"urgings" poems
lesson #1: in the beginning, all poems on Earth were formless
on blended knee, the approaching, humility, raging, barely
tempered by a gale force need, the forthcoming yoga pose of compose
you have urgings, mostly in a blink of an eye,
then going, gone notions, the writing is so a losing effort,
you turn the paper’s aperture sideways hoping to get an
inside straight insight,
but the poem refuses to come, the creation ******
delayed is torturous and the poem birthing, even worse
so you revert to basics to give the formless a shape,
recalling a child’s learning that in the beginning:
“the earth was formless and void,
darkness was over the surface of the deep,
and the Spirit of God was hovering
over the surface of the waters.…”
so you insert a single sheet of 20Lb bond paper,
sliding the typewriters carriage smooth swift
over to the starting gate hell’s bell, typewriter machine smell erotically exciting creative fluids boiling,
typing, laughing out loud, forming entree to the hinted hallway
of a womb opening to a crafting with three words:
in the beginning
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 5:05 PM UTC
#
*The finest meaning of 'Wholeness'..
Is shown most fully within the intertwining
in to the pivotally and most necessary
healing of both body and mind..
In that
the perfect expression of Spirit here on Earth
can only happen through the physical--
You "feel" the Receptives and/or the Urgings
from deep within you (your flesh wrapped spirit),
That are only brought out into the light of day (made known)
the moment your very tangible fingers touch the keyboard..
Or up close..
the tangibly-heard sound your very voice-tones,
Created by your so very tangible vocal cords-- made unique
by how deeply infused your spirit is into that
beautiful mind and body of yours..
By your ever-renewed
and continual choice to heal.
Within that beautiful union, the Sensings and Respondings
of the body bring impulses into the spirit..
touching deeper, the Core--
The "Image" of Perfect, Absolute Being
placed deeply into each and every one of us..
by the very nature of Love's Ache--
Residing within the center of this Universe..
(and all other Universes).. both known..
and those also yet to be..
..An Image placed, as to be a Plumb-line,
and also a Never-ending Cinematic placement of the View
onto (and within) the inner-wall linings
of both mind and spirit..
..Seen in greater and greater "less dimly-lit" degrees,
based solely on how far we commit ourselves along,
and in to, the healing process.
In its finest form, through healing,
the things we take in.. through feeling;
and then express back out..
from both mind, and body's untethered Unfolding,
..Becomes closer and closer
to the very Expression of God's own heart,
..Therefore smashing through, and gorgeously undoing
the ever- quenching.. ever-diluting nature of Subjectivity, itself.
Hmm..
The "taking in" and then The Tremblings, of your body's
unavoidable responses are the very thing most 'maverick loners'
like me need most from another in this world,
if we are to continue on in our mission with any kind of strength..
(along with its much desperately-needed resolve).
If, within the "taking in" process.. the beautifully feeling
Receivers such as yourself, were to be overcome
to the point of release~ all alone.. on the edge of your bed..
isn't that a very understandable and nearly unavoidable
and also so very very tangible part of the process also..
--In itself
above and outside of all human (and Heavenly) judgement?
Carry on, sweet Angel..
and so gorgeously continue to be who you are.
Those that can see.. see (and feel) most clearly.*
I see you.
#
Aug 12, 2023
Aug 12, 2023 at 8:19 PM UTC
Of withering tempests screaming to the break of sunlight,
Of unrelenting wind and pounding rain, she stands
With her back to crashing waves and painful bellowing,
A weak induction of steady sighs and silent contemplation
Would perhaps bring a peaceful conclusion to the rage
And reproach of a Goddess stirring on the fringes of insanity.
But never would it have taken to fresh insanity,
The gentle swirling of confusion between glaring eyes and sunlight,
How she would wish never to part from the burning of rage
And leave a scorched shadow on the very place she stands.
Never did she desire for the learned art of contemplation
But instead found solace in a frozen lake of tears and bellowing.
At the end of such a night filled with harsh anxiety and frenzied bellowing,
She finds herself staring into the gleaming eyes of Insanity,
Who dwells in sweet and blissful contemplation
And harvests the piteous glow of sunlight
Such that any man would freeze and cease where he stands
And succumb to the urgings of exhilarating rage.
A chilling gust would release the embracing rage
And perhaps bring wishful silence to the obnoxious bellowing;
She feels her feet sinking through the sand and stands
out of reach from the tearing claws of Insanity.
Relief in the warmth of ethereal sunlight
Proves a worthy companion of contemplation.
Eudaimonia, she finds in her deep contemplation
Free of sorrow, empty and weary from her onslaught of rage,
She casts herself into the welcoming cracks of sunlight
And in Euphoria, she finds herself no longer bellowing,
The slow and steady pull of her chains toward Insanity
Break away and leave her where she stands.
In new light, she finds her strength and stands,
Embracing the drifting stream of wraithlike contemplation
Would send shivers and open wounds that might invite Insanity,
But turning around and gazing out into those waves might blind the Rage
And bring peaceful sighs to interrupt the senseless bellowing
Such that black clouds would give way to glorious sunlight.
To the death of Rage and the estrangement of Insanity,
The wistful bellowing banished in the silence of contemplation,
The Goddess stands with her back to the wind, tears dried by the warm sunlight.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKPEOfybQak&feature;=related
*Remember his name when you look at the night sky.
- the Toe-cutter*
You are the Night Rider,
a fuel-injected suicide machine,
a rocker, a roller,
a no-controller,
yer a cop killer,
the mighty weird hand of vengeance
come to smite the un-roadworthy.
You, Night Rider,
clearly unaffected
by the state’s urgings
to “yield” and, perhaps,
“soft shoulder”.
You are the Night Rider,
sleeping in on a Tuesday,
performing your masculinity
in unshowered, unshaved machissmo.
Night Rider,
won’t you come to your senses?
Nobody enjoys maniacal laughter
anymore.
It makes us think of ****
covered in fleas, bedbugs,
whiskey ****
or Janis,
and the last moments of an American Saigon.
Ahh… Night Rider,
we share your machine lust,
your fetish,
your hard-on for the muscle-bitch,
the suped-up hot rod,
the last of the V-8 Interceptors
(1973 Australian Ford XB Falcon GT).
We, too, like a nitrous kit,
a roof and tail spoiler,
we likes our flat black:
………....................our murderous speed
………..........................has driven daddy to drinkin’.
We ride!
Night Rider, we understand.
We get the lurid infatuation,
but, **** yer a hick-weed,
all these roads lead to jail
–how have you not grasped this simple truth?
The highway is not freedom,
but a circular slave song.
Oh, rider of the night,
why all the re-runs of Seinfeld?
And cheese bread?
You’ve grown a belly, N.R.,
and while it might be glam
to be young, dumb
and full of ***
or all muscle
in butt-less chaps at 21,
you’re 45, Night Rider,
and no-one cares anymore
about your straight-line revolution,
about your road to freedom,
about it,
about what kind of future
you and Floosie would’a made.
The kids are alright
but
they ain’t never heard
of you
nor your last,
wild-eyed flight.
As the Lord Humungous has indicated,
no one
gets out
alive.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
I found five weasels in a wood,
Five grey kits so fierce they stood,
in challenge on the timbered trail,
my urgings all to no avail.
They held their ground as if to say
This darkling path on which I stray
Is weasel-wood, a tracking ground
Where silent death waits all around
And, transgressing here I truly fear
So ends my trekking here this year.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
The vastness of the summer field
Has lost its innocence to autumn yield
From whence the green has turned to brown
A once joyous day returns a frown
But with spring’s planting, revived and healed
Refrain oh urgings of wanderlust past
My sails have lost the wind, on teetered mast
The hearty bellows of a nor’easter gale
Has caused my depth to weep and wail
And fear the evil my spirit amassed
I am a farmer’s soul; born to seed and harvest
A reaper of words, and mortal darkness
I seek from all around, and all within
And dream of a life that might have been
Where love past is all but heartless
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
my subconscious writes me letters
gentle urgings -
from that deepest space
where dreams go to rest
and fears go to hide
little fragments of inspiration
that dance provocatively
only to vanish
when i rise from my stupor
little ghosts of memories past
present and future
bound up together
as unfailing reminders
that wherever i go
i will always be me
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
30.11.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 7:00 AM UTC
whether it be day or night
when I am awake
I listen to the silence
and the whispers of the surrounds
to the snarls, the roars and the rage
to the creatures that are about, that may venture
I am attentive to the flowing streams
that laugh with the rocks
and to the mountains in their pensive mood
and the sounds of the house and its wood
and the growing elm, that are rich and green always
and I am witness to the sun,
and the moon and its companion stars
and the day and night
and all shades and transitions
and all presence in the air
and I am witness to the creatures that come close, curious
and so to all quiet, to all activity and all life and movement
to all color and all seasons and all urgings and motion
and when it bids me sing of these
then in that consent, in that concord
I write down these words
I write these books of the surrounds
of these moments
that shall come into your hands
that you too may see, for yourself
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 1:53 AM UTC
I do not want to be touched like a steering wheel is touched;
Or a guitar-
Like I am a machine, an instrument made of parts,
Like if you pluck my strings, I’ll sing for you
Like I was only created to get you from point a, to point b,
Like I was made entirely to respond to your urgings. –
I do not want to be loved like a dog is loved,
Or a car.
Like I am the comforting warmth at the foot of your bed, or the meticulously painted frame you can’t wait to show your friends,
Because you still hope you can earn their respect. –
My love, I want you to touch me because it is through my skin that you can cool the fear that burns me,
I want you to want my body because it is the artistic expression of the person God made me!
Do you know that God made me? –
My love, I want you to love me because I AM the bones inside your body,
Because I am the ribs that curve around the softest part of your insides, protecting.
I want you to love the way it hurts to love me,
Because nothing worthy is painless,
and I am nothing if not worthy-
Do you know that I am worthy?
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC
not about the color of his eyes
The weight of his stare
pushed her back
pressing her will
against the sheets
her eyes
crushed close
an attempt to obliterate the heat
She wrote not about his lips
The way they pretended
to hold some shy secret
brushing temptation
pulling back
evoking her appetite
till she believed
starvation
would eat her alive
She wrote not about the battles
repeated
with wet skin
fire
fingers clasped and
limbs entwined
Their warrior cries and
hushed urgings
the inevitability of
death
a quiet relief
that held only
until war
was incited once more
What she did write
the sadness
the annilhation of reason
that completely
devoured
her head
How unreasonably her ego
stood down
refusing to protect her
leaving her
banished
to the emotional
unable to talk herself out of his charms
I suppose this is the reason
she didn't want to write
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
nights curtain finally falls,
dayZzzzzzzz...z
... are endless right now,
thankfully yeah,
so near to my sweet solstice,
my Cancer moon
FULL approaching,
now beckoning thought,
to a Gypsy summer,
Grandmother too,
as I gaze upward,
at spectacular urgings of dreams,
in light form,
an ancient an curs-ED reminders
that shine a path,
hope in refractions of tomorrow,
combined with my melancholy yesterday
beautifully written sky poetry,
Grandmother said,
"Those are luminescent possibilities angel,
called stars-
so when I die -look there."
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 2:09 AM UTC
cerebral diarrhea
versus verborrhea
unpunctuated disequilibrium
generates opprobrium
unfree verse
fettered or worse
verbal *****
bomb it.
confessional purgings
depressional urgings
emo-bingeing over unrequited love
makes this poet go off / out / above
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 1:08 PM UTC
at the urgings of the needle's keen tip
she'd respond with such a caustic delight
corrosive was its thorniness of quip
on the pointy end being put to conic flight
an outpouring of stinging did rain free
she'd respond with such a caustic delight
never not thinking of the spurring's tee
compelled by a so driven tong's tine
an outpouring of stinging did rain free
*yet the rejoinder was not very **** fine*
applying her barbing tool time after time
compelled by a so driven tong's tine
browsers saw the regularity of crime
sticking in too much abrasive acid
applying her barbing tool time after time
the mordant seasoning far from placid
sticking in too much abrasive acid
at the urgings of the needle's keen tip
corrosive was its thorniness of quip
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 10:11 PM UTC
You have been hiding somewhere in my mind
still seeking but promise ill find you in time
no words of beauty could truly define
the deliciousness that's enriched in someone your kind
You have been hiding somewhere in my mind
still seeking but promise ill find you in time
in this journey alone these trails whisper and kindly remind
me of what love is if we aren't combined
You have been hiding somewhere in my mind
still seeking but promise ill find you in time
lurking and urgings while searching for sign
Lord, only If i could see and read between these lines
You have been hiding somewhere in my mind
still seeking but promise ill find you in time
I might lose my soul but til this world declines
solemnly swear, won't dissappear until i make you mine
-Shahrukh Zamir c) 2013
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
crickets don't chirp in hell
they burn
brighter than the fire
that fuels your scorn
feeding your anger
like cicadas at dawn
takes hold
and suffocate
subjugate spirits
until hearts are torn
love don't come easy
to a cold heart
or a misused
trampled on
abused heart
love is war
unpredictable
from the start
like the urgings of youth
grasping at straws
gasping at yet
another of life's
myriad illusions
lost
in a tabernacle of lies
love tossed aside
like schmatte
as if
God doesn't exist
who am I to love?
I can only die
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
#D Vanlandingham
*I could not help it,
but to show you how the moment felt,
and in the unfolding of a picture, painted;
the deepest of your dreams were unknowingly shown to you
And it caught you off guard- having, to that day..
you never imagined, it possible.
But you did not yet understand that you wear your dream
somewhere within the thin-walled interminglings
of the word's first primal, urgings.. and its out-into-the-light-of-day,
manifestations... (and baby, I feel like crying right now)
but I will continue
I will continue--
You never signed up for this, I know..
but you are the one who chose
to allow your war-torn heart,
to keep on beating//
your flame-scorched lungs, to keep on breathing..
and now look at this mess, my beautiful--
your beautiful-everything has bled out on to me
and everywhere that I am.. I am wearing you
And all I do is tell you what it feels like to wear you
but in doing so, I made known your dream
and somehow-- within the stretch of Love's ache's, bad luck
I have become hated for making your secret, come true--
the revealing of the dream, made known ::
the Unfolded you.
And now, you are raging
because you never imagined, the possibility
that there would be someone out there
that would care enough about you
to become able to see..
(and a man became hated, for just being me).
Yet, even now to this day, beloved;
I close my eyes, and smile
within the depths,
of your deeply loving, hatred.*
#
Dec 11, 2020
Dec 11, 2020 at 8:12 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
So you want a ticket
To paradise
Before killing everyone
You see in sight
Read the Qu’ran
Maybe once or twice
And you won’t be listenin’
To a fool’s advice
You think if you die
You’ll get seventy-two virgins
So you blindly follow
A mad man’s urgings
Which will lead you to hell
After your conversion
You’ll be fuel the fire
And the devil’s diversion
Jihad Akbar
The great jihad
Ain’t about random killing
So before you start
It’s the battle that is waged
Within each heart
To stay on the straight path
Havc you done your part
Islam truly is
The religion of peace
Despite the things you see
Throughout the Middle East
Or the false prophets who are down
With the beast
Promoting ****** and mayhem
Which has increased
All of ‘em had better
Leave Islam alone
Because their religion
Is all their own
See they’re the last ones
Who should throw a stone
At others who disagree
With how their movement's grown
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
blue green hypnotic muses pass through
the spindles of time tightly squeezed to
minuscule bits that cast themselves so weightlessly
across our minds with recollections that
sputter to an abrupt stop
here in repose, motionlessly we arch our touch
to grasp any filament that can light our heavens
the ones we secretly crush on our pillows
as we usher in the peaceful times to journey
the dark crystal studded universe of our
nights seeing the wonders and urgings
of travels to mysterious contraband landscapes
and lush ***** paradises lined up in perfect
latitudes... tangents and twists and turns
solemn stirrings and lineages that have engulfed
all thought... all pleasure... all measures
and why not... check cashed... funds paid!.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
task your mind with infinite visions
engrossed in urgings and misguided ways
ruminate over lost loves and dire wishes
wake up at night happy but still in a daze
think and speak ever earnestly
to troubles that brew at a steady bubble
imply your still listening
make haste a retreat when your smelling trouble
languish amidst happy and go lucky
telling friends there place is most secure
arrange your schedule neatly
admonish them sternly then show them the door
arrive on time to all that is privy
dance with aplomb when invited to
in all graciousness and sincerity
give kind people affection and their just due
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 5:11 PM UTC
as happens, some days, many times,
one thought stops.
Pops, you might think, but
stops, silent. Stop.
Nada mas, allowing critical discernment,
discovering the use of the verb, believe
projecting from letters spelling chants
in single breathed tones exhaled,
in Mongolian we all feel we understand.
Anotia means no ears, in Greek, I think,
persistant notion
conscience, earless urgings, mused
ambient conditions considering,
maybe amuse means being used to be
what
I
am
in mind
being integrally
essentially a thought
in words ex nihilo
in current context, from no good reason
written, never spoken, spelled and cast,
by accident
here… sure the thought terminated…
then you thought it kept on…
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 6:16 PM UTC