"vena" poems
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava........
SO If you tell me your heart is "literally broken" just don't.
It isn't broken.
It just hurts.
It's just feels horrible.
Painful.
A feeling that hurts you and feels like your heart hurts so much that it's actually broken.
But your heart doesn't actually hurt.
It's just a feeling.
The cycle stills goes on.
It is still functioning.
So, next time you feel your "heart breaking" and literally being "torn apart",
Remember...
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.............
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
So here I am.
Within your heartstrings.
I like to think I flow through your mind like blood flowing through your superior vena cava.
Constant;
And non-chalant.
And there you are.
Rolling and rolling and tumbling around the empty train station in my mind.
Like a tumble ****
Where did you come from?
Were you ever really mine?
What is the color of my eyes?
Grey, like the clouds.
At least that's what they tell me.
But you aren't here very often and only sometimes do you come around with your talent of using words to your advantage even though I'm the only person who sees through your fake persona and too long brown lucious hair.
But this one's for you.
Just like the one I wrote when I first started but that was a different story.
That had a different meaning.
A different message.
That one said;
"I love you."
This one says;
"I still do."
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
I got some things I want to confess
From an awkward nerd to a beautiful countess
You're more confusing than the Higg's Boson
I understand more the positrons and electrons
You're more complex than a polysaccharide
"Understanding You" is no book my archive
Why can't our relationship be a mutualism
Rather than the one sided commensalism
Could we be close like the tibia and fibula?
So close like the aorta and vena cavas?
To be close, I could only hope
Like uranium 237 and uranium 238, inseparable isotopes
Whenever I see you, I get the "kilig" affixes
Like the sour taste of citru sinensis
I can't get enough of your wonderful smile
It's like the taste of pentahydroxyhexanal
You might think I'm in delirium
But my thoughts are in equilibrium
You're the only girl inside my cranium
And this love for you is more precious than titanium
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 6:57 AM UTC
Discoboli of African poetry has now sparked above aphasia
The aphasic silence today breaks eardrums with cacophony
Of the world audience in the by standing duty of workshop tubes,
Executing poetic experiment on the origin of **** poeticus
To link the archaic baboonish proteins to the black chimpanzee
Cradling African man, the sire of all and their poetry.
That when the Chimpanzee blood we poured
Into the African veins of vena cava and aorta,
Feeding the heart with viscosity of nutrition,
And the Chimpanzee blood fell into deadly
Tomperousness like Shakespearean impetuosity
Once seen in Romeo and Juliet, giving timely Birth
To untimely half the yellow Sun
That juxtaposed planet of poetry
Behind the star of tribe as a priority
Condemning to stark oblivion all the fated,
in full uniform of tribal dimunitions, or mimesis.
Ever predated on when tribes form nations.
A time to try the chimpanzee blood in the veins
Of white humanity, battling cynosure
Historically evinced in Antony and his father,
Or Tybalt and Mercurial of mercutio,
Or Macbeth and counterparts
Or Hamlet the Danish and the inheritors of his mother,
As the white blood cells of the white blood,
Militantly attack the white corpuscles
Of the misfortunate chimpanzee,
Converting the later into
A chewer of misfortune.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
There's an earthy blood-smell to lavender
It surprises you when the nose gets too close
Once you get past the modest skirted blooms
To find the green blood of torn out flower
Fetid black dirt clings to blood ragged roots
Blue-black blood of returning vena cava
Lavender scented babies and lavender tinted men
Planted for eternity underneath fertile soil
And blood-rise suns bake their tender heads
Blood drenched scent tempts the droning insects wing
Their distilled spirits resurrected in hives
Their earthly blood now ours to imbibe.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 1:18 AM UTC
blood curdles
sour milk in a pale blue carton
pushing out of wiry veins
rotten
.
the vena cava
was never meant to hold
ruined plasma
just like the world was never meant to hold
me.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
La voz de bronce no hay quien la estrangule:
mi voz de bronce no hay quien la corrompa.
No puede ser ni que el silencio anule
su soplo ejecutivo de pasión y de trompa.
Con esta voz templada al fuego vivo,
amasada en un bronce de pesares,
salgo a la puerta eterna del olivo,
y dejo dicho entre los olivares...
El río Manzanares,
un traje inexpugnable de soldado
tejido por la bala y la ribera,
sobre su adolescencia de juncos ha colgado.
Hoy es un río y antes no lo era:
era una gota de metal mezquino,
un arenal apenas transitado,
sin gloria y sin destino.
Hoy es un trinchera
de agua que no reduce nadie, nada,
tan relampagueante que parece
en la carne del mismo sol cavada.
El leve Manzanares se merece
ser mar entre los mares.
Al mar, al tiempo, al sol, a este río que crece,
jamás podrás herirlos por más que les dispares.
Tus aguas de pequeña muchedumbre,
ay río de Madrid, yo he defendido,
y la ciudad que al lado es una cumbre
de diamante agresor y esclarecido.
Cansado acaso, pero no vencido,
sale de sus jornadas el soldado.
En la boca le canta una cigarra
y otra heroica cigarra en el costado.
¿Adónde fue el colmillo con la garra?
La hiena no ha pasado
a donde más quería.
Madrid sigue en su puesto ante la hiena,
con su altura de día.
Una torre de arena
ante Madrid y el río se derrumba.
En todas las paredes está escrito:
Madrid será tu tumba.
Y alguien cavó ya el hoyo de este grito.
Al río Manzanares lo hace crecer la vena
que no se agota nunca y enriquece.
A fuerza de batallas y embestidas,
crece el río que crece
bajo los afluentes que forman las heridas.
Camino de ser mar va el Manzanares:
rojo y cálido avanza
a regar, además del Tajo y de los mares,
donde late un obrero de esperanza.
Madrid, por él regado, se abalanza
detrás de sus balcones y congojas,
grabado en un rubí de lontananza
con las paredes cada vez más rojas.
Chopos que a los soldados
levanta monumentos vegetales,
un resplandor de huesos liberados
lanzan alegremente sobre los hospitales.
El alma de Madrid inunda las naciones,
el Manzanares llega triunfante al infinito,
pasa como la historia sonando sus renglones,
y en el sabor del tiempo queda escrito.
1.9k
you played me like a mandolin,
striking notes like broken glass
in the space between your wayward sheets.
your hands were my compass,
your eyes the Adriatic Sea-
and I plunged into the depths
like an albatross,
fawning over wide open spaces
and beautiful colors.
yes, you played me like a symphony,
my body ebbing and flowing
in ghastly syncopation.
notes like honeysuckle and lilac
coursing through my bloodstream-
capillaries to venules to veins to the vena cava
and straight on into my heart.
and you'd be ecstatic to know
that I haven't heard such a haunting refrain
since you went away.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
Intertwine our pulmonaries
Pull tight, tie together our coronaries
My superior vena cava resting near yours
Hear that, the sound of opening ventricle doors
Beautiful looking aortas fixed
Winding together as a double helix
This heart of mine will skip a beat
Just so my arrhythmia and yours might meet
This ticker will only continue to tick
If next to yours it may stick
Not a murmur because of bad health
A murmuring of loves bountiful wealth
Atrium to atrium, heart to heart:
Blood's continual pumping, so long as our valves never part.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
*Ecstasy seeped into vena
The purloin of senses
The profuse thud of a heart
On edge
Igniting bedlam
Doused in consequence
Of a shattery bliss.*
18/08/2014
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
A serene cottage upon a dreary hillside
Where my mind's listless galaxy of neurons
Synapse in the absolute darkness,
Is painted in Victorian hues, cold and haunting.
Dejection rains down from the leeward sky
With nothing harkened save for the ocean's
Stormy roar and a desolate lighthouse,
Beckoning through the fog and memoirs of the past.
The deeper my soul is carved out with sorrow,
The deeper the hollow can be filled with joy.
But alas, I feel nothing of joy but only a void
Left by the dagger of yesterday's darkening tragedies.
I feel the rain soothe my skin and kiss my cheek
Like the sweetest lover on midnight's embrace,
Yet my moth-eaten quilt of memories only seems
Enough to shelter our legs but ne'er our feet.
My heart feels the warmth of an autumn fire,
Kindling in the crisp rain, bleeding beneath
A rose where we burn in the endless torture
Of our own despondence.
I can feel the blood in my veins turning to fire
As I imagine her fingertips unzipping my spine
As though it were full of secrets and mysteries
Unbeknowst to myself...
I can feel the inferno that rages within my aortic arch
Every moment I imagine losing myself within her
Eyes, glimmering like an eclipse over a midnight
Sea...the Sleepless Coventry.
She unlocks my secrets and weaves them in the bouquet
Of tendrils in her hair like ribbons of crimson and light,
Waving in the vehement northerlies with numbing scents
Of argan and spice.
Her body is but a canvas wrapped neatly around a
Paper mache skeleton, the most beautifully tragic
Foundation known to humanity...
She arrives right on the equinox to set fire to my sorrow,
Intoxicating me with her kiss and infecting me with her smile.
And so enters the conflagration of my soul,
An annihilation of light, blackening my coronary
Artery whilst shooting smoke through my cinnamon
Whiskey tainted veins.
'Tis hard to look through such a misconstrued lens
As such, the Vena Cava Kaleidoscope...
Where the flames burn through the galaxy of neurons
Expending the harrowing memories as its fuel.
I can see the magnetic alloy of her Cobalt eyes reflecting
The fire that consumes me from the inside out.
She pulls on me like the moon pulls upon the tide
As she whispers with her soft, enamored sigh.
I burn in my silent knowing, my liquid mind
Awakening in fervor and strange euphoria.
I burn for the Aurora Infinite.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
La víspera de un nuevo despertar
se nubla en neblina de adicción,
mi garganta se seca de tanto cantar
y a mi voz le hace falta una musa.
Por latir y perseguir a la quimera de ilusión
que me hace perder la razón,
Cansado mi bohemio corazón está.
En un trago amargo
se ahoga el llanto de lagrimas disecadas;
mientras tanto sus besos embargo
con las palabras de un enamorado trovador
Soy el loco bohemio, no se a donde voy
y acepto que no me importa,
pero aún en las veredas de húmedos desiertos
mi alma yo le doy.
No son los primeros versos que te escribo,
los últimos espero tampoco.
Mil palabras de vino tinto este poeta escribe
a la vena de fábula
Esperando algún día,
el mito clandestino se vuelva realidad.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
people come into your life and grow on you like wild flowers.
sometimes they grow upon your skin, present but not deep,
others will grow so so so far down, their roots will rupture your skin and wrap themselves around your brittle bones.
eventually growing through the vena cava of your heart, reaching deep inside the vital chambers.
and these people, no matter how hard you may try,
you cannot rid them from your heart, they will always be there, growing deep inside of it,
feeding off the oxygen in your blood. even their flowers and foliage may wither with time but their roots will always exist, the blood from your heart running through them.
you will never cease to love these people,
for to pull out the roots of these flowers would rip your entire heart out of your chest,
and though that might hurt less than the roots these people may leave,
the only possible result is death.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
i like to imagine you can't feel the way i
can; you are sculpted from ashes and
ice, you smile and you laugh and you
melt when someone touches you in the
right way, but still, you can't fall in love,
not really. you have kept your heart
clutched tight in your own fist, vena
amoris unlaced and fluttering in the wind
like a kite string.
[anybody could make you fly in the right
wind, but the trick is to keep you high
without letting the tether slip through his
fingers.]
it would be easier for me if you really were
so cold, if you were a simply a monster
masquerading as a man. but i know
that the only person here who isn't quite
what they seem to be is me; i'm the one
who pretends that if you came back to me,
i would twist up my lips and pull back my
hands and leave you crawling in the street.
[but i know, and you know, that if you even
turn your head to look at me, i am yours all
over again.]
there is this creature inside of me, malignant
and scavenging for any memory, for the
sound of your name. i think of you and it lifts
its head, salivating, i wish you were here and
it gnaws on my bones until i am weak and
stumbling. i am not sure if it is punishing me
or living off of me, if it is an avenging angel
or a parasite, but i think you both have
something in common.
[i am heartsick and trembling, swaying when i
try to stand, and neither one of you would
bat an eye if i didn't make it. for you, it would
be the same as any other day; for it, well,
there are plenty of others with whom it could
roost.]
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 4:21 PM UTC
I can feel myself fade away in a cycle.
Thin skin never did suit me well.
Each day broken up into tiny manageable parts.
Built to be a curated filter my personality must fall through.
This is not repair, but maintenance.
An entropic form that must dilute to remain safe.
I am a capillary of my years, resentful of oxygen.
No pulse can sift through me now.
I'm alone in this vena of an apartment.
Certainly there is no breaking of barriers here.
A refusal to spill blood for the wait makes this almost
pleasant.
Nov 10, 2021
Nov 10, 2021 at 4:32 PM UTC
promineš kraj njih i ne znaš
stojiš u redu za uspomenu
zuriš u onoga sa osmejkom
ne poznaješ moj zadah
razaznaješ samo grmljavinu
iz tvojih vena
iz tvog stomaka
iz tvojih koraka
a ja čujem kako odlaziš
pitam se dal si sama odlučila tako
ili su odlučili konji
koji laju na broj
11
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
obdurate, ******
he fastened twine
tied to tarsals
around my
ventricles,
closed off
the vena cava
i am blue
in the breastbone
empty blood
can't reach
the lungs
but
i am equipped
with the tools
to deal with this
animal instinct
to fight off
infection
or to let it in
and cradle
me every
night at
2
when you
wake to
make sure
you haven't
missed
the tug at your toes
or
the platelets & plasma
or
a warm wavelength --
a chance to record a dream
you lost in rising
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
Bien puedo yo pintar una hermosura,
y de otras cinco retratar a Elena,
pues a Filis también, siendo morena,
ángel Lope llamó de nieve pura.
Bien puedo yo fingir una escultura,
que disculpe mi amor, y en dulce vena
convertir a Filene en Filomena
brillando claros en la sombra escura.
Mas puede ser que algún letor extrañe
estas musas de Amor hiperboleas,
y viéndola después se desengañe.
Pues si ha de hallar algunas partes feas,
Juana, no quiera Dios que a nadie engañe,
basta que para mí tan linda seas.
932
half way through my run i forgot how to breathe
i also forgot how to forget,
about you
its been beading-
across my body's threshold, drenching
morning with whirls of
c a r d i o
spasms and poetic flux-
inhaling something new,
while exhaling
the particles of memory
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 1:40 AM UTC
Never transplant a poet's heart.
It wouldn't start.
Or, if it did, would stop
at some seemingly minor shock.
The vena cava is much too slender,
the endocardium, much too tender.
It takes a life-time to learn to live
with a heart so horribly sensitive.
Graft the skin and kidneys.
Interchange the brains.
But never, never transplant a poet's heart.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
Earth's satellite-- bloated and hung.
And there you were out of sight.
An accidental prize tucked in the crevice of tomorrow.
A lethal burrow abundant with barbed avowals.
In a sick dugout flourishing with axiom; an infestation.
You were;
The space tucked in a dream.
The conductor.
The lout existing in the basement.
The brute in love with disdain.
Plucking circumflex arteries- clumsy, unskilled.
Your mouth is a watering can.
Vena cava, then the right atrium.
Body parts for guitar strings.
I unravel and you're amused.
The exercise of reason, the functioning of the intellect.
Silence always stings.
It feasts on the bone marrow.
In the cracks of the asphalt,
There you are again.
Like a thief.
The Viper.
The hurricane smile I believed in.
Use me up and hang me out to dry with all the other bankrupt *****
I'll still be dormant in the eye of your assault.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:21 PM UTC
Precise incision
Secretion of vena sera
Immortalising the hideous actions
Of my adolescence.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
The ring that you gave
made my finger blue
it was suffocated it was bruised
tried to rip it off most nights
but it didn't come off yeah it never budged
and one day it did and the next i missed it
the bruise started to heal it went purple then yellow
but there stayed a line an indentation of what we went through
in the finger with the vein to my heart
some nights when the world gets to me
i look at it - the mark that you left
then suddenly I'm craving you
like air underwater
and it makes me want to swim back to you
we both know i won't survive the tides
yet the love vein's pulling me back to you .
Mar 5, 2025
Mar 5, 2025 at 11:52 PM UTC
Jump into my arms and there find sweet rests
Climb into my soul and there get calm comforts
Come, come into my heart and find everlasting peace
Come take a walk into my being
And there enjoy truer compassions
Plenty of sincere and pure passions
My heart will be with you
My soul will be for you
My breath will be under you
My body will abide with you
My thoughts and wants; feelings and emotions
My desires and aspires; urges and yearns
Will be at home with you, in your true jails
Just come, come experience my ambience
Just come, come be my soul’s solo audience
My heart awaits for your sanctimonious salience
My thoughts will be for you
My dreams will be for you
You will be the revere of my reflections:
The respect of my contemplations
My brain will follow your will
Your will, will be my daily fill
In every of me I will you truly feel
For with you I am in total capitulation
My veins are open to carry you back to your humble hut-my heart
My arteries are widening to sail you through your dignity-my divinity
My Vena amoris is all yours, a private jet to airlift you to your sacristy-my soul
You only need to come home, if only you come home!
© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 3:27 AM UTC