"verges" poems
Gaunt in gloom,
The pale stars their torches,
Enshrouded, wave.
Ghostfires from heaven's far verges faint illume,
Arches on soaring arches,
Night's sindark nave.
Seraphim,
The lost hosts awaken
To service till
In moonless gloom each lapses muted, dim,
Raised when she has and shaken
Her thurible.
And long and loud,
To night's nave upsoaring,
A starknell tolls
As the bleak incense surges, cloud on cloud,
Voidward from the adoring
Waste of souls.
7.2k
what makes a person worthy or worthless?
murmuring burden and hearse certain curses
first in the furnace for the hurt or the nervous
on verges of searches for earthly purpose
what makes a people deceiving and evil?
mistreating their equal and beating the feeble
bleeding of demons and beasts of the lethal
there's a reason to believe in eden of peaceful
what makes a person worthy or worthless?
versus urges emerge first on the surface
bird of the furthest turns and then merges
on verges of surges of a worthy purpose
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
her afternoon daydream
done for the day is now folded
as the sun slips behind the trees
the lush green leaves burn with golden light
as afternoon gives way to night
clouds once fat with rain from the sea
now race to the west
seeking the mountains where
ground touches sky
her afternoon daydream wiped away
by her lips a neon red gloss movement
these two dreadlock angels
sunbathing ******* in our backyard
on the verges of my mind
no words to her glances
just checking on a tapping old crow
tapping the inky surface of a tablet
tapping tapping
her afternoon face appears suddenly
at my shoulder as she slips me a kiss
tapping at the portals of my soul
the sun having set
the trees now only rustling shapes framed
against the stars
the lush green leaves
burn with the fainter glow of distant suns
as my heart burns faintly for distant loves
but it is my woman
her dreadlocked patchouli scented body
wrapped around me
its her in my heart
its her who burns brightly in me
who ignites me
to burn with the golden glow of
a setting sun
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
Come darling, emit your sweet scent
Entice me around your flowing stem
Permit me to nestle upon your soft verges
To run hands through your vibrant colours
To dance, embraced as one, we blur
Spinning our deathly spin
Drowning in glorious, lustful sin
Come darling, reveal all you hide
Your vulnerable side
Shed that hard exterior shell
Fill my senses until overwhelmed
We waltz to the tune played
Many times before, oh how it has played!
Resting our heads on shoulders ledge
With a supple movement so slight
We swirl lightly, ever so slightly
Headed down to rest
Until the sun does rise again
And we repeat, nay, we play our lovers rhythm again
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
Leaf litter sheep ****
verdant verges
flowers that smell foreign but aren’t
wet earth telling truth
moves to concrete and tarmac
who lie often
and heat is turned to memory
steps from animal tracks to animals tracked
have tumble drier breeze
mocking those prior flowers
**** smoked appreciatively
to thank the peace
as if laws don’t exist
and the lick of car exhaust
to recall poison
and then home
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 8:37 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, on the verges of spring:)
not all about that
yet all about me
the sleights redeemed too flat
taking things slowly
my stance
out of that delusional hand
still the intro of that kingdom dance
shook the sight demolishing one land
that debatable glance
the spark of something so vivid
scratched the hint of a chance
not my story & still not a person of livid
yet the better
some women listening to her weather in impact
yet delivering their letters
& they get a hold of a glorious contrast
------ravenfeels
Mar 15, 2022
Mar 15, 2022 at 4:10 PM UTC
What will haunt me until my dying day
is electricity pylons on motorway verges
for mile after elongated mile
and crash barricades, ebbing and flowing
with nauseating regularity and the
inexplicable sadness of the north circular
because believe me, purgatory is real
and its the central reservation of the A406
a haunted island where time is suspended
where days are ruined, dreams shattered
and lives ended
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
We are in the middle of a recession. It's hit us all in some way or another.
It's happened in the past - history repeating itself.
The elderly have seen it all before. They remember the queues for food,
where everyone got their fair share, when it was gone, they had to make do.
My friend has been laid off from work, and the cottage she rents is to be sold
by the landlord. He's feeling the pinch too, so has no choice.
It's a small place with two rooms, but, she tells me, at least she has a roof over her head –
for now.
As we sit together under the bare trees, she pours it all out. Her future looks gloomy,
like the sky – cumulus building. That's when the rain starts.
My friend's mascara begins to run in inky streaks. She wipes her cheeks with a kleenex
as best she can, before we hurry to shelter in a nearby cafe.
We are the only people in there. As we wait, the owner tells us he's closing down
at the end of the week, that customer numbers have dwindled and those who do come,
sit with an expresso for hours on end, watching the T.V. -
that way, they're saving on fuel.
We take our coffees over to the window. The rain has eased off a little,
so we sit watching the puddles reflect an oppressive sky.
My friend explains how she may have to leave the area to look for work,
like so many have already done.
I tell her she can stay with me until she finds another place, that this is where she belongs,
where we can all help one another however difficult things might get.
Our voices chime around the empty cafe echoing the sentiments of so many people.
Stepping into the street, we are met by the dazzle of wet cobbles.
Grass verges sparkle with fresh rain, and a tangerine tree, dripping with fruit
droops over a solid iron gate, its bobbing lanterns shining with the colour of sun.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2014
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
.
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waiting eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.
Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.
Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.
Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.
In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.
On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.
Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
Reasons to live?
give me one.
Go on,
tell me how good this life can be
tell me some lies and please set me free
from these feelings I get
and let me believe
breathe into me hope
show me then how to cope with the stress.
I'm a mess
that's not new
I don't know what to do or
how to do if I did and tell me your secret
I will do as you bid.
Let me stand on the verge
purged of despair
surging with get up and go.
On the verges where go only sad men,I know quite a few
when the life that they knew came a falling apart and the plans that they had became dreams that went bad
ending up on the heap in the scrapyard they keep one foot on the edge of insanity because that's one of the ways they can jump in and out of the haze that fills their hearts with such longing for what was once long ago
On the verges, I know quite a few.
So breathe into me something more than I've got
just give me one more little shot
at the bullseye
I
want to go on with a heart filled with something so strong they'll hear it beat in the Islands which are my lands where my ancestors live
give me one breath.
One lesson to learn
don't burn all your bridges unless you can swim
don't jump off tall buildings you know you can't win and it's one down and all down or we all drown in apathy.
I don't want your sympathy
don't want your largesse
I have no need to impress you or dress you in compliments embellished non sentiments
just give me a lead
give the poor boy a hand at the trough let me feed
give me breath
let me breathe
It's fresh air and a vision I need
and the ability
to swim.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, can you feel drunk even if you never tasted liquor??<P
is it in the truth that I can't seem to swallow
those moments in my head printed lies unsolved hollows
will summer dream come verges to break on cars?
guess a future based on drunk hangovers melting drinks on bars
hunted lone less stuck on a stinking flush
bad burning proof of before that would be the death of this rush
-----ravenfeels
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 6:11 PM UTC
.
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waiting eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.
Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.
Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.
Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.
In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.
On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.
Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
Farewell, no—
Not a crow,—
But a lapse of lightning,
Flashes in films— with rocks thrown on a brim—
Creating verges on waters,
As it expands,— a mirror was formed
But shrubs are sobbing,— As the fog meddles with the river— So blinding; Then the mirror disappears
When droplets keep dripping,—
I could not see anymore..
"Find me..find me.."
Who are you?— "Find me.."
Are you a wolf from another pack?—"find me.."— Were you buried? — A breath? Or only pieces?— "find me.."
To be revived below the tree is a befuddling been..
"Find me.."
Somewhere, you are;
Somewhere, you will be—
I will find you..
In the misty voids, I followed you— and submerged to your world
The assuage of none,— oh, 'tis an eerie coldness—
Of belabouring sorrows and haunted dreams
The maze of narration leads to this path—
Summons the whispers of bushes that kept breathing and moving..—
Closer and closer..
In the silence— I sneak;
Someone screams,
(AAAAAAAHHHH!!!)
—Run and run; Never look back— For shadows are treacherous trolls,— Seducing temples—
Enshroud the wilderness to frighten the all grown..
—"I shall call you once more."
Suddenly, I tripped to the quarry
Serpents hissing; The Arachnids are stalking—
"Where is my fire?!"— I rattled to tend
One foot back— Murmurs chanting rituals to this goose
Spill embers! Spill embers!
Fiery torches cast my foes!
Now, I could escape.
No!— The ravens,
I shall not be abducted
Hastily, I blew my feet—To leap in sleek,— As to surpass the endless drear—
I am not a kin to your lair..
—
Hence, I was a fool
Befallen is me,—
When I stepped to the end side of knoll
This rebel is a victim of sheer torn scheme
Help me..
I need to find you..
Help me.. Please, help me..
Please..
A nowhere eagle swooped me from my lore
Bounce away from this pity storm,—
And let these wings fly to the morn
The lenient Stratus Clouds— Bolstering my spirit— Up here, there are no hostiles and skulls
That it declared to me, as well,— "Away from your madness— Perpetrators are attracted by insane vigor. Cease grubbling illusions!
You must seek to believe that it is there, and not unknown."
I conformed to my Savior.
"Find me..find me.."
It was more vivid and louder..
The glimpse of gables, I see now— with a Cross at its top
"My eagle, nest me here"
—"You are here..Enter within."
(GASPS)
Where am I?— I remember there were smoke and mounds;— Above me were clouds..
Wait, why are you smiling?
I shall pant— for I am petrified by all those obscured hollows,— Quite absurd?— Shake me instead
Now I ask you,—
"Who are you?"
—You found Me!—
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 3:10 AM UTC
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waits eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.
Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.
Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.
Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.
In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.
On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.
Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
.
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waiting eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.
Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.
Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.
Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.
In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.
On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.
Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
I was a preemie.
Fate tried to **** me
Before I was born.
My poor beleaguered mom
Fell off a chair while pregnant
With me... thus did I come
Into the world.
Beat up from the feet up
And lookin' like a prune...
My childhood was horrific.
I have huge holes in memory.
I can only tell you I was
Starved of love and terribly
Neglected. Mercifully
I don't recall the molestation
And assault I know I endured.
It wasn't my parent's fault.
My father worked 16 hour days
And mom had blinding migraines.
And undiagnosed behavioral
Health problems. She is bi-polar.
But what I remember most vividly
Are the trips to visit my mother's
Sister and her family.
In the Sangre De Cristo
Mountains of New Mexico
Up above Taos.
My mind touched furred mountains
And inhaled the aromas
Of sounds... aspen's disc leaves
Sibilantly soughing
And the Red River flowing
Through resplendent green.
Indian paintbrush and columbine
Sparking on the verges of roads
And nodding their soft blue heads
Respectively.
Once we took a hike to
Horseshoe lake, and
Caught flashing trout,
Their scales making rainbows
To grace their silver sides.
We ate well that night!
On the way home it rained.
A cold, piercing downpour
That soaked our clothes.
All the other kids cried.
But not me.
I was in fairyland.
Coming from the
Sonoran desert I've always
Loved the rain...
The rest of my life I fared
Little better as far as fate
Meted me out a VERY tough
Hand. But I remember
The long hikes on Venice Beach
boardwalk... I walked 8-10 miles
A day. And lost a total of 138 lbs.
I've had to fight like Muhammad Ali
For every square inch of joy.
But I still float like a butterfly...
... and I really try to put a cap
On my stinger. I have one.
But I want to go through this life
As wise as a serpent... gentle as a dove.
Because now I know that
all I've gone through
Had a definite purpose.
I'm a Blues Brother's sister...
... on a mission from God.
*But it's never about ME.
IT'S ABOUT
H I M.*
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
If I could fly...
I would open my wings wider and fly as high as possible as a bird to wander at deep blue oceans, verges of Earth, dark green forests...
I would fly away from toxic air...
I would see morning sunshines and dark nights...
I would fly and fly to get the greatest freedom and peace...
I hope I could fly away into mystery deep space...!
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 10:38 AM UTC
A single page of her
fills her lover's world
ardent appetite to be cradled like the
adoration of a mortal unexceptional goddess
who sometimes has high-heeled shoes of clay
leaves her and her lover to waver among
joys shared blissfully diffused by tears shed quietly
A single page of her is written
with the fundamental spirit of a lust for love
an ambition to live loves dream
which is central to every man and woman's heart
A single page of her is provender for the soul
with a common language of immortal romantic notions
A single page of her
just a human being
a lover of another human being
just an exceptional love within an uncomplicated heart
a softly written cage open to lights of loving warmth
A single word of her
fills the canvas with brilliant colors
takes on the shapes of this feverish love affair
takes on the hue's of these hearts at ease
that wrestle each other's naked souls
then cleave to each other with a dire thirst
A single word of her statuesque illustration
histories and futures softly spoken in the animated night
expressions of this average celestial throne
this world of exceptionally average simple beauties
A single word of hers
that I have never actually heard
but knowing its there unspoken in her eyes
just a human being
A single picture of her
fills a poet's hands with rich verse
words laden with potent essence within their expression
as wild as the wind in the deepest part of the rain
as enriched as breathing exaltation and splendor
her photograph pasted to the mirror's edge
as if she were a reflection of dreams
as if perfection had a name
A single picture of her
embroidered by a light that shines
only from some souls
a warmth that greets every passing stranger
an intensity that verges on fire
A single moment of her time
leaves impressions upon you that will breathe within you
growing in the remembrance
like roses upon the vine
interwoven and lovely in the warm light
just a human being
but she will always be
just Kristen
© 2017 mark john junor all rights reserved
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
With December’s breath I am whole again,
crackling with hope in the grey and rain,
Through rotting leaves I wander and wade
relish the decay of these days.
Oh my brain, it is scorned by the horror of words
and infinite texts that seem so absurd,
in the library I think, and I bite back my cries,
each bitter reminder that love lies in lone skies.
But, no! There is hope, for the ice is in bloom
and snowflakes now cluster on the window of my room,
and the waste of the winter is not quite a tundra
for I hear the bells call, the semester goes under.
All chitchats and language now swirl into view
through the fog of sorrow glints the elusively new,
and my mind will assent to only this;
this lovely thought, this season, Christmas.
And I stifle no cynicism, having no reason to moan,
I’m bound home on the train, quite simply alone,
save for the spirits that spin in my head
,
the prospect of faces, not books to be read!
Farewell to the city, if only for a while,
The lights are lavish in their pretty little smiles,
but I am not transfixed, I am barely aware
for the glow of my home is for all I do care!
Now I slip into the safety of Daisybank’s arms,
with many hot stews my stomach is calmed.
In this brief time comes embracing warmth;
no exams, no essays, no tears of scorn.
For my kin I am blessed
and with their presence no longer am I oppressed;
yes me, the starving soul of a girl
lovelorn and hungry for her home, this world.
And all that is festive, shimmering gold
is in the hands of many to hold,
and pass the gifts that press their love
and know one day is not enough
To reap the sense of seasonal joy
to forget the stress of being employed
and swallow all that one can eat,
a cure, a remedy sweet for one’s deceit.
Yet as long as the photo does not fade away -
remains a flashlight amongst the verges of decay -
then with every star may we make the wish
to prolong the soar of a spirit submerged in bliss.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:38 AM UTC
Commute recommenced,
the verges rekindled their
annual morning conversations,
heard twenty times
As my muscle memory drove,
I sought the last red comments
of poppy heads cheering,
but the long, dry grasses
sounded familiar tired whispers
that threatened to drown
I could allow them to dictate the script
of another season,
clichés so often spoken
as to be silence
but I can still hear
the poppy red
I hear the poppy red
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 3:26 PM UTC
They are a lot like vertical spider webs
That never connect
The downpour - you still want to steer clear from them though
Perfect in their way, I'm leery nonetheless
These things happen I suppose, nearly too much
Most people pray for this - the floods
Not just the wet kind - emotional as well
It's off-putting because of it's frequency
Wrath of god and all, I welcome it and all
But it never delivers on it's promise(s)
Ultimately, merely an inconvenience
I don't sleep well (or ever for that matter)
When I think I intuitively know it's coming
I don't understand how anyone could
It almost verges on the ********
The unexpected wet dream kind
Because of this I trust nothing
Not the weather, certainly not people
The rain, the people, they're deafening
And for some reason that's promising
Hopeful almost
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:57 PM UTC
In the burning ghats where the earthly wanderer
leaves his leftovers to be singed and scarred to ashes
taking with him his soul wrapped in a white sheet
God knows where, I am with you on that final journey
In the temples where the joss sticks burned
and childless couples shaved their heads
bared their naked bodies in sacrifice for a gift of life
I am with you.
In the quiet clinical streets where test-tubes babies
are mixed and matched like cocktails
seeking world headlines, guessing at the outcome
I am with you.
In the back alleys of the brain where
dungeons of demons reside purged
from loneliness and depression. Crying
in their incompleteness
I am with you.
In the starry night where lovers meet and kiss
and cuddle and forget that tomorrow is another
day to rethink their togetherness in love. Starry eyed
I am with you
In the unsacred gaps in the scriptures where
fairy tales and impossible connections
are made, broken and burnt, often too old
to believe anymore. I am with you
On the journeys that you take
sheltered by the thousand pilgrims also
seeking the blazing light of holiness. Unknowing.
I am with you
I am with you as you walk the grass verges
of the sacrosanct temples and mosques,
the highways of information and the byways
of underprivileged children looking out for
another day of isolation in the busiest streets
of desperation.I am with you.
Even as you gird your ***** and prepare for the battle
that will help you survive in this raging metropolis
of unknown faces, names and destinations
coming from no particular place
I am with you.
As human as I am and completely in synch with your ideas
of humanness and love and laughter
husbands wives and children and futures
I think with you.I am with you. Human as......
Nothing can separate me from your own journey
into that limit beyond the limitless
where chaos, culture or organisations
are born from the same mother of reason
I am with you in that questioning. Why?
Author Notes
A reflective poem that asks ourselves on why we are human and yet
set out on journeys that takes us different directions. We are here for a reason and what is that reason?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
A goodbye isn't real if you don't mean it
Isn't final if you don't feel it
The love I bear for you transcends the word
And I am left with a
mouth full of ashes to prove it
The promises, my fealty to him
Incinerated in an instant, all gone
When I felt you pressed against my skin
But in this moment,
We cannot carry on
I've desperately tried over and again
To ignore it, remove it, or change it
Yet it clings to the back of my mind
On a near constant basis
That is why, with every goodbye
I can never follow through
In leaving this all behind me
Physically unable to turn, yet knowing
All the same I should,
Torn between a love that burns
Brighter than any sun
And one that verges ever closer
To the brink of insanity
No longer my safety and comfort
But the loss of stability is due to
The desire to keep both close
In proximity, and I'm only allowed to keep one.
I carry you with me, always
My mind sometimes overcome
By the future I saw play out in my dreams
Longing for this ending, you and I
But in this moment it cannot be
Once in a lifetime, forever kind of love
So goodbye isn't an ending,
But merely,
I'll come back when I'm ready
And the timing isn't so wrong
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
The undercurrent always weaving,
massaging upon the shores of each other.
degrading upon the other, so subtle in its whispers
upon the others embankment.
Thinking that with exploitation it is rendering it
susceptible to its whims.
But as light becomes more obscure, feathers of
impure tears collect eroded in impaired hues.
Two become indifferent to what was, but what lingered
for so long was now not as either had envisioned.
Diluted upon the verges of their joining, neither
now singular but an amalgamation of neither each became.
As each crested upon the others being, becoming less of
what they were and what was an eventuality. These feathers
of diluted halves would give flight to another born of neither
but both. the paradox of what was earned neither would exist.
"We wish to repeat ourselves on others,
"Only to find the refection wasn't our true observation of our self,
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC
I will not crave the admiration of others on the reflexes
of what I verse, incomplete metaphors are a valuation
of what you perceive in what is collected in the vaults
of my indiscriminate imaginings.
I will throw a penny in the fountain of what I spill in
unprecedented flurries. Would you catch what I scatter
into the pond of vacant words. Would you catch what
I throw? or watch the ripples of what it could become.
I will always throw a stone in to the white to see what
splashes on the verges of mind. I'm more deep than I
know, how many coins will you throw to see my depth.
Will all sink not showing the shimmer of my words.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 6:13 PM UTC