"unambiguous" poems
|**“lead into gold, good into dear, mortal into immortal”
(where poems come from)”**|
you charged me
with crimes three times three,
sorcery and witchcraft and doing god’s work
plead guilty three times three
not that I was successful,
but a complex, candied marvelous failure
not in my possession, the sorcerers spell,
my dross and wordy dregs all sit sidelined,
perchance perhaps,
if you search with a leaden patience inhuman,
you might just find a minuscule golden vein there’d unmined
turning good into dear, an “anyone can do it” miracle,
when you whisper with just one kiss those forever words,
don’t be afraid, say it low and slow, I love you,
and
“I only want to be with you”
and dare it to be become dear
mortal into immortal, an order tall, for one knows his
hiding places for all too human pockmarked weak,
but having been charged and found in guilt,
no one proffered evidence but they wanted a unambiguous
unanimous verdict and proof is such an old fashioned truth notion
happy accept your accusations and since confession is
the best soul medicine, with glee, here and now reveal
how immortality is achievable
breathe poems constantly instantly throughout
the orifices in the skin cells and
pore’d orifices you were god given;
it is how we immortals communicate
with what cannot be seen,
yet drunken heard when spoke aloud
taste the poems in and on tongues you can’t comprehend,
the sounds fly skyward after infiltrating your eyes,
then you can see your own immortality anointed rising
all nonsense you plead,
indeed,
only immortals truly cherish and envy the
human ability to create
nonsense, the place
where poems come from
*******
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
Amble into the churning vortex the purple sky undulates.
The darkness devours the day; shall mankind grimace and falter?
The outcome is unambiguous, the sky is broken like an open scroll.
Three spheres cascade, black clouds shutter.
Wheels-within-wheels covered in eyes, the Ophanim descend,
surrounded by a golden altar, the wheels spin a radiant light.
Crushing bone, crumbling stone, a symbol of justice begets a reckoning from the might of the celestial throne.
Six wings the Seraphim are holy,
with two wings they cover their faces,
with two they cover their feet,
with two they begin to rise.
Four faces the Cherubim are glory,
eagle, ox, lion, and man.
Four conjoined wings covered with eyes,
guard the way to the tree of life.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 5:44 AM UTC
Today,it rained.
I sat down at my piano,
And composed her an apology.
The patter of rain.
I looked outside,
And saw a tempestuous spillage of emotions,
And an unambiguous uttering of poetic truth;
That I never could discover on my own–
I saw the trees tell me explicitly.
God has His ways.
It was one.
I never would have guided,
My ever-so-guarded heart–
To yield with all honor retained,
And accept this silent insatiable feeling–
Love.
It always had been love;
That defeated time,
In the want of immortality,
In the pursuit of eternity;
That was abundant in scarcity,
And that sat like one timid angel,
In the abyss of my heart,
And lit it up.
Today, it rained.
I sat down at my paino,
And felt eternal in the silence between the notes.
Tomorrow, it will rain.
I will sit down at my piano,
And sing a song to the moments of eternity,
That God makes us experience,
Wearing this mortal suit;
In the name of love.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 7:55 AM UTC
On good nights, I like to send messages to space, outer
or deeper though direction and dimension are lost on me.
I get answers but no translations, no key or stone to this alien
and spacy thought. What? You say you bet you could
rephrase space in a language even I could understand? After all
you passed algebra, walked around school a big shot, finding X
or its equals. I should have paid attention, but mine was fixed
on Linda, Lucinda, Corinna, Corinna where you been so long?
I might have learned the meaning of words from long forgotten
gods, frustrated issuing commandments, ok in their day, but
ignored now, passé. I was absent for those god talks, apocalypse-isms,
missed out on saints with half-moon halos and beatific visions.
I heard only rumors of women, words like smitten, enchanted,
obsessed with love like striated bark on trees, canals on Mars,
rain and that sound that creeps under sod. And so I wait
for an unambiguous, intelligible answer from anyone in space.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
They come down the road coughing
Up beliefs between cigarette drags
And slight hesitations of who they are to others.
Orange-ish yellow unattractively
Embroiders their chests; they've got their protections,
Their unambiguous vests.
From hazy breakfast drudgery
To night's exhausted rapture,
The play the same stage, the same lines, the same players.
But this is living to them:
Shrugging at the future; believing just because;
Knowing the store still provides overpriced cigarettes.
Their feet rattle on tarry asphalt
As their tools swing away. Patterns
Are in their hearts, their caged, tamed hearts,
Stifling what they want to say.
They built the streets I drive on
As I fight with my nothingness
And I remember they must feel this too,
Just as darkly and definitely as the wheel feels the road.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
I graduated fresh and ****** from my mother's womb,
a gift, greater than any other.
My sister before me too.
My brother after me was swallowed up by Him
mere hours after drawing his last breath his first.
Behold:
This is my unambiguous declaration against
this universal truth: my unparalleled defense
of the dignity of man
against the temperature-empty, relentlessly inhuman
universe unconcerned with these ventures
which characterize knowing it
not. For one day I shall call
my teachers by their first names. One day
they shall call me doctor. This is the totem
declaring the worth of the living and the dead,
my sister and my brother: myself. The totem
of the disenfranchised and barely and disabled
and black. Even also less including I guess
the enriched the cup overfloweth and mighty
and colourless. Our skin and bones and graves
and blood and ****** and lust and chest and
******* and being and nothing and isness is
beautiful
regardless of everything. It is mine.
It is yours. It is yours.
Votre.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
You became my sun.
So easily and quickly.
You’ve always been one to light up a room,
And when this started up again,
My heart was empty space.
But even before I saw you again
You were so intense
Even if only in your mystery.
Mystery…that sounds more like the moon.
But I always kind of imagined myself as a moon
More in the background,
Coming out to play once those who shone had gone to bed,
Changing faces throughout the phases
Never able to decide who I was
Only sometimes disappearing.
The moon – always perceived as cooler and calmer,
An esoteric symbol of reflection and transition,
In a constant competition with the sun,
But with you I have changed.
You tell me I am sassier than sassafras,
An unambiguous product of the land,
And that I keep you grounded.
Does that make me your earth, my love?
Benefitting from your warmth,
You melted my ice caps when I was numb to the core.
Growing from your glow,
Your light refracts,
Illuminating,
You brought to life the parts of me that were forgotten,
Allowing the caged soul to sing.
No matter how I stand, I can feel your presence,
Even when you’re far away,
Enveloping me, encouraging me
Your heat preserved in my atmosphere,
My very aura.
With you, I have become my best self.
The attraction is tangible,
Me pulled towards you, you pulled towards me,
An everlasting orbit,
A never-ending dance.
One without the other,
Just doesn’t make sense.
You are my sun.
I might be your ground.
In any galaxy,
Any universe,
I’d want you around.
It’s funny,
How meeting someone new,
Can redefine a concept
You thought you knew.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
These agitated periods of sleep-speech were mercifully brief.
And when they ended she would subside for a time, sweating and panting as if,
Into a state of dreamless exhaustion
Then abruptly she would awake
Convinced in her disoriented state,
There was an intruder in her head.
There was no intruder.
The intruder was absence
A negative space in the darkness
All was lost to her, like paradise.
Like Kashmir
In a time before memory.
Trapped in this city
She had lashed out in despair.
In such a city there can be no grey areas
Or so it seemed.
Things were what they were
And nothing else.
Unambiguous,
Lacking the subtleties of drizzle, shade, and chill.
Under the scrutiny of such a sun
There is no place she can hide.
No mysteries here, or depths;
Only surfaces and lies
Yet to learn the city was to discover illusion.
This banal clarity was nothing more then, nothing.
The city was all treachery, and deception, all the same
A quick change, quicksand metropolis.
Hiding its true nature from those staring at its name.
Pretending to be content
Guarded in secret
In spite of all its apparent nakedness and bleakness.
In such a place, even the forces of destruction no longer needed the shelter of the dark.
She burned out of the morning’s brightness, dazzling the eye and stabbed me with sharp and fatal light
Loveless, and blind
Born in the midst of the firestorm of courage.
Twisted and ruined.
The lands of possibility misbehaved.
A dishonest nursery
The blueness rich with sorrow, which filled the evening sky
That made the world look childlike and pure. Such an unnatural disguise.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
Upon her faithful frame togs
Of beauty hangs;
Rosy robe, smelling myrrh.
All the go love is unambiguous--
Nought hid; clear
Like glass, soft like foulard.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
My nightmare filled with streaks of saintly garb
rousing the flares of benevolence
and the strokes of compassionate ink
scribbled on to the snow-hued papyrus.
The fields of golden grains unmasked
the unpolluted ecstacy of childlike desires
Simple.
Innocent.
Pure.
Softly swaying as the hammock in the dew air
gently rupturing the laddery pride.
It waves its resilient trunk
then stoops to the god of snow.
And the windows to the soul will tire peeking
and paint instead ashen hopes
Languid.
Reminiscent of pallid hermit
caressing colorless sands,
tranquilly hummed by the songs of a lone shell
under the unambiguous sky.
Compose your poems
now with the sallow ink
on a dustless, ethereal white sheet.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC
Information is weight that holds
down and holds back like a jungle
like so many vines and chutes
mud and rain that keeps
you struggling and straining
towards that place on a map
the high point that once atop
promises an unambiguous view,
the place that looks so close
there's no need to carry a pack
but nine hours later, hacking
through underbrush, pulling
at leeches and swatting mosquitos
finds you crippled by heat
cursing the map that so
grossly misrepresented the
relationship between yourself
and the place you wished to reach,
the map that never mentions, never,
that should you ever achieve
that keystone ridge, that high and
illuminating view, you will look out
to see the impeding silhouette of the
next ridgeline blocking your way.
Feb 6, 2022
Feb 6, 2022 at 7:24 PM UTC
my mother
is always visible
speaking what she thinks is right
mostly I listen
she does not look like me
she is more talkative
she is always unambiguous
but we are alike
we have the same habits
we share books, clothes
and affinity for the same television characters
my art reflects my mother's art
and sometimes her, herself
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
The haze of breath
in frostbitten air
makes machine of
a body with a drunk
at the wheel.
Wisps of air escape;
engineered to heighten
awareness of self.
Each ones exit increasing the
loneliness
I've always loved hearing;
"Any port in a storm".
Trimmed with an air of ambiguity.
How unambiguous is it though,
when looked at in hindsight.
I chose that port for this storm!
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
This is how our dreams end:
Not an avalanche cascading around our ears,
But the subtle shift of pebbles in a stream bed,
An endless series of minute compromises with ourselves
Which we justify to by raising any number of spectres:
The weight of disappointment from unrequited expectation,
The bogeyman of unintended consequence from our successes.
So we make the box of our wishes smaller and then yet smaller,
Until we do not recognize them as ours at all;
Or, perhaps, we have adulterated them so often
We can no longer ascertain
At what point they stopped resembling our hopes and ideals,
Not unlike when the batter, stepping to the plate,
Scratches out the back line of the batter’s box
Until its boundary disappears
Into a confusion of dust and lime.
One final wish, then; scatter me at the crossroads when I die,
So that, if perhaps for only that one moment,
I can rise above the gray and cracked macadam
Of these too-familiar roads
And float into a clear, blue unambiguous sky,
No longer a victim of the gravity
Of the workaday concerns that shackle us together.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
Why do you feel the need to make me conscience of the way I appear to you?
I don't need to hear you analyze my mood
Or the way I talk, walk, and breath
Go home and evaluate me in your ******* journal
And stop shrinking people to fit into your unambiguous definitions. People are more fluid than that.
People aren't their pasts or disorders or behaviors at work that you can sum up in a punch line.
What you see is a tiny window into a deep infinite Galaxy
"Be still and listen"
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
I felt myself begin to fall
in love with you but
I arrested that emotion
and returned to the equilibrium
of my life for one
- adhering to unambiguous instruction
- thankful for it's simple
red amber green ration
- grateful that I had avoided
the flood of voices
that inevitably follows the falling.
I'll have to be more careful.
Jul 24, 2021
Jul 24, 2021 at 5:38 PM UTC
I wish to clarify,
if such is needed,
that much of my writing
is not written from the top of a tower
(at least I like to think it isn't...)
Much of my writing is the recourse I seek
when I see signs of things with which I disagree
brewing up inside of me.
When I write 'you'
I might sometimes be talking to me.
When I write 'one'
I may sometimes be passive-aggressively targeting myself.
My rancor is seeded by observations
but I am also subject to those observations.
In fact, I'm my closest point of reference.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
The cigarette hanging precariously
on the edge of that mouth.
Those pursed lips exhaling smoke
and pouring my bedroom
with the sick sweet smell of marijuana.
Playing a body contortionist, eyes closed
to the beats of my favorite song.
Dancing the last dance.
And that wicked grin
playing no wicked games.
Between wistful delirious visions of you
and the present unambiguous with your
absence,
sanity beckons.
And so I wait for your face to slowly
dissipate like the smoke
from your lit joint.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
Spending
Every
Weekday
Infusing
Needled
Gossamer.
In
Thread,
Unambiguous
Pleasure.
Nov 21, 2021
Nov 21, 2021 at 9:46 PM UTC
You can twist the way a man sees the world.
Do you think that sounds ridiculous?
What if you did it over time with subtlety and diligence?
The audience is largely uneducated, so remind them of their impotence; tell them any other source of facts must be regarded with suspiciousness.
Whisper to them over breakfast and slowly introduce corrosive dissonance; outright lie to them at dinner,salting in some truth for spicy antithesis.
Those who run the country are up to something mischievous; their lives, their fine America, have been eroding with precipitance.
Remember empowered yesterdays with a sad and tearful wistfulness; twist the needs and rights of others with pernicious lies and maliciousness.
Invest their government with conspiracy and its policies with wickedness. Remind your audience that freedom was torn from kings by well-armed militias.
Introduce the savior as a shining instrument of religiousness; defend his faults as small and frivolous and his right to rule as unambiguous.
When shocking reality dares assert itself, denials must be vicious and officious.
A rescue mission must be launched and certainly they must be participants; banners from the gift shop will form a team identity and a certain moral equivalence.
The leader will whip the angry crowd, stoking resentment with fabricated incidents, swearing, “I will be with you on this great crusade and you will be my instruments”
As the mob storms off he will slink away; he was only there for stimulus.
Hear the old republic creak as the President flexes his insolence; he’s seen that no blame can touch him, so he’s filled with proud ambivalence.
What will it take to rein him in? What kind of obvious stimulant, with thousands already dying every day and our society marbled with brittleness?
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 8:44 AM UTC
Yesterday, I saw a NASA announcement.
it said they found “Unambiguous”
water on the moon.
I had just finished my morning walk
and frankly, that sounded delicious
and refreshing.
So, I went to Amazon and searched.
I couldn’t find ANY reference to
“Unambiguous moon water” at ALL.
How ridiculous, I mean, why go
and ADVERTISE something that
We can’t get on AMAZON??
*** people. This is AMERICA.
Nov 14, 2020
Nov 14, 2020 at 7:20 AM UTC
-
That line in the distance which
defines the boundary between
the Heavens and the Earth
is not even a line–
actually it is an arc,
so i have fooled
myself already.
I imagine this as a border
constituting what i can
and cannot reach
with all the lofty fixtures
of space high above
and the rocks below—
my endurance erodes
between them.
I admit to having grown
fond of the certainty
this divide represents
because it renders the scope
of my options unambiguous.
Still, i fancy some rungs–
a way to step up
so i can place hopes
just above that threshold,
but having attempted to
measure the height of
"Jacob's Ladder",
i realize success could mean
my condemnation to
a hopelessness
below...
s jones
2021
.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 7:58 AM UTC
From the bottom of my heart, should I write this to you:
It was a dream that we shouldn't dream of.
It was an idea that we shouldn't think of.
It was a question that we shouldn't answer.
Let it be and let it fly away;
Like nothing happened or let it be real and authentic.
For we hold the keys to the unambiguous reality.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
•••
*life is
so simple
for the people
those perceives
it’s simplicity with
innocent behaviour...
and having
unambiguous
thinking process....*
•••
(c) deovrat 13.12.2019
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 5:10 AM UTC