing natural boundaries
unreal, imaginary but oh so
real-ity to you
and me
interconnecting contacting
differences, divides, chasms, canyons,
lies, complex and barefaced
bridge creatures
steel, rope, tree branch, eroding concrete,
sturdy shaky, securely dangerous,
each a different irony
this poem,
is of one such bridge
you cannot see its picture
on the Internet
only one or few
can cross it,
only one
can pay the
toll, reap beyond belief
so hefty steep,
when paid, garners
transversing permission,
but tourists in groups can
sneak- peak
this poem~bridge connects
the image I see of myself,
first look, awakening brought,
and the inner poet
who word passages across
the rickety rope one for crumbs of truth,
while throwing his secret shames
over the side
let us leave it here
http://list25.com/25-of-the-worlds-most-unique-bridges/
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Trust, ties, tears, tears;
With setting rising sun,
just Truth remains.
Trinity's traits transcending to transcript,
The temple trusting the tryst to tall togas;
Truces, tangs, tangles, tags, teams,
with tricks or trills are tackled, tamed by
Those trained to taste the towering truth.
Taints, taboos, tattoos;
With cycling of seasons,
only Truth stays there.
Transgressing traps, talons, treasons,
Thorns, thongs, tides translucent;
These tapes, talks, tales transient,
Are trifles, tickles, trivial, trite;
To tribes treading the track of truth.
Talents, tacts, top techs;
Against infinite labyrinth,
Truth alone can pass.
Taut troops trotting the toiling trek;
Taunting, tapering the tonnage of trash;
Transversing tough tests of tempts,
Are trails of tiring trials, For
Those who treble the tone of truth.
Thrashing traumas to transfixing trance;
With beast or with beauty,
Truth belongs to soul.
Through love and death,
the true timeless tapestries;
Life translates to truth,
and becomes a happy moment;
The moment which is forever.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
they are windows into a soul,
many a time it has been adaged—
through the variety of moments,
transversing the fabric of space,
as they witness evolution’s progression,
impressing upon the hippocampus;
creating memories delving deep,
deeper, further—an obsession with distance,
to hide in one’s essence,
life’s temperamental escalations,
as a soul searches for meaning,
revealing mined, elusive absolute truth.
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 7:45 PM UTC
vvith help from a spit of liquor
gravitates ‘round the pyre, gulps
until highxr the flicker
inside her—oops!
must be supernxtural forces
twxsting these vowels into xxxx’s,
transversing her verses
into hexes—
slurrxng,
she hastens,
crossing her vvords
& mayhem unfolds from their nexus
Oct 29, 2021
Oct 29, 2021 at 10:48 PM UTC