"vacillate" poems
There are people who
Love to participate in meeting
And make storm and dream
in their deliberation;
But vacillate
For coming down to ground
And execute;
They are called as meeting brawny!
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
**** me like the ocean would the moon, Dear Amaranthine.
Teach me as you would any abecedarian, slow with pace.
My pallid arms are spread, and feet are crossed.
Crucify me, like one of your French girls.
Your endless frame arched over mine
a vaulting testament to the heat
of your front against my back.
This scene should have been a chapel.
Through hazed musk I can taste the saline
as it tumbles from your dripping brunette tendrils
forming brooks and lagoons the color of flesh
in the glens and about the islands of my spine.
I wish I could write about you in me
while you dance a contemporary beat
ceaseless, indeterminate, untold are
your feats within and upon my person.
For a split moment, seconds shattered in two,
I am completely and totally permeated by you.
I whine for you to vacillate me, I am ******* begging
to be occupied, satiated, by a rhythm akin to the sway of trees.
Love me fast and kiss me slow, Dear Amaranthine.
My palms are red, and feet bloodied, too. I moan.
Call me your poetaster but don't come on my chest;
There's far too much weight there already, my dear.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
The robotic surgeon didn't blink
Smoke, swear, or fool around;
He was the newest design of science
His metal feet firmly on the ground.
Robotic surgery was the latest
Improvement over the manual kind
There were no variations in technique;
No reliance on flaky mind.
He was diligent and precise
Cutting flesh to invisible templates;
He never erred and he never missed
Never once paused, to vacillate.
Trusted beyond the regular surgeon,
Using his fragile, shaking hands;
The robotic surgeon could do anything
Because he wasn't just a man.
The newest miracle of science was hailed
As the end, to the older style;
But one day the program blew a fuse-
And he cut her head off, by a mile.
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 8:20 AM UTC
Cross legged
sitting in lotus pose
she blushes,swells
a white lotus
before the rising sun.
Palms are pressed
together in front
in a "Namaste"
to the divine, present
in everyone.
He is now just
some other, no special
eyes while closing tell.
How 'yoga' with the
higher self could exclude
amour's special privilege?
Adamant to reclaim it
between points of twin buds
his eyes vacillate,
her eyes closed shut, still
moves, lids peel a bit
lips curl and sent a hiss
like a hearty exhale
it sounded "decedent"
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
I want to live in a protoplasmic land:
Where only earth's natural resources are availed...
but not any exploitable extraction from nature.
where the cacophonies of friction are unheard..
Where the toxic air doesn't seem to arouse from the rooms of renaissance,
Where the sky synergizes with the nature,
Where the oeuvre of the planet remains pristine,
Where the trees vacillate with the harmony of winds.
Where there exists no manufactured light....
But only the piercing rays of self-igniting sun to synthesize the earth with seemingly eonian brightness...
And on nocturnals,star and moon drives me,if moon masquerades,i.e.,
When the commixture of cirrocumulus clouds form an impenetrable layers of watery clouds,
let the thundering light texture me while its clustering clouds embracing me with its rapturous rain,
Let the nature do its own karma,
I am not here to meddle in nature's subtle poise,
but to infuse into it......
O'shiva pave me the unobscure and quintessential way for me to dissolve in to you,
Let me drop my essential earth and dissolve my sumptuous and non-matter soul in to everlasting you....
Let me hush in to those singular days and solitary sounds....
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
Somewhere between going
and gone,
I left a piece of me.
Somewhere between going
and gone
I sang between two keys.
Never quite this way
or that.
Never reaching high enough,
or sinking low enough.
I would vacillate
and it left me prostrate -
lying face down
somewhere between going
and gone.
Somewhere between going
and gone
he seduced me.
Somewhere between going
and gone
I sang between two keys
never quite his key
or yours.
Never giving quite enough
but taking far too much.
So I would castrate
and underestimate
that your love for me was
somewhere between going
and gone.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC
..............
.....................................
*six days of practice dissolving illusion
mystical workings in sacred safe womb
vacillate brave new from patterned habitual
wondering alchemically
integrate whom*
..........
....
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
I have always thought of home to be a place
have described myself within a myriad of
different protagonists, herbs and flaccid analogies
i have been birds nesting in rafters, wolves
and nothing more than a willowy spirit without a
body--
and i thought for a moment that people could be homes
too, the way you walk into hugs or are metaphorically
gathered, i watched him in the mirror sliding around
my waist, resting on my hips, smelling my hair, picking
me up to put in a vase, ridiculously pretty, you know that?
and it's not that I longed for more,
that I have longed for where, for a here that
i am acutely aware of how i vacillate between empty
and overflowing, of my own thoughts, i have heard
you think too much and maybe I do-- maybe too much
of me lingers
In dreams I unzip and turn myself inside out
like a dress, fold my shoulders down and the mountains
reappear, i am all the grass of a former self, before the tides and winds and men, before my choices bent me back
and took a swiss army knife to whittle me away
i think i am longing to be clean
to be over to breathe and not feel the strings
the way my voice splits into a rank of pipes swelling into a hundred voices and he only hears a few, i am many
longing to be one, he cannot twist the drawknob
because I am already filling the cathedral in the words of
Stravinsky, *the
m onster never b r e a t h e s*
and I feel like i never have
i am earnest to fill my lungs with air instead of water
join the present, but the Welsh knew me too well,
the portuguese, saudade and the Germans, sehnsucht
put a letter to the things that can only be described in paragraphs or tears or indeterminate intervals of time sitting on his bed while he showered, all the doors slammed, empty coffee cups,
clogged sinks, unswept floors, long drives,
shots of whiskey, withering glances held on tension and
te amo mouthed across the room--
we wonder, can we be reached? wrought? touched. found.
in our deepest hearts, wounded mysticism, an untapped sense of joy that can be lanced and spilled, I am wistful, anxiously waiting to be siphoned,
Hiraeth.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
Don’t pick apart what I feel for you.
No, there has never been anyone before you.
But, I am not an emotional *******
I know myself, and my mind.
Am capable of recognising what it is I feel.
Love you. Kind of. Maybe. By half.
I am on the way to love, at least.
You vacillate in the doldrums, a land of grey uncertainty, rather than travelling in either direction.
I’ll wait. Not forever.
It’s like having a part of my body outside of itself.
Vulnerable and full of the absence of something divided.
Something that was previously mine given to you.
I knew love would be hard when it came.
Not this sad, or this sort of hard.
I expected modest love, and humdrum hard.
This is like being the wife of a sailor gone out to sea.
Interminable longing and painful waiting.
My heart pulls in my chest, the steady drumbeat too loud, loud enough to feel in my fingers, feel in my legs.
It tightens in discomfort, and sends me spiralling.
I wish I could hold you.
I wish I could heal you.
But neither is possible without you.
And I’m still waiting.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
Over this I vacillate:
The writing down of verse,
Wealth of language distillate
Quench and cause my thirst.
Easy enough to hesitate
When errands need be run,
Either way I procrastinate
Leaving the other undone.
For quiet I equivocate
Time and time again, for
It is bliss to terminate
The what, the where, the when.
Sometimes I stew in stalemate
Two webs entreat be spun:
Revel in stillness or illustrate,
I pay with time for one.
Rilke said discriminate
If one must write or not,
To breath to write to oscillate
Conundrum of my plot.
Awareness and artistry bifurcate
My will in two extremes,
Yet I know when conjugate
They vivify the means.
Unsure if it is designate
I muse and metaphor,
I know with thrill words compensate
When they begin to roar.
What is the thing that animates
This soul to write a poem,
Passion to note and formulate
Or to be loved at home?
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 8:25 AM UTC
Few years from now where you
Will be living a fulfilling life and
myself unruffled inhabiting the latent aura ,
Ouch!then smites the peripetia,
Ensuingly at a gratifying glance,
You see me,you merely remember me.
Your mind ponders but your eyes struck
as if it has a memory,but
at the very Perceptively
poising moment I see you,
my mind and eyes struck intimately,and
Satiable senses synergize momentarily,
while the other senses get numb.
Nothing travels in my mind,
no electrical impulses,it is as if I am meditating,
but my eyes gets emotional as if it bears an image.
It secretes the preserved fluid
that gravitates to my cheek,
where my hands scatter it along my face.
the years don't matter,even at the touch
of trance,you sprout from my thought.
The thoughts of partaken moments
vacillate in my mind,perhaps,
my senses don't work but
my heart works for you......
I love you for the millionth time,as
I say this it adds to another or nothing.
(A moment that happened for once,
never promised to happen twice nor hence,
but the fantasy pursues me thence,
the fantasy that pierces (me) )
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
Words whose inspiration I refuse to trace so I claim they are about no one: everyone writes about blood and maybe that's because it's deserved and maybe where there is desert there is no cliché. Everyone I've ever loved has peeled their lips a little too much and been left with blood running down to their chin. Sanguine seems the perfect word, now, but it's been charged with too much meaning and here I give her leave to drop to her knees screaming, 'I am the thick, deepness you've been searching for.' Blood-red a noun that augurs poorly for those whom take themselves too seriously and here I let it work. I should have recognized the portent provided by rivulets of multiple mediums but I was focused on trying to figure out how your eyes vacillate from my ****** to my amphetamine, and back again. I picked up some of your habits and have held them longer than I held you. Between the blood and tears dripping off my chin in a reality you thought you could never reconcile with words lay you, telling me, woven in secrecy between gasps, that everything has fallen into place. There's a metaphor in there somewhere about how nature's strongest shape is the triangle and the two of us could never stand up to the weights slowly placed on us. I'm not yet confident enough to flesh out the metaphor because all I was ever comfortable with was your flesh and I've yet to deduce the other points of the triangle, but at least I now know what they're not. Everyone before tasted like practice and I realize that's what you thought of me. I slipped truth under your door while you slept and years later I think about your morning before you opened my letter and worked through the ink stains shifted by rain & tears, but mostly rain, I promise.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
Sparse grass adorns the hillside
Thinly green against the grey,
Where lurking bull ant wolf packs
Hunt where chirping crickets play.
Way too thin to waft in breezes
Way too thin to really count
Like bad dealerships in Chevrolet
Mostly struggle to surmount.
Like thin pacifists in fist fights
Race, back peddaling for the door,
When, in fact, the convenience
Is a bullet through the floor.
And hot starlets jiggle **** jobs
Strutting carpet, red as rose,
Imitating, superficially here,
Whoredom wishing to impose.
Those roaring Russians, in denial
As their cheating athlete’s pale,
All denied their right of entry
To Olympia’s Holy Grail.
And insipidly they all collapse
In fracking’s blatant wake,
Leaving gloating, fat Americans
Gorging merrily on steak.
Whilst the oceans are advancing
As the ice floes dissipate,
And the clamour is ignored
Though Island nations inundate.
Fractious currencies do vacillate
In global bouts of greed,
Where the rich are fatly richer
And the rest in desperate need.
Where all truth is but a fantasy
Which everyone ignores,
Where expediency is the answer
And future proofing snores.
Black distrusts the whiteness
Islam hates the Jew,
East and West at loggerheads
What hope now…. for you?
Oh sparse grass adorns the hillside
Thin green against the grey,
Where the morrow is a vaugary
And worrisome it’s way.
M.
Friday 13th November 2015
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
These random thoughts
Are mine,
And that finite act of doing
Defines the essence of me;
Vacillate like a squirrel ?
No....not I!
The monster storm I shall ever chase,
Channeling fear as fuel
For the engine within,
A cerebral turbine
Hell-bent on exploration;
The mythic mountain I shall ever climb,
Stains of sweat and struggle
Streaking over her peaks
And jagged edges,
Bleeding wisdom into callouses and scars
For future wars;
And the roar of the rhythmic river
Hurling waves high over
Hidden cliffs,
Her furious fall
A source of energy
And joy for all;
Here I shall ever swim
On a dare, a whim
Or simply because she's there...
Calling!
~ P (#stormchaser)
11/14/2013
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
I feel out of place
in the summertime-
oversized and awkward,
forcing smiles that
crack and peel
and pretending
that I am bold
that I am unaffected
that I am ready
as I shove black thoughts
back down into
silent fissures.
Now fall is creeping in
with great grey plumes
of september clouds
and all of those slippery
dark thoughts bubble up
and out to settle
in every corner.
And I vacillate
from mind-numbing
sorrow and overwhelming
exhaustion to
glittering highs
from the beauty of it all-
the contrast is acutely
melancholic and
sweet at once.
I pour out feelings
that stick to my canvas
and make love
in shallow pools
of moonlight
and smile at something
that feels real
and I am bold
I am unaffected
I am ready.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
My Moonlight archipelago,
my escape
I approach the buttress of boredom better known as your doorstep
I pull you in...
your hair stretches from clenched fingers and what follows down to the feel of my fingertips is religious in nature
under a broken blue street lights, i cradle inward, immersed now in infinite youth of lust... a flash of light... street lamps lit now a Coca Cola Red ... the color plays, a chromatic cinema fills through
your follicles
I spin you away momentarily and envy my shadow now pressing upon you
we are Cathars,
heuristic heretics,
learning love through touch in a hate filled land (the pesky conformity of late-stage Western Civilization)
still
Your ether look absolves me of this world’s sins
beam raw:
render quiet:
Baptize me in the esoteric and verbose stares, the *** is drawn on your lips, so mouthy, but saying nothing inside the long Chaplin silence,
you vacillate
and I’m vacant
my voice removed
spent, empty in the Valentino deadpan stares
Post Script: The gaze gave conversations: conversions still silent in her looks, a living Bible's worth of words in those sacred scripture holy eyes.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
This place, it seems familiar,
Like an unopened corner of my mind.
I don’t remember this passage though,
And the endless fall that ensued.
Through the pores I saw it all,
A briefcase here, a backpack there.
I reached out for them, but in vain,
As gravity continued to take me into its thrall.
Memories? Yes certainly I had seen these before,
Whether they are mine, I am not sure of.
Because they seem too exquisitely crafted,
Too pure, not even the slightest bit flawed.
Dancing inside red bubbles,
Popping ever so slowly as I embraced the pull.
The red enveloped me whole,
As my bones turned to jelly.
My organs, on the other hand,
Began to grind like clockwork.
Slowly, I looked below me, and saw red,
And looked above, and saw even more.
I wondered what this sojourn was,
Whether it was in my mind, or in my heart.
Then flipped it all around to find,
It wasn’t a fall.
It was an ascension
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
hum and feel the resonance
the pulsing movement of life
animating force of being
emanating from somewhere deep,
the parallel to the core of the everything
the pulsing, the expansion and contraction
the vivid breath that so fills
these cavernous hungry lungs
concentric circles of vitality
cycles of comfort and risk
we vacillate in and out of vulnerability
witnesses to wonder incarnate
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 11:57 AM UTC
It's always either too much
or not nearly enough.
I cringe at the echo
of voices that carry
and words that slip
over my teeth
like molasses,
but the silence
can be deafening
in an empty room.
I vacillate between
thoughts that fill up spaces
like black balloons
and smiles that sink ships-
twisting between
tepid emptiness
and emotions that press
on all of my soft spots,
intent on seeping out
through my pores
like little pinpricks
of madness.
Caught somewhere between
a ***** a child, and a housewife;
I want deft hands to
wrap up all of my
loose ends
and in the same breath
I want to shave my head
and curl into cold corners.
I want to run through
fluorescent meadows
and twirl round in cotton skirts
before receding into
the bleak landscapes of my mind.
I want to make him breakfast
and fold his laundry into hearts-
then get drunk on cheap wine
and **** like that's what bed springs
were made for.
I want to say the words
that are festering inside
of my worm-eaten skull,
I want to see the disgust
on their contorted faces,
but on the other hand,
isn't it nice to be a pretty face;
seen, but never heard.
I want it all,
I want none of it.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
Let me understand
just one conversation
magic to nightfall, mythic notation
I wanted to impress you
and I still do
I wanted to best you,
lion-mane moon
rise as soon as the clock marks
sunset
this is the dynamic of you and me
and if I can't explain it right,
I don’t deserve your empathy, but
I’ll carry on in different ways
observe the other, inhabit the area
night takes, and refuses
to adjust
yesterday, I miscalculated my city and found myself stranded alone
I wasn’t afraid, but had you been there I wouldn’t have felt
so lost
for now, I can cut corners until
my surroundings are common
to me, I can fold paper but
somehow the creases never end up
how I want them to be
last night, the sky was orange but you weren't there to see it with me
day to day I vacillate between trying to find and escape you
and you, parallel,
don't see any of it
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
I'm green with those I leave behind,
This world I have, where all seems mine.
I vacillate as their world keeps thriving,
Leaving the living live with the alive.
But I'm gone, I'm dead,
The colorful globe will spin;
The living will die;
Not now... by and by,
With O whys and O mys.
It's a curse I've bequeathed
To the loves of my life,
When they leave their loved ones behind.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC
Why do I continue to try to fight a losing battle?
DT told me that he won’t ‘abandon’ me…he said that continuing therapy is my decision …but I often think that I’m way too demanding and unfair and I should ‘abandon’ him – so he can finally have relief from the border. He really is a nice caring person – I truly believe that – and he doesn’t deserve all the horrible **** I project onto him. He doesn’t. I do believe that he ******* up with the whole email/trust thing – but we all ***** up, right? Still, even with that, I’m like a walking time bomb and I have land mines hidden all over the place and he walks carefully because he never knows when he’s going to step on one.
I’m just so tired and frustrated. I feel like I’m in quicksand. My body aches so bad…my head always hurts, I constantly vacillate between sad/lonely girl, 5 year old, PAG…CONSTANTLY! I feel like I’m walking through a haunted house…I can turn a corner and something horrible can be there that will send me reeling – and then I’m terrified, curled up in a corner, wrapped in a blanket, trying to hide. And I can’t stop it. I can’t just throw it in a box and shut the lid. IT DOES NOT WORK THAT WAY! I can’t ‘ignore’ my body when it hurts, I can’t ignore the voices, I can’t stop “feeling”…IT DOES NOT WORK THAT WAY!
But DT doesn’t deserve it…no one does. I am way more trouble than I’m worth. It’s taking too long. I’m so tired and such a burden to everyone. Nothing works – there’s no “self-soothing” machine anywhere hidden away behind my heart, or deep inside my ****** up brain.
This whole process ***** BIG TIME! AND I’M TIRED AND I DON’T WANT TO DO IT ANYMORE! And I am such a selfish unfair ***** to DT. He doesn’t deserve my ‘wrath’. But I still get so angry at him and I CAN’T DO IT!
I only see one way out of this. And I know that DT needs the ‘relief’ just as much as I do. The whiny 5 year old will continue to ‘demand’ DT’s help and comfort…and DT doesn’t have the time, or desire, to deal with her anymore. I don’t blame him, truly, 5 year old is unbearable. But the fact remains that there is only 1 way to get her to shut up…only 1 way to provide relief and peace to DT and to me.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
my souls a ploughed ground
a chandelier of bones
staring into a night
black star
third eye
a wing with sight
sitting on the knee of lotus
the knee of listening
the knee of your voice
speechless
i move from some inner locomotion
distant from the mind's arson
that old inner argument,
self; a plucked thorn
a burning city dire
i vacillate like a shifting shadow
a feathered ghost
skull of the arcane
and in a split second
find you like a spaceship in the woods.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 1:36 PM UTC
You say you love me
I wonder what will make you change your mind,
This time.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
'magic is only skin deep, these days' she said.
sitting alone, surrounded by hard beats and breaking glass, music boxes crashing down stairs and then being axed.
such aural assault lends itself to thinking...
'take the blackest spell and tie it around my little finger' she said.
i am the last of my house here. they are all gone, now. memory lends such things nostalgia, or perhaps nostalgia lends such things vibrant memory. we are hardly, if ever, aware of history. portentous events only happen in hindsight. you cannot be aware of the memory of a great day if you are mentally recording it as such.
'look. look at the sky falling with such violence. if only these eyes could do the same.' she said.
walking through the black slick streets, watching people talking to themselves. when did the switch happen? are you talking to yourself or on a cell phone? what is the difference...('not as much as you might think' says the voice that calls me at these times, when i am walking alone on those same cold, dark, glittering streets.)
i can ask you no more. would it be any different if i demanded? i find a certain boring arrogance in demands, a weakness perhaps. people should just fall to your will, without (too) many words being spoken. the artistry lies in making them believe they do it of their own volition.
'volition. to violate in the most intrusive, not to say intimate way.' she said.
never mess with a beautiful girl who mixes her metaphors.
the dark underbelly of a given city is almost always (i never say always, i never say never. never fall into the trap of exclusion) more instructive then the civilized front. this city has such a cold, permeating darkness.
if you fall to the devil here, you fall alone.
'turn a blind ear, vacillate between if you will. touch me not! observation contaminates.'
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC