"undertakings" poems
Eternity is closed !
- come back another day with
flower smears for eyes and sincere
passion on your
palms (weathered)
I need another Russian Doll -
Princess to frequent curtains
fashioned from fire & lead
equaling out to crimson folds
which mysteriously call to
the mystical hierarchies of
imagination
Silent requirements signal beneath the steps
which welcome
one (a stranger/
an Ibis-Beak cane & dark coat
stamped with August rain)
They arrive unexpectedly, as if to play the game
of cliches, they carry promises fashioned in foreign ports
tapping my knee
instead of my shoulder
having only known or recognized
entombment
(there is no hyperbole which lacks within
Nature's haunted heavens)
My strange visitor leaves / glass umbrella
in hand / to privacy / our brief interaction begins & ends with simple eager undertakings implemented
in the afterword
What is in another's contemplation of me?
whiling in manifest Theosophy -
- Thought form -
Primal child-rage / whisp of violet smoke &
inksplotches abolished, mutually panting.
Our decorated
four-legged hunter
has arisen and impatiently
craves for the Earth to partner at last with
the Sun
..The Sun a blazing dime
I can smell crispness
in the air
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 1:20 AM UTC
Sun's going down...
Around my miniature height,
Gloom is gathering itself
To usher in the night.
Beside the darkening feet
Of towering trees,
Shade-cooled and looking up,
I see sunlight climb
The upward reaches
Of tall pines.
Leaving shadows far below,
Green needled branches
****** new growth:
Yellow-candled greening flames,
To see the sun,
Greeting and adieu-ing
Steady moving days.
Light and life,
Ageless quests:
Upward reaching light
Downward breaching water,
Insatiable thrusting,
Splitting stone,
Spewing oxygen.
Monstrous undertakings
Glorious oversights.
Fitting past times for giants,
Mountain dwellers,
Living at a pace too slow
For careless passers-by to see.
Silent pines
Contemplate endless days,
Moving or un-moving,
Resolute certainty,
Imperceptible sojourners
Dominating vertical empires;
Joyous, silent soldiers march
Up and down these mountain sides,
While I, mere mortal, pass
Ant-like,
Scurrying in wonder,
Aware the urgency
Of ephemeral routine,
Mortal emergency...
Beneath Tall Pines.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
Animal’s vigor increased
Remaining as the chief companion
Legends of wrecked havoc to a costly treat
No vitality as great the beast
Furred consistency pieced
Shining cylinder eyes, intuition and love
A collectively heartfelt living bundle of fleece
No consistence as great the beast
Faithful affection released
Glistening socket filled up of lively torso
Balanced ***** of warmth and vibrational elite
No fidelity as great the beast
Wildly flippant priest
Adventuring nature’s airy crusade
Marks each day with undertakings to police
No journey as great the beast
Fruitfully sincere beliefs
Flapping the soul of tail and flexing ears
Man need emulate comrade of hellish defeats
No profit as great the beast
Once utterly deceased
Wallowing the fallen with lathered guilt
Sorrow units form a structure colorfully greased
No replacement as difficult as replacing the beast
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
finally its a glacial melting
of cold stark undertakings took standing
falling failing wounded kicked down beaten
while the beast was surely overcome beyond all
mercy; the soul sold by whatever devils bargaining
body beaten by voodooed ***** till worth extracted yet
worthless made mad into madness itself devils not so friendly
now; but time and time again possibility can be and is reborn then
still many mountains many spills many failings pains accusations pills
there a heart warms beats again here a bit and there what rhyme and reason
if not ones own can one wounded heartless warrior predict; mercy here sweetness
there one day you can feel once in a while you think you may be able to care; you love
you lay out all compassion, careful without flattery and thee endearing; one is so suspecting
the other heart ache clear dearly, you think you may too be human and a warm heart and hands
tender may mercy touching all creation but there is no witness alone; but ever closer ever looser losing
all senseless and of all reality; then they play ya...they play you player; hate the game that is their life; where
things we want are more than things we need and they are not each other; and they do not come from the earth; and we are all so 21 forever......better take from other and I've been like 3 and 99 more forever and take trips so like 30 trillions of light years this life alone.... and it's excruciatingly beautiful alone together, and the pain is so beautiful here for it is given between the here All beautiful place and way but for our chosen willingness, it's quite simple again again,
i long for one warm heart again someday where we can be afire again across this universe, for this body wills as much as this heart mind soul understands believes accepts and knows just one thing; so it's alright one will do i sense many yet somehow it seems what ya get is the proverbial of instead
nine cold shoulders!!!
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:12 PM UTC
She took my hand,
that lonely little child.
Her eyes asked me a question
for which I had no answer.
I could count her young fingers
without looking for
she gripped so tight.
What could I possibly say?
The taller she got,
the more frequently
she let go and
disregarded me.
I can't blame her
for those latent
hateful tendencies.
Still, she would come back,
and every time her hand
was just a little bigger,
just a little stronger.
It was inevitable and utterly
unavoidable,
but it still surprised me.
The sky fell apart
and showered her with
woeful cries and broken dreams.
The tragic beauty of
shattering reality
took my breath away.
She let go of me,
but this time,
she shoved me hard
into the black shadows
of her nightmares,
a permanent enemy
of her innocent undertakings.
I watched her from the
corners of her subconscious,
waiting for her to look at me.
She ran like the devil
was hot on her heels,
but she was never afraid.
She burned like fire,
a bright star scorching
the night and she was
beautiful.
The longer she burned,
the more I feared
she would sputter and
die.
I waited for her,
ready to share my tears
with only her.
Then she fell,
and she is still there,
there before me.
She is an unconscious huddle,
a pile of glowing flesh and bone.
I notice how she is more
like a woman
than any other woman
I've ever seen.
The ashes begin to fall,
gray snowflakes
drifting over her,
the drab attempt
to bring her back to earth.
And she has fallen --
quite literally --
for the dusty act.
She does not say anything.
I weep as the inevitable engulfs her,
that once child,
still lonely.
I wait for the darkness.
Soon, there will be
no light peeking through
her soft confinement.
But it's only getting
brighter.
I look carefully,
and I am overwhelmed --
overjoyed--
as she burns like stars
buried in the ash
of the universe's shortcomings.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
My days are engulfed by ennui
that I cannot eradicate.
As though I were buried alive
and the undertakings of my
past,
my vices
my sins
my failures
enervate me.
Smother me. Weigh down on
me
like so much dirt.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
Only fires burning bright,
will glimmer in the dim of night.
On the edge of the forest where the river is red,
where faith and reason both are dead.
In ecstasy the invalids run astray,
into the circles where the shadows play.
Of silhouettes dancing in the earthly mist,
raving naked with sanity dismissed.
Running wild in ceremonial haze,
with eyes made of ***** and hearts of clay.
Their lonely fires burning bright,
cast smoke rings off into the night.
Whilst the ancient forest is oblivious to their undertakings.
And watches the smoke pass out of sight.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
Norway maintains a Viking history, where longboats travelled to the Scottish island of Iona.
Torch the abbey in the name of paganism, and you will be exposed to galactic prohibitions which have a flavour of eternal questionability. Can I please urge you, oh Norseman of ceremonial undertakings: If you ensure that you ride the sonar waves of superiority, then you will find beauty in those haunting chants of the Celtic glens.
Forgive me for being uncertain of my footings. I believe in classical symphonies.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
The metal bars and concrete that surround me are not what confines me. It is the legacy of pain and misery that I left behind me. A place to sleep is all the same from one day to the next. Life and death come to all who exist. The streets were my school house, but the education did little to prepare me. I never could have imagined the reality of what would haunt me. Images of friends lying in their own blood, children who have no parents because of the drugs I sold. All of this is my prison, I take it everywhere with me. The ghost of my past life always haunt me. They surround me more than any guard or steel bars could you see. These are shackles of my own making. They are the result of my grim undertakings. All for a few dollars and a life I thought I wanted. Now the cost is too high for me to pay and by the broken lives I am taunted. I sit here every night and listen to the echoes of silence. In my head it is a continual song of violence. I can't shake the chains of my own making. I built my own prison with in myself by the path that I have taken.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 6:58 PM UTC
"I should"
a solemn
voice in the head
is all grumble,
dutiful with condemnation,
a heavy
oppression.
desirous flight
is persuaded
to stay
afoot
by what
it
should:
a culturally defined, mental-
artifact, of what one supposedly
must,
oft devoid
of one can-
will, but won't,
out of fear.
doubt, like chains on dreams,
easily persuades
the mind into mundane
plains of
guilt ridden sorrows,
cut out by knives of shame,
choking the present tense
of what shall,
strapped in and unfulfilled,
hollow
and holding,
like an anchor
in a reservoir
of regretful
undertakings,
sticky with ought,
fierce like flagellation
lashing,
imprisoning visions:
victimized
by expectations,
negations of choice:
stomping on the souls good will,
starving the free heart,
shackling the mind.
operations from a place
complacent with
banality and viciousness
in some quiet take over
some woe
of status-quo
waging with
shaky scaffolding
and the numbing
dumb
timber of nothing
a
dull aching
noise
.
enough.
turn off: the over beaten
dead skull
thumping
with outside pressure
be silent
to hear
there is an inner music
more in tune with life
than anything you've been told
by the force
of should
or should not.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
Unmasked the shameful thoughts
Uncovered the cosmetics shades
Before it happens, all is true
Yet, some of the ****** hands
Do some ******* rhymes, for their sake
No innocent can be found
Land lost its seasons at sometimes
Only until the music found!
Let all those lost, rest in peace
To find solemnity for their soul.
And for some living who play their own tune
For you to have, golds of the dead!
Shame on you!
You may hide, but you can't run!
And for us who are awakes
Who been true to our undertakings
To helps the lost glory of the kingdom we loved
We can't borrows others time.
It was not the king, who call for change
Make a great mistakes, It was whom that played with it!
Like vampires who ***** bloods, for ~
~ That Golds of the dead!
Neither, this can be true.
But you can't says, it was wrong!
For those good lost souls' at peace...
One day, it will sings with us, for you ~
This, Golds of the dead.!
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
Scholars of the script
The notably odd ones out
Greedily clutching our paper
Wooden pencil in hand
Remaining silent when we want to shout
Aspiring to write perfect stanza
That is always just beyond our grasp
Bearing the sidelong glances and whispers
That our undertakings often bring about
We are the Misfits
The Manic
The Loners
The Strange
Rife with depression
While declining to be mundane
We are the poets
The writers
Artists of letters
Courageous and valiant
Carefully treading through the veil of reality
Trying not to lose our balance
We are the poets
The writers
Singular and unique
Each having a story to tell
As we live our lives
A precarious existence at best
Between the promise of Heaven
And the fear of Hell
All Rights Reserved. Tammy M. Darby Feb. 1, 2019
All Material Stored in Author Base
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 11:26 AM UTC
[Amy Wright: Here too there are tears for things]
When asked how to be of use, clenched when the hand
yearns for consumption – nothing was happening and when
you look within the azure you will see the multitude
of sun’s tireless handkerchiefs bleating in the distance.
Today is Saturday, and nothing else was happening.
I used to lament over the cities you have turned over,
and within the same day, found they were susceptible
to consummate within a name – an arena for collision,
of all the crisscrosses and the winds that mark our places,
to all ships making their way, traversing into the lateral voyage,
the undertakings our sure fear: we do not know how to be involved.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC
life is a cycle
of existence and non-existence
life is a battle
between obeissance and defiance.
death is natural
all beginning has to come to end.
life is a struggle
where complete victory's uncertain.
my life is a joke
people never tried to understand.
all words that I wrote
were just mere antics by a foolish man.
i have tried to love
but ever as in my endeavors
I utterly failed
tis' the destiny of a stupid.
the world must be purged
of men just as useless and worthless.
that the way be paved
for all humanity's happiness.
good bye world and love
I will be heading to the nine springs.
sorry world and love
for all of my failed undertakings.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
Unblinking reflexive opinions lean
indubitably, favorably and certifiably
with minimal pandering soliciting
uber voodoo yawping woos
socially quintessentially obviously markedly
consciousness brakes alignment
defining mine political views
loosely yet not strictly, jerry-rigged,
hidebound Democratic
fealty haltingly pledged ones and twos
to roster of candidates
slated to challenge incumbent Republicans
all to quickly accused,
sans participating sinister ruse
this active voter puzzled at controversial
eyeopening ex post facto
fractiousgovernmental
harmfully injuriously jaw-dropping
suppression within top secret queues
during nasty donkey kong braying p's and q's
(case in point) scurrilous, opprobrious,
and malodorous Clinton administration,
where (based upon my recent perusing
"The Peoples History” –
me strongly endorses
(authored by Howard Zinn news
worthy revelation, (whose recounting
atrocious, calumnious, egregious
glaring ignominious knowledge
jackbooted, mandated, predicated
on blind trust, essentially billeted
charade, facade, inlaid faux Hope loose
bandied cutthroat gratuity legislation
favoring pandering "pork" via
pretentiousness to wealthy gentiles Jews
abandoning average civilians snuffing out
sputtering, grousing, and hoo's
flick erring tapering fuse
whereat this news worthy informed citizen
totally tubularly unaware of any clues
pertaining to antithetical maneuvers,
(loo win ski) shenanigans, and undertakings
today yields genuine boo's
toward Clinton, where I despondently feel
he renegged promises
made to electorate (except top 1 %) got souled
(sold) to remaining 99% cheapest bidders
as-sized thirteen duff heated no nothing
sneezing Schnorrers
spluttering phelgm at me at-chews.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
Wisdom has always ruled the cosmos.
No sword is sharper than wisdom.
Good intentions cannot simply come forward,
Or progress sideways,
But must be placed with correct x,y, & z coordinates.
Not only that, but it must be met with a receptive person
for wisdom's fruit is sincerity, kindness, and tact.
What comes forward otherwise is met by fools.
All undertakings depend not on "wise-dumb" but wisdom.
How many a silence left a seed unnourished and how much has speaking killed the seed.
How many an act has made me a fool.
How many an act has made me a child of God.
How few an act has made me seem wise beyond my years.
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 1:27 AM UTC
The raw me that dwells within the I Am that is Me is not of this world, yet exists in this realm just the same.
Dreams are for me temporary respites, a sojourn in relief from the dense material yet hallow Frames of this world; and to be in it, not fully understanding yet accepting, seems to be the biggest of undertakings.
What becomes of the soul that encounters mirrors along the way? Mirrors in the form of dense shapes filled with diverse spectrum's of light. The light in the me comes to know, that alone the light is not in this corporal world.
What happens when the light meets with fate and encounters beings in the shape of other life forms? Intertwined in this vast web of mystery of the unknowable yet deeply felt within? Seems Conspiratorial.
The truth remains, and even more so a reminder of the me that dwells within the I Am that is forever Me; ever connected, ever intertwined in the journey of life longing for itself. Longing to be asleep, for to sleep is to dream, to dream is to be free from the bonds of this body that seem like such a prison to the soul.
A light seeming so far from the home I truly know as real, where the me and the I Am are truly One and indeed free from the constructs of this separated world which contrast exists.
W.M. Smith III
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 10:14 AM UTC
part of the artificial intelligence
test is to make all poetry predictable,
such as it is, but still more over-laden
with praise for technique,
and people fall for this entrapment,
i don't know why uncoupling
the ego from cogito could ever
produce so much theoretical acrobatics,
i know that the ego can be easily
pronounced, the easiest affirmative,
the automated sound, a yes,
but thought is harder to affirm,
it's not as easily pronounced,
and psychology is a logic of such feats,
it's a study that speaks about the
dis-correlation of the affirmation of
existence, and the basis of existence
that's correlated in whatever
tragic circumstance we are found to be
concerned with: yet how many
times i wished for the life of a skilled
labourer?! psychology disunited
us from thinking in order to provide
a syringe entry of many behaviourisms
to un-think thinking -
a sort of atheism -
theories, theories in so many numbers
that thinking became a theory per se,
an in-itself concealed suggestion -
because thinking is hard to comprehend
among verbs as an extension of tendons
exerting force on the ivory,
should anything come along
as a disparity of Olympian undertakings
as blowing oneself up
for a deity with an encounter upon
such a meeting: thanks for the hand!
here's a sock puppet! now tell me how
to depict a chandelier's shadow!
it's hard to believe either god or thought
actually existed...
i mean, if god doesn't exist
why do people think they possess
a will over others...
and if god exists...
why do people think they don't possess
a will over others... enter Zeno
(re-read that and claim the correct
statement in the reversal).
personally i would have wished to not have
written the 6 lines preceding these...
but paradoxes are best explained by poets,
who tend to brush them aside, and even accept
them, by way of rhymes:
oh it's all one and the same, duo duo blah blah fluoride!
*****
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 10:21 PM UTC
I’m Writing For The Universe
I’m writing for the universe;
No man or woman, special group.
I’d hope you understand this,
Aim, a statement/thought
Encompassing the concrete and abstract.
The philosophic reaching out
To turn into endeavors
Which depend on character
Which finds itself in x conditions,
In you, out you;
Efforts too,
All undertakings the result
Of birth and genes and chance surroundings.
(is this dance really just chance?)
Special needs abound within the needs of all:
The ego, vanities, the strengths, the skills;
Bad, good, dark, light,
Mediocre and the bright –
A sameness sewn in rich arrays
Of hims and hers,
A one which covers,
Pierces through the universe.
I’m writing for it all, the All, the Goal.
In short, the whole,
Myself included.
I’m Writing For The Universe 11.10.2017
Nature Of & In Reality; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; I Is Always You Is We;
Arlene Corwin
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
Giving golden mics to dope writes see me excite
Catch a smile from the stars shining bright polite
Only to the mean my clips equipped with magazines
Broke out the stereo portfolio slow my dough
See the heats bakes make the biggest cake no fakes
Allowed on my elite team supreme shatter dreams
Like Hakeem see things ain't what it really seems
Draw more guns than Yosemite Sam bro
Calico matching the pistols sippin' champagne
Outta crystals breaking verses like cathedrals
Bringing capitol punishment imperial establishment
Law breaking beats shaking favor of undertakings
Money exchanges draws more ranges show down
Guns packed down looking for these clowns
Barely above the ground catch these pounds
From the flip my wrist my ice crisp purple electro disc
Tesla plated dated from day i was created mated
To space time families of the hidden Galaxy
So come battle from the fifth dimension legacy
Throw ya bets up only to get set up light ya up
Like a Christmas tree beautiful deaths tragedy your majesty
I'm standing in the divine line pushed St Peters out of the way say
What I wanna say then invoke the doomsday
It's stroke of the cut that left em open like a gut
Fish out we cleared out the sentences
Periods we run more trades than fragments
Detect like Dragnet draws ears to the sounds of the mental magnets
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 12:04 AM UTC