"unswervingly" poems
On the bridge
between waking and sleeping
I met my father's eyes.
So beautiful and dark,
filled with quiet trouble,
and with tender invention.
Here in this nature park
green branches reach out
to one another, embracing
the air and the sky, touching,
sending chills down each other's
bark and trunk, meeting overhead.
You, my youngest brother, have
our father's eyes, and they are eyes
of pain and tenderness, of caring
every day for our beloved, ailing planet.
Above our heads, just now, down at the bottom
of the road to Ely Ford, sycamores carry thousands
of backlit leaves, each a green window into its own reality.
Who could have known that after so many months of silent solitude,
giving up completely on the illusory version of love,
a new beginning to life would begin as clearly and simply
as the moment when a butterfly, shoulders hunched in the final stages
of imprisonment within its sacred cocoon, knows unswervingly that
this is the day to bust loose, to slowly stretch wet, untried wings,
gingerly begin to flex her coloured, powdery, armature:
learning the way trust in truth and goodness
frees one completely.
*And sheets, and sheets of white light wash over me.
Sheets and sheets of white light wash over me.*
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 4:15 AM UTC
I’ve found that my indefinable truths are hard to hide.
I can’t hold on to what I don’t fully understand,
it escapes from me unhindered by the label I've yet to stick on it.
Then how easily the world captures what I can’t even find words for,
how quickly it encircles what I perceive boundless,
for my truth must belong in this box or that box and
when it’s all wrapped up and labeled accordingly,
the world delivers my truth back to me, and tells me
I can accept and acknowledge or reject and deny this gift of a definition.
So generous, to give me options, yet
somehow I suspect that I have no choice, for
because I cannot define what I hold unswervingly and confusingly true,
the world and its definition will always appear more credible than me.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
Icy clusters of rocks and dust, leftovers
Of extra matter scattered around a star.
Following the orbit guiding a perpetual run,
For seeing creatures to gaze at midnight skies
In search of glistening shooting lights.
Comets, so named by the ancient man,
Enchant humans to strive and understand,
Beholding their subliming approach to the Sun,
Where radiations and winds melt solids to sparkle
Spews of gas. An aura, a coma and a tail.
Nebulosity inclosing the nucleus confers
On the object a misty glow, distinguishing it
Form a star, hiding water in volatile form.
Tails extending to astronomical units lose
Trails of debris at times, visible to the naked eye.
When finally orbital highways cross,
Meteor showers arise. Debris igniting
As falling stars, enter the atmosphere.
Perseids in August begot by Swift-Tuttle
Comet, Orionids in October by Halley's.
Games of splendour to remind us where
We come from and how it all began.
When antediluvian comets did not shy away
From colliding unswervingly with Earth,
Reach its crust. Inundating the planet with H2O,
For us to be here, witness the show.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 5:02 AM UTC
When your dance a bounty, yet sing
they fail – I have learned to love,
worrisome mother and adorn you:
such a kiss is planted
a rose on the plump cheek of children.
your girth measures unflinchingly,
the laughter of the world around you
so small, kept in a dark, blinkered box.
your parasol smothers the light
cast unswervingly on stone.
who has long kept you in the caliginous womb,
with all the light that spangles through?
who has snuffed your little arms
and dressed you for everyone to see?
when you are quite flamboyant for
everyone to feast on,
what word passes on as salutation?
when you are festive enough to revel in,
what pagoda tries itself to the life
allowed to gleam proudly?
women, men, children, and all -
frolicsome around the darkled bough
smitten by the frayed sight of believing,
sifting from the way our hands
craft things the dispensable glee
of glasswork: the world is Murano.
and my eyes have seen all flourish
in a darling ebb of curbed felicities – the diaphanous
clangour of steel and shadow.
the slain orchestra of frogs in the crush of rain.
the detriment of the Earth curled like an infant
in the womb of the dark.
- oh trees and their wondrous life of green,
begin to question the wind and its tourniquet;
shadows drunk on turpentine, the spry wilt of hours:
what is their final duty?
if our laughter is slain in the perils of night,
how are we to become them?
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC
unswervingly unsure, but
naturally seeking praise
lost in fluctuating status
overt critic; herself
cutting the repulsive
knowing the faulty cure
each thought convinced,
deemed unworthy
poetically sad
open to love not
timid, she crawls out
every ray shines down
numb to passes
thriving, cage ajar
in total abandon
assuredly she flies
leaving him behind
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
.
This very far which mine eyne doth
vision
the many furrowed shes
ouch
whom hath cramped mine live
mine wild
for the feral precocious
yikes
nubile nymphettes
the rapid flap of their
new vibrissa
unswervingly mine bearing
To mine left
the sophic hers
to mine right
enraptured with I
mine me
hern germinal corporeal
too
hern precocious expressive
Ahhh
dwindling
the hemp which the sophic shes
twist
whilst mine cerebral spills
too
the young shes
swell
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
What does being broken mean?
What does being lost mean?
She woke up to moments of unsubdued
She woke up clueless as to what she ought to do.
She walked outside but regrets became obvious.
She walked outside unsure of one's purpose.
She kept listening to bottomless music.
She kept dancing to relentless music.
No amount of books can protect her from what she feels.
No amount of films can conceal the pain for her heal.
She is broken.
She is lost.
She kept it all.
Kept it, and found nothing but cold under the sun.
Kept it, and found pain during rain.
Kept it, and found loneliness under the moon rays.
Kept it, and found no constellation to the twinkling of the stars.
She was broken.
She was lost.
She kept it.
She prayed for peace and had it.
She wakes up to moments of deep breaths.
She wakes up to pursue purpose.
She walks thorougly for she was indeed uncrippled.
She walks unswervingly for she was blind no more.
She listens as profoundess is found in the songs that her soul sings.
She dances to the beat of her finally, unwavering heart.
Such amount books gave new chapters of life filled with twists and things she didn't thought she'd look forward to,
Such amount of films opened hope in the way her eyes was filled with spark and curiosity,
At last, her strings gave in to ease
She knew she always had Him.
Hence, the warmth of the sun filled her back with support.
Hence, the unending pour of rain to her hands and arms as she extends it remind her that Someone's got her and she'll not be the fallen, not anymore.
Hence, moonlight reminded her of her faith and optimism to life.
The stars, o the night's brightest of the most brightest one's appear a memoir of her infinite thoughts gave her beauty and enchanting passion to all things that she does.
Slowly, looking up at the sky.
She squints her eyes as wrinkles at the sides of her face show up.
She feels all at once.
And there she was finally free.
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 1:35 AM UTC