"unweaves" poems
Light's patterns freeze:
Frost on our faces.
Light's pollen sifts
Through the lids of our eyes ...
Light sinks and rusts
In water; is broken
By glass ... rests
On deserted dust.
Light lies like torn
Paper in corners:
A rock-pool's pledge
Of the sea's return.
Light, wrenched at the edges
By wind, looks down
At itself in wrinkled
Mirrors from bridges.
Light thinly unweaves
Itself through darkness
Like foam's unknotting
Strings in waves ...
Now light is again
Accumulated
Swords against us ...
Now it is gone.
2.8k
He grasps stardust in his
Hands
Sand they turn truly lovely
In one hand
The edges glint golden rusty and Brown they turn
The color of lovely shriveled late
Autumn leaves
They sink soundly to the ground
Smell of raw;
Earthy taste moist like rich bread and wine
So red his lips have not
The look of innocence
Stripped naked like bark chiseled wood
How I would love them forever
My vain endeavour
Still he lays partially
Amongst the blotchy patch of shade as
The
Tree
Lovingly sways
To the sound of his
Coos
Darling he sleeps as the Sheep watch over him
My little Sheppard boy
Dreamingly sound
May rippling waters of your subconscious mind settle to shore
Tides emerge in deepest
Blue
Violently crash into the
Crimson colored rocky edge of the
Stone face cliff
Now faced with thick
Cumulonimbus clouds that
Cloud the dawn's last fiery
Light
Streaks of lightening
Silhouette whip upon his
Face and like thunder the
Lions
Roar not in pain
But in vigorous anger as
The ringmaster bows at the
Choking applaud of the
Painted audience
The wind unweaves grassy tangles in your hair
Tormenting suitors
Tease;
You messily please
Imperfectly perfect that you are able to
Appeal as effortlessly
Dressed in natures blend
Like a jar of
Roasted nuts
Of assorted trail mix
Still
You lay there
Decorated in earth's blankets of roots Grass
Twigs leaves
Oh
How it hurts to leave
I'd sit here loving you
Instead
Twist peering down upon
Deepest desires
Swept in eternal sleep
Longingly
I join your slumber
Drift into dream where I
May wake up finding you
Beside me
Where sleep steals me upon
Your shoulder
Warmth of arms lightly
Grasped
Dawn red as a match in the
Distance slowly
Smothered
Surrendering to nights cold
Silence
But the stars
Whispers of compliments to
The moon
Each night loved you kindly
Each star a kiss upon your
Cheek
May the stars love you Sweeter than they have Loved me
But darling I've loved you
Forever
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
Existence is so fragile
Just one thread pull unweaves
The entire universe away
Drowning in this intoxicating matter
When I breathe I start to get dizzy
A rush of blood pumping inside
This makes it real
This is what makes sense
This is a fantasy alive
What reality is merely based upon
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 8:24 PM UTC
Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket’s lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.
For every person looking to preserve life,
There are four others looking to destroy it.
Though compassion is our signature tool,
Oh, only a handful of us ever employ it.
There is no neutrality when our conscious hearts fail.
If our better angels remain silent, our darker halves prevail.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
Everyone has a two-ton war machine.
Festering in heat,
Moral fabric unweaves.
Desecration,
Denigration,
Desiccation,
The remains of a sacred bond left tattered by deceit.
The sound of a stained glass window shattered by thieves.
Oh, somewhere our better half grieves.
The enigmatic future inches nearer,
An ambiguous choice becomes clearer,
The sound of rattling, an empty heart,
Battling, an empty mind.
The sound of hurried footsteps…
And there are others not far behind.
The blind guiding and seeking the blind,
Oh, somewhere our better half searches to find…
A shelter from all of these two-ton war machines.
Everyone has a two-ton war machine.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
The pain lingers,
Morality rests in tatters,
Miniature death-bringers,
The sound of a bigot’s daggers,
The sound of a depressed man’s gun facing backwards…
After he decides that nothing else matters.
Oh, somewhere our better half staggers.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
Everyone has a two-ton war machine.
The temperature escalates,
Morality thrown out with the spoils,
The sound of tension as it elevates,
The sound of blood as it boils,
Oh, somewhere our better half recoils.
Because everyone has a two-ton war machine.
A guilty conscience, a burdened soul, a heavy heart,
And a two-ton war machine.
Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 6:44 PM UTC
she suffered in silence
the inglorious dirt of rumor
as she tried unweave the web it wraps round her
far from being willing to live this way
the lies and the stink of deception settle in
but she keeps struggling against the tide
she is a sweet beauty incongruous
the late day clouds roll in
and she casts a weary glance at the troubled skies
trouble enough on my own
don't need another fistful of snakes
but deep down inside she knew she could handle
another dark day
long as there is the bright promise of someday
and as the rain and stink of decay settles in
she rises above like she always dose
people will always talk
spite is a hunger that is never sated
jealousy is a disease that has no cure
she suffered in silence
the inglorious dirt of rumor
but she is made of better steel
and this will never break the likes of her
and as she unweaves the web of lies
she feels stronger with the knowledge that she will win
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
.
Teems in the whirling grasses,
Fire in the daisies, littlest suns
Becoming patchworks of stars
Above the hallowed loams of soil,
The black ants shine in the light,
Spiders construct their silk laces,
Line by line as the wind unweaves
In the crepes, even in round dew,
One can see the globe of waters,
Watching itself in minnows' eye,
The insects, fly, iridescent gods
Floating sparkles, burst, buzzing
Wings, the stems of green ferals
Flowers flagging them into grace,
With chalice, tasting cup in blood
Of the petals, to thirst and quench
Ambrosial nectar, freshness, new,
Sweet in the tendril vines embrace,
The songs of colours, lowly birds,
Even higher, sing, above, choirs
Of the knarled and ancient twig
Branches that flame into briars
With leaves of yellow, feathers
So fair, water cresses in pools
Of the meadow and the violets
And buttercups spun, painted
With splattered, arts, confetti
Whirl, world in meadow sun.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
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Teems in the whirling grasses,
Fire in the daisies, littlest suns
Becoming patchworks of stars
Above the hallowed loams of soil,
The black ants shine in the light,
Spiders construct their silk laces,
Line by line as the wind unweaves
In the crepes, even in round dew,
One can see the globe of waters,
Watching itself in minnows' eye,
The insects, fly, iridescent gods
Floating sparkles, burst, buzzing
Wings, the stems of green ferals
Flowers flagging them into grace,
With chalice, tasting cup in blood
Of the petals, to thirst and quench
Ambrosial nectar, freshness, new,
Sweet in the tendril vines embrace,
The songs of colours, lowly birds,
Even higher, sing, above, choirs
Of the knarled and ancient twig
Branches that flame into briars
With leaves of yellow, feathers
So fair, water cresses in pools
Of the meadow and the violets
And buttercups spun, painted
With splattered, arts, confetti
Whirl, world in meadow sun.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
.
Teems in the whirling grasses,
Fire in the daisies, littlest suns
Becoming patchworks of stars
Above the hallowed loams of soil,
The black ants shine in the light,
Spiders construct their silk laces,
Line by line as the wind unweaves
In the crepes, even in round dew,
One can see the globe of waters,
Watching itself in minnows' eye,
The insects, fly, iridescent gods
Floating sparkles, burst, buzzing
Wings, the stems of green ferals
Flowers flagging them into grace,
With chalice, tasting cup in blood
Of the petals, to thirst and quench
Ambrosial nectar, freshness, new,
Sweet in the tendril vines embrace,
The songs of colours, lowly birds,
Even higher, sing, above, choirs
Of the gnarled and ancient twig
Branches that flame into briars
With leaves of yellow, feathers
So fair, water cresses in pools
Of the meadow and the violets
And buttercups spun, painted
With splattered, arts, confetti
Whirl, world in meadow sun.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 5:41 PM UTC
⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆
Dearest Count,
I know you watch and listen.
It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts
To you, to whom, I christen.
These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth.
Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth assuredly bide.
A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.
Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...
The pericombobulatory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!
(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)
For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.
Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.
Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.
A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.
Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.
The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.
Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this : our time of greatest need.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 4:23 PM UTC
Within our langue, we find us, aura of place.
This while life's trapped meanings, words,
paroled, evoked thus, gesture one
through one, and no other.
While without, betwixt words, languid lessons,
failing to be learned, detail broad-strokes
of reality's brush painting us, the canvas,
the world, framelessly framed.
Yet, languorless, from a bird's eye,
this insight, inner flight to soul's
fathomless essence, unweaves
self's tapestry, to begin anew,
a word, path of study, walked it's way.
A time redefined by what's sublime, communal
solutioning concentrating, sans frontieres.
Shimmering stream to babbling brook's nook.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 4:50 AM UTC