"unmistakably" poems
After reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land, I wrote this true story down. Now re-published every year on this day. Seems more appropriate than ever
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice,
situe on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park their sailors,
sending them ashore for R&R,^
they, leavened to disembark^^
how I came to be there is a
poem for another time
walking the streets,
palm tree resort,
along La Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American
one white,
one black,
one brown from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA
how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence
brothers,
long lost, reunited,
as if it had been many years,
since we last had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place
dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible, for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common histoire,
all on that
holy day
no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only sisters and brothers-in-arms
I need not choose to believe,
for it is certainty guaranteed,
that should it happen again
twenty years hence,
perhaps with their great grandsons,
my embrace will,
exactly the same be,
for I know it true,
there are
no tribes
in an*
American heart
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
The rhythm of life is like an endless melody
and goes on regardless of where we might be.
Throughout the day and all during the night
it never stops tho’ it’s not obvious to sight.
When the sun rises and again when it sets
that rhythm of life all things never forgets.
With each coming and going to and fro
we’re all part of its main working show.
In birth and death as in growth and decay
all creatures have their moments of play.
In the heavens above and on the earth below
one after another they all must come and go.
With the ebb and flow of each wave in the ocean
it’s apparently like a ceaseless rhythmic motion;
tho’ they’re caused by the moon’s gravitational pull,
and is itself also subjected to being either new or full.
In the four seasons of the year and all the changes they bring,
as the earth revolves around the sun, affect every living thing.
By these regular distinct cycles each lasting its period of time
it’s a universal ongoing phenomenon and never ending rhyme.
Whether we like it or not it embraces us all in its sway
and our affairs in this world enjoy their night and day.
It makes order gradually come forth out of chaos it seems
and helps us all to survive and even realise some dreams.
We all have certain basic needs and so many wants or desires
and flowing with the rhythm of life all in harmony transpires.
If we have unnatural obsessions by which our mind is caught
then it’s freedom with a high price that is actually most sought.
This rhythm of life has an existence and power of its own
and all that does ever happen by it unmistakably is known.
When we become in tune with its reality and stay in touch
all that goes on in the world will be to our benefit as such.
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 3:01 PM UTC
~
he sings to her
in floral bloom,
melodic language
all his own;
his magnolia
blossoms heralding
the rays of warmth,
his utterance to come.
its shyly spreading pink,
and softly budding green,
proof enough
to her aching heart
that winter's cold
cannot for long contain,
within its icy grip
any life that
from their union came.
for deep within
these roots,
yet he lives again
in breathing form;
that every year
til him she holds,
winter's loss
must yield to spring.
she beholds
this heralding;
as with slowly,
warming heart
she tilts her ear,
listening;
waiting for
this dearest voice.
for to her ears alone
and to her heart only
a rising medley,
tender melody,
a lullaby returned,
to her...
for her...
he begins
to sweetly sing,
unmistakably,
recognizably...
his magnolia lullaby.
.
~
post script.
*inspired by a dear friend's photo and accompanying caption...
"Logan's magnolia showing her first winter bloom."
a remembrance of her title bequeathed at his birth;
a reminder of his legacy that has not, will not ever end.*
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
Kiss after sensual kiss leads to what I would find as an inevitably ****** placement between us, that avenue of lust which we mutually entered once we were on the same level of thinking.
I lean into you, inhaling the intimacy second after second from your tasty lips, biting your lip and running my fingers through your hair as my hands ease slowly down to your neck, caressing you and easing down farther and farther until I'm caressing a breast.
Call me crazy, but I think I'm in love, or at least its unmistakably destructive premonition. Lifting your shirt and kissing on flesh, making your toes curl under overwhelming chills being sent from your abdomen.
Easing back up to you, I can see your eyes, I catch them and keep them in place, letting you know full well that I intend to enjoy you fully.
And you let me.
Easing down and absorbing your figure, kissing and tracing down your belly and easing into a certain heaven before coming back up and stripping you down gently, making you smile at the gentlemanly figure that you call yours.
Can I love you down? lying you down fully extended, can I get onto you as if we could share the same space against scientific belief?
I ease into you slowly, only speeding in a way as to show my own urgency isn't priority.
And we make one. easing into your form, our bodies become entwined, become one at last.
suppressing your pleasurous scream with my own warm kisses, I allow us to combine again and again, and become one once more as our nerves and hormones take over in this ritualistic connection.
Made love? we make emotion. Stripped bare and enjoying the ****** pleasures given us, ****** after ****** kiss after juicy kiss and scream after luscious, pleasured filled scream until we finally reach what I like to call climactic end and level up in our relationship. At last, though we are still levels away from the final intimacy, we are closer than we have been before, and the closer we get, the deeper and more sensual our encounters are.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
She was unmistakably clever,
People strolling past her on the street
would ponder to themselves briefly,
She must be a professor or a lawyer.
But it wasn't her round glasses,
Or her fitted blazer that convinced them.
It was her yellow shoes,
and the way they seemed to float
above the stained pavement.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
How am I dry
When years of anticipation are melting like a glacier?
All I’ve ever wanted
Is standing at the end of my bed
With his cold hands
pulling apart my thighs
So why am I fighting so hard
To get out of my head?
When he looked into my eyes
I saw guilt staring back at me.
When he kissed my lips,
He hated that they tasted unmistakably mine
And not of his lovers.
Our timings never been “okay”,
I should have taken that as a sign
To keep this a fantasy.
Dec 18, 2021
Dec 18, 2021 at 2:48 AM UTC
Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones—
In fact, he’s remarkably fat.
He doesn’t haunt pubs—he has eight or nine clubs,
For he’s the St. James’s Street Cat!
He’s the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James’s the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we’re all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!
His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And it is against the rules
For any one Cat to belong both to that
And the Joint Superior Schools.
For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is found, not at Fox’s, but Blimpy’s;
He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben’son
To the Pothunter’s succulent bones;
And just before noon’s not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he’s seen in a hurry there’s probably curry
At the Siamese—or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom then he’s lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.
So, much in this way, passes Bustopher’s day-
At one club or another he’s found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He’s a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he’s putting on weight every day:
But he’s so well preserved because he’s observed
All his life a routine, so he’ll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: “I shall last out my time”
Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!
3.3k
You're a tornado-
You spin madly around and sometimes carry things off with you. People and objects fall into your vortex and spin around madly with you.
You spin yourself dizzy, to the point where standing still sometimes isn't possible because you might have forgotten how.
You hit the earth below you and blaze a trail ahead, leaving your mark wherever you go.
You rustle leaves 100 miles away and send some flying just as far.
Sometimes you feel like a tornado-
You jumble things up and feel like when things hit your path, you run through them and scatter them around.
You spin so fast that no one can slow you down, that you're always spinning on your own and finding someone that could adjust to your spin is one in a million.
You never stop spinning because that how your mind works; it spins day and night, endlessly. You're always spinning new scenarios and thoughts in your turbulent mind.
You feel like you may destroy people you run through, and sometimes they try to tell you to spin a different way or cease to spin at all, and that hurts. They don't understand that if you don't stop spinning, you may just cease to be who you are all together.
When I say you are a tornado, I mean well-
Not everyone looks at a tornado and sees what I see.
People see chaos, destruction, instability.
Sometimes I know you see that in yourself.
Sometimes I see it in you too.
But as a tornado, you have what others don't-
Someday, someone will step into your storm and be your calm.
They won't be afraid of who you are, like you are sometimes of yourself.
They'll see what the luckiest people in your life see in your storm;
Absolute beauty, uniqueness, individuality, empathy.
Not everyone can see the beauty in a storm-
It takes a special eye, and a special kind of person to love you.
Not because you're undeserving, but because you're different than the rest.
You're one of a kind, that's why no storm has the same name.
It's why no storm hits the same ground. Every storm differs, but there are only so many.
So when I say you're a tornado, this is what I imply-
You're scary to some people you're powerful and provoking and interesting.
You will sweep someone away someday.
Someone will look at you like you're the best thing to have hit his life, literally.
Someday, a man will be able to see the beauty in your storm and spin with you, always by your side.
You're a tornado-
You're one hell of a sight,
Unmistakably one of a kind,
Wild, crazy, enticing and beautiful all in your own,
With a storm inside of you that someone is going to find someday, and that person will be dizzy with how different you are, and will ultimately get swept away by you.
I promise.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
I had not told you of this, not yet,
Until now, when it returns clearly,
Within the timelessness of interior life.
A month to the day and the memory,
Abides in its own identity, being itself.
Into this now familiar unboundedness
Came a new and exquisite presence,
A force field tenderly embracing me -
Just along the edges of my seated form.
Unmistakably you. A quiet certainty.
How could I know? But I knew.
As it dissolved, a light of the palest green,
Took its place, glowing a blessing.
Breathing became the intake of bliss
made into the finest substance, and
I was renewed, visited, complete.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
Now,
there is the contour of her upturned forehead
nosetip kissed by the moonlight
and shadows frame the shape of her eyes
soft wrinkles at their tapered corners
And my god, the color of them
I stare, squint
A misty night, but they are distinct even in the dark:
bronze beads nestled into slight furrows
gossamer, reflecting starlight.
The sweep across the peppered sky that we stand beneath
Chestnut disks floating in milky spheres
unmistakably hers
full and round, soaking in curiosity
handsome mahogany irises bound by the gold tracing their edges.
The way the light makes those disks look glassy
Semitransparent in the moon’s glow
How they shed their boundaries
shifting, swimming
layers on the eyelid horizon
They shimmer, and stir.
And now,
they rest their gaze on me.
I inhale
dare to step closer
The bustle in the back of my brain—
A hum, and the purr of pleasure at her beatitude.
Mar 7, 2023
Mar 7, 2023 at 10:16 AM UTC
A plant grew in a forest
beginning as a sapling in a crowded opening
two inches tall
with no idea of what it was becoming
it rose slowly
but consistently
as others rose above it for light
it reaped the benefits of leftovers
this plant grew
not to be the tallest
not to be the prettiest
but it grew
It took in carbon dioxide
and released oxygen
it did its job
it was a good plant
eventually like most things this plant died
after being trampled by a young boy
this boy visited this forest everyday
its nature was his greatest toy
he knew the surroundings by heart
from the tallest tree to the smallest shrew
he saw all in his dreams
he knew all the plants save for a few
one of those few was our plant
although it stood tall, it was not tall enough
although it was pretty, it was not pretty enough
it died unremarkable
it was a good plant
it did its job
but it died without a trace
because it never risked to take another's place
and so the boy grew older
he left the forest for an office
in the hopes that one day
he’d be rich enough to return
so he climbed the ladder
and said all the right things
he was a good man
he did his job
until he met a girl
a girl so powerful
so unmistakably perfect
he had to rise above the others
he left his job because he hated it
he stood tall to reach the sun
he took risks not because he had to
but because he wanted to
this man died poor
he did not succeed
there was no beverly hills
no millionaire mansion down the street
this man never climbed that corporate ladder
never got lost in the rat race
never missed the birth of his son
never broke a promise to that boy
he took a risk he shouldn’t have
an unnecessary leap of faith
he looked back on his past
the trouble he left in his wake
he remembered that plant
the one he didn’t see
the reason he is who he is
the man who became a tree
take risks because you should
because one day you will die
buried under dirt
while your life has passed you by
life is too short
too precious
to be a good man
to just do your job
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
the sky over i-95 is violet, the color of the deepest bruise
like the one you actually remember getting, that eclipsed
all the little gray-green ones from
tripping over belgian blocks, and mismeasuring the distance
to the doorframe.
the sky over i-95 cannot hold water very long
and soon it doesn’t.
you look out the new-car window
silent windshield wipers and you remember
the other times it’s rained on your occasion
(with stinging peroxide sometimes, and
sometimes gasoline, when you had a match
in the glovebox,
but mostly water).
you never stopped liking the way the big trees swayed
in the not-quite-hurricane
or the deafening of the drops on the car’s aluminum backbone.
you used to trust they’d never fall, they’d never flood
the crashes you passed rubbernecking were never fatal
traffic would always clear
you’d never be late.
as you watch the oversized leaves support the waterweight today
you think how every bit of that is gone from you now
siphoned slowly and quietly but
unmistakably gone from you now
you think in matter-of-fact sentences because you are a grown-up:
“I do not trust the trees. I do not trust the raindrops.”
quieter you think
“I do not trust the future. I do not trust an empty building.
I do not trust the movie theater. I do not trust the ocean,
or the river. I do not trust water
when I can’t see the bottom.”
you get a little philosophical as you get hungry and the exit numbers get high
“I do not trust the highway. I do not trust me. I do not trust the curtains
to keep me safe when I sleep, and I do not trust waking to bring me morning.”
you think in matter-of-fact sentences because you are a grown-up,
but also because that’s how the thoughts come.
there’s something that you do trust
that’s enough to warm you as this unseasonable may
comes to a close.
you never stopped liking the way the big trees swayed
and you think how they might fall
but they haven’t yet.
you think how it’s kind of okay not to trust them:
you trust something else.
(pain is lucrative.
so is smiling.)
a female cardinal perches outside the window of
the room, just as you arrive to leave again
and you think how she's just as pretty as the
candy-apple-red male, though she's dark against the tree trunk
and when you’re back to celebrate the years since leaving
you might even trust that tree trunk
and the girlcardinal you have to squint to see
you might also trust morning, then,
and night.
meantime, the sky lightens:
sundrops while the rain comes loudly still.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable. I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation
I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone
Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.
I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise
I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong
The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.
Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
So, there's this fig
In my fruitbowl, almost purple,
Posing atop apples and a mango,
Just being beautiful
And begging to be touched.
It bursts with promise;
If I split it open - oh -
Unmistakably labial lusciousness
will spill out and I will have to ****
my sticky fingers like an infant
at the ****** tugging
oh so gently with an eager, warm, wet tongue,
Pursed lips pulsing
where the juicy flesh meets dewy, fragrant skin.
I bear witness to this fruit's fragile moment of sheer perfection,
And my honest, overwhelming lust
For tender flesh.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
*She an Athena
Her enchantress Georgina
Endowed she is with a flirtatiously hourglass physique
Every contour gracing her lithe body breathtakingly unique
Her fair peaches-and-cream complexion outshines the sun’s radiance
Oozing luxuriance
Irrefutably a masterpiece of refined aesthetic artistry
Sparking chemistry
Her nightingale voice reverberates softly
With the incessant whistling of the wind, such a novelty
She my Achilles heel
And am head over heel
Hopelessly brainlessly unmistakably insanely in love
I bet I’ve got some nerve
*
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
The dark and devilish nature of her words
Strike my soul with bone crushing impact
Delivering me to unfathomable heights
Soaring beyond valleys of unspoken truths
I swear I could feel the searing pain secreting
From the puddles of ink unmercifully ***********
From within her little black pen of revenge
A cold, hard case of poetic justice iced my veins
Slashing fiercely through the tender tissues of my heart
Leaving a dreadful scar of excruciating scorn
Forever embedded in what was once a sacred home
It was as if a voodoo ritual was taking place
Possessing every inch of my flesh successfully
Soaking my skin with tsunamis of fear
Compelling my body to dance with the spirit
As I danced to the rhythm of the drums
A cloud of smoke was blown to distort my vision
In the wake of the smoke I began to hallucinate
The image of a **** harlot equipped with a machete
Appeared before my eyes taking me by surprise
Ready to slaughter and **** all who oppose her
And rob them of their oh so precious manhood
She pressed her lips against the blade then blew a kiss
The kiss caressed my lips with the taste of honey
By the swift blow of a gentle breeze she was gone
When I returned from this coma of entertainment
A severe addiction was unmistakably evident
My taste buds craved for more of this woman's literature
I had fallen victim to her powerful hex of poetic justice
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 Glenn McCrary
(All rights reserved)
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 6:28 AM UTC
partly cloudy,
partly sunny,
clearly an indecisively
partly day,
bored, the heavens organized
a garden party, sky above,
eclectic crowd,
minted mixed,
party of partly
clouds, wind, sun rays,
summer showers and somehow,
I got partly invited...
but not partly windy,
no, entirely gusty
a workingman's breeze,
all grown up, full strength
has driven the good folk inside,
tho sailboats are entouraging fully,
just me and them in
Red Sea parting, a full blow,
unmistakably encouraging partying,
while under the influence
of white line snorting poetry
what is this partly poem doing?
receiving or bringing,
like the swirly gusts,
empowered but direction unknown,
I am partly confused,
I am partly clarified
lacking the metaphor skill,
he says to himself,
and to the over-hearers,
part with me not!
for I am partly this and that,
looking for reconciliation
of my accounts in full,
and will rely on your guidance
to seal the beams, patch the cracks,
write the parts of me that
you shall connect and declare
in one voice, unified
Will you?
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
There are no tribes in America
after reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land,
I wrote this true story down....
~~~~~~~~~
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice, situe
on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park,
sailors ashore
leavened to
disembark^
how I came to be there is a
poem for another time
walking the streets,
of the palm tree resort
along Le Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American
One white,
One black,
One from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA
how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence
brothers,
long lost, reunited
as if it had been many years,
since we had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place
dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible,
for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common history,
all on that
holy day
no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only brothers-in-arms
I need not choose to believe
that should it happen again
ten years hence,
perhaps with their grandsons,
my embrace will exactly
the same be,
for I know it true,
for there are
no tribes
in an
American heart.
^disembarked to be leavened....either works
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
I have been deeply
French-kissed
by the Sun.
My skin
unmistakably glistening,
reflecting;
the sensual moistness of her tongue.
Scorched by passion
from the very beginning.
A frenzied possession,
so deep,
now genetically smitten.
A torrid affair
by certain perceptions.
Unshakable,
defiantly unbreakable.
To wit questionable,
sometimes unbearable.
But...
I must confess
her kiss riles me,
and with it,
guilt
forgivingly
hails me.
Too,
the jealously of men
contorted,
merely
by
the sheer beauty
in her embrace.
?
I am at a loss, I despair,
I don't understand it.
Driven mad
simply,
by the affection of her face.
© Qwey.ku
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
It was Winter and I was lost
Though I refused to acknowledge it
Somewhere deep down inside of me I so desperately wanted to unleash myself and bloom into something beautiful
But I didn't know which way was up
So I waited in the cold and bitter ground for my time to come
Long and patiently
Then came the Spring and I smiled and started to grow and flourish
I was finding my way again
Still, not knowing what would blossom
Only hoping it would be something lovely
I was still the only flower in the garden bed
Lonely and desiccated
Waiting for the rain to build me up
The Spring continued on and I grew stronger and stronger
Gaining warmth and wisdom until I unmistakably blossomed into something so pure and whole and beautiful that I could hardly recognize myself
Summer came and I grew tall and strong and loud
My petals became unruly and grew uncontrollably
But the air was heavy and strange
I couldn't tell if I liked the heat
I missed the rain
I was inescapably embedded into the dry and hot earth below me
My roots reached out and grew in deep and strong
But when the birds and the bees would come to visit me
Kissing my face and whispering small and sweet melodies into my ears
I longed for them to take me away with a heavy hold and a strong grip
The Summer was a long one
Too long
I grew wild and my structure became bent and my petals started to wilt
How strange it is to me that now that Autumn has come I feel so new and pure
Because in reality, I am slowly dying in Autumn's crisp caress
But in my heart I am lovely and delicate and prosperous
I am my strongest and most beautiful at what should be my most fearful time to come
For my death is awaiting me
It is certain that I will continue to wilt as Winter slowly arrives and the Fall gently retreats
But when Winter's frozen and lonesome grip swallows me whole, what will become of me?
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
With an overcast sky, summer warns us
the moon stops by for a brief conversation
before taking its leave, replaced by the sun
I stitch together sheep counts, Z's, and dreams
but these days drag into my subconscious
and streams of melancholy drain into one
You shake your head, watching me
it seems I have mistaken midnight gloom
for rain clouds and thunderstorm doom
Summer's warnings, now clear as day,
everything they were meant to say
I tend to overthink and underthink everything we are
When winter comes,
with endless hours of midnight
maybe then, I will have enough time
to consolidate what we are destined to be
unmistakably
Jul 8, 2022
Jul 8, 2022 at 6:13 PM UTC
Diseased again , in the middle of May,
Almost threateningly fatal.
Dormant dimmed brain of mine,apt and inviting prey,
Been demented since awful April!
Earnestly eager to get healed,
I've enacted the preposterous tribal dance to the write(right) gods and appealed.
They unmistakably ignored my pleas,
and my mind still remains stuck,stagnant ,in a frigid freeze.
Changed my workspace to the garden,
To **** in the fresh air,clear my brain and brighten.
Result: Chewed half a pencil,
******** alien patterns in the muck,and a weak wasted writers' will.
Countless imaginary "stories" with no beginnings,
Right Brain-dead till late evenings.
Waiting on this blasted writers' block to clear soon,
Hopefully,the rains should clean the slates, in Judicious June.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 2:45 AM UTC
365Nectar #61 Snatched Out of Sanity
Sat. November 23, 2013 4:26 P.M.
Having an intimate conversation
with your swagga,
I was trapped in an unraveling of unquenchable lust
The tightening scent of smoldering sweat stirs
Your shivering slow stalk
tossed me into a whimpering limp...
A savory sweltering
and sweetness accumulates...
You tap and spill me like sap from a maple tree
defying laws of gravity...space...and time
you delve deeper and inject droplets of rumbling ecstasy
Unmistakably enticing
alluring arousal fluttered capturing me...
and snatched me clean out of sanity.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC