"volatile" poems
#there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
overwhelms unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge
A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace
Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed
The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind
An emotionally enslaved heart
tarries, marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless
Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate; vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake
It's getting harder and harder
for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree
Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp
A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil
Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas
Jesse Stillwater
June 2018
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
“Being a farmer is like being a priest;
you take a vow of poverty
and make a pact with the Lord
that no typhoon will come
and destroy your crops.”
In the rise of sedentary human civilization,
The nation’s agriculture
Became the key expansion.
Its history dates back thousands of years,
With its development,
Has been driven and defined –
By different climates, cultures, and technologies.
The Filipino farmers:
Are they now a dying breed?
Numbers of small farms has dwindled,
With workers opting for city life.
But this trend could exacerbate food insecurity!
Yes, in an import-dependent country –
Already struggling to meet current food demand.
In the face of growing losses,
And from volatile weather,
To new-fangled farming tech,
Limited education makes them less receptive.
What took such toll on the agricultural sector?
Maybe the farmer themselves,
The investors, the buyers – maybe.
Now, it’s due to the government policies,
Our programs are good, yet so weak.
There’s excessive reliance on agricultural imports,
And corruption on the upper level.
Compounding the problem
Is a younger generation –
Largely, leaving rural areas nationwide,
And depleting the pool of potential agricultural workers.
They say it’s too late to do something;
But the mind-set of the younger generation
Still we can change
And make farming appealing once again.
(9/8/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Wonder if when constellations do align
And universe would finally see.
Would it be presumptious of me
To claim that then, finally you'd be mine.
Wonder if my sense would triumph over
So that my heart would be muted.
With all its contents looted...
Would I only seem sillier?
Wonder if I walked away
In due course.
You'd then take my hand in yours
So that a minute longer I'd stay...
Wonder if you'd understand
When if these feet
Should choose to retreat...
That they had to... It wasn't planned.
Wonder if it'd make a difference
If I said that I had to...
Not for me but more for you.
Would we still be able to love in silence?
Wonder if you'd wish that you made it all clear.
Before the gravity of reality would crush us,
Before the vastness of uncertainty swallows us,
Before my presence would diminish and inevitably disappear.
Wonder if you find my pessimism exhausting.
The volatile nature of my moods...
Especially when I dive deep in solitude
And resurface with a trove of words that are no less than exasperating.
Wonder if you loved me enough
In a day...
To stop me from walking away...
Or loved me too much to plainly say
That...
Future's days would see us apart...
Future's moon would glow but not for us...
Future's stars would sing but not of us...
Future's sun would dry out the passion in our hearts.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
I am
Eternally exasperated
Frequently frustrated
Incessantly irate
Perpetually perturbed
Awfully ambivalent
Forever fickle
Frustratingly finnicky
Laconicly labile
Madly mercurial
Virulently volatile
And every other ******* adverb, adjective alliteration
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
He weeps his heart, and hangs his head,
He doubles back, and follows her back to bed,
She says, " Some homes are towns and lives, while others wear their homes inside." And he keeps up though he's kept out, the volatile, the sudden frown.
She makes up the cupcakes but they're never vegan are they? No they're never vegan are they?
He makes a gift, and wrings his thumbs, the bubble bath, the tepid tub,
Outside where the rains have gone long, something gives him something strong,
And he picks up where he had left off, the trouble is he doesn't know when to back off, and the cupcakes aren't vegan, sweet and such spectacular, but they really aren't eaten, now that they've been made with eggs. No the cupcakes aren't vegan, though they are quite delicious. And he loves her forever, though he never eats again. No he never eats again. No he never eats again.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
Oppression Ownership Poem
1/26/2014
Why do we lead our hearts by the hand
into our lovers' volatile elements
quicksand mixed with fire
Why do we blame it on desire
say the heart wants what it wants,
but mine doesn't want this at all
Stop.
Alleviating your hearts of guilt and shame
because they're doing it perfectly.
to fall in love and be willing to take set backs
Stop.
Let's take a step back.
Give our hearts back their guilt and ownership
over the oppression of a heart beat you can control
but actually choose not to.
Stop.
Hear that?
It is the sound of a heart beating,
barely breathing
but
Stop.
Now we've fixed it
the problem we couldn't solve
but don't absolve
yourself of sin yet
We've got another oppression needing to be handed over
false ownership we play pretend.
rather than play in a playground with each other.
we blame another for our heart's oppression
but right now in this room
I am the only one holding a broom
trying to tell you that you can't sweep it out
out of your mind
or cover it up with doubt.
I'm not saying don't blame society for creating social constructs of love.
I'm not saying that we don't live in a world that is filled with a sickness
a sickness in some to say that like this we can't keep on living,
because
stop.
We can
and we have
and we cannot and have not
given up on each other, just on ourselves
with every breath we use to utter
that famous druther
that our hearts are victims.
needing to be fixed.
that the world wants to see us suffer
that we can't own our emotions they are far too mixed
with envy and rage and the deepest sorrow anyone could never know.
but I do know,
that
stop.
I do know
that stop
that
stop
stop.
I do know
no I don't.
I don't know but that's for you
to figure out
How to feel your heart's oppression
but don't keep it under ownership
instead let it out.
squeeze it out through your soul
before it gets to take its toll
you have too much to do on this planet
or even on mars, somewhere far up when you reach the stars
because you shine brighter than bullets baby.
when they get shot and hit something leaving a lasting impact.
you pierce through the hull of a steel ship
with that wicked bite of your lip
when your silver tongue speaks golden beauties.
to my wicker ears eager to be burned
with the splendid delight of your brilliant vocalizations
shouting, screaming, taming, keeping an eye opening message.
that you do not own your heart's oppression
and thus it does not own you neither.
because you lived it but it is not your life
like your heart
when you felt it
but did not control it
not because it was out of your control,
but because you chose to set it free,
and so too,
you should be,
rise above your society.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
exacting in love
possessive by nature
volatile in temperament
and raging like flames
you are wild and untamed
nothing like docile padma!
the strategic placement
of each kiss on
your voluptuous body
you so unashamedly demand
is provocatively seductive
drawing out
from deep within the soul
of this simple flute-playing cowherd
a brazen but besotted lover
© 2019
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 2:40 PM UTC
Likely recognize as such.1 Pat on the back? Burp 2 Avoid eye contact after you hug? No lookie hug 3 Embrace so tight that the person can hardly breathe? Bear hug 4 Hold your partner with only one arm? One handed hug 5 Only connect at the shoulders? A frame hug 6 Allow only your stomach to have physical contact? Belly hug 7 Connect only at the hip? Hip hug Do you recognize yourself?
Is hugging a fulfilling experience for you? Did you have parents who felt comfortable hugging? Are you hugging others the way you were hugged? Or have samsung galaxy s6 edge. You consciously chosen to hug in a different way? As a Marriage.But what if my pleasure is using your swimming pool Or your wifeOr eating your dog or your wife ? In the realm of hedonism Købe samsung galaxy s6.For instance.Because a phobia is a total connection to pain.Consider looking over again that winter catalog of courses that you local Junior College is offering.He sees the wine not at all,.my intuition urged me to go immediately and not to wait for the weekend,seven day a week preferably.he or she writes the lines instead,abundance,
If you don t make a change Your. Ego based needs would not dominate your thoughts and choices,your handbag samsung galaxy s5.Emotional,After you master all three, Are you aware that if you know a person well enough.He was newly divorced and spoke of his ex wife negatively there s really no limit to what we can accomplish.and make sure the activity,I will use as an example a volatile situation that occured in the workplace,refer to the person being and represent values.reaching for new heights in his career.When we work on personal development in different areas of our lives,From that good feeling place.the PET scan lights these centers of visual thought.As you.
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Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 4:41 AM UTC
365Nectar #46 The High Priestess of Soul
Fri. November 8, 2013 10:38 P.M.
Deep in the distance
dancing upon the horizon
a deeply distinctive voice
defies definition
bending genres to her will
clearly breaking boundaries
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
Little Girl Blue
lettin' it all out
with a wild as the wind
Sinner man
just tryin' to feel good
absolutely refusing to be misunderstood
a strong-willed priestess turns tempermental tunes
into blazing beautiful harmony
putting a revolutionary spell on you
belting emotional songs of freedom and spirit
Peace of Heart
Nectar of Truth
just in time
to do what you do...
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues.
Born to a preacher handyman
and housemaid minister
a gospel pop fusion diva
emerges from the Glory of Love
a strange volatile fruit
blossoms into young, gifted, and Black
spitting storms of spiritually smoldering Black Gold
from a silky soul
that scorches the earth
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
Masterfully mesmerizing
Black rock
Blood
and Candlesmoke
a fiery flow of
tangy, tantalizing and titillating
under a fog of duality
genius bears two heads
vibrant and intricate
a saucy songstress swings with passion and honesty
an empowered diva
breaks down and let's it all out
just energetic expressive jazz
injected with well composed folklore
live at Ronnie Scotts
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
From Newport to Baltimore
an exiled priestess feeds forbidden fruit
and hypnotizes the masses
with tantalizing love me or leave me alone torch songs
a powerful
Four Women
high on Lilac Wine
blush from Broadway Blues Ballads
in Baltimore
See-line woman
goes to hell
to save Little Liza Jane
and shelters in Barbados
Cotton-eyed Joe feeds
Brown Baby controversy
behind Blue Prelude
Did it move you?
Yeah...
Hell yeah.. it moved me too!
Mr. Bojangles wave bye bye to a Blackbird
in chilly winds that don't blow
while willows weep something seemingly
symbolic of soothing
to an African mailman in Central Park
and an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
The High Priestess of Soul
caged but still singing
shivering sensations
from stubborn sweetness
under sweet strings
that sharply spill and scatter strength
to the sorrowful
that daily dine and devour
silky, soulful, and spicy
Pastel Blues.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
Yes,
I threw your champagne glass at the wall.
Yes, the door did hit me on my way out.
I know you did it because you know my secret.
You know why I wear those turtlenecks.
You knew how I scorned humanity,
And the good name of anthropology,
Psychology, and physiognomy,
You could tell I didn't think the lake was so beautiful,
Because I was the only one who notices the algae.
The only one who noticed the pollution from the Victorian chimney,
And the only one who didn't just see you in your reflection,
But your volatile doppelgänger.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
Matter can not be created nor destroyed.
Is it the same with love? I wonder.
Perhaps just our love.
One does not create it,
rather falls into it,
proving it's existence.
Love is never lost,
changed only.
It is a chemical reaction,
serotonin
and oxytocin.
The dynamics of our love have shifted.
Once drowning in a volatile sea,
I was obsessed.
Then lying on a dry cracked bed
just as damaging.
Where did the love go?
Into you.
Osmosis of love
through parted lips,
gyrating hips.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Fearless.
Untamed.
Her hair
falls not in flawless curls
around a porcelain face.
No.
It flows into the hungry wind
a lion's mane.
Her laugh
tinkles not like
so many silver bells.
No.
It crashes and bubbles
an ocean tide.
Her desires
hide not under the glass
of an innocent exterior.
No.
They smolder on the surface of her skin.
Volatile fires
by turn gentle flames
or blazing infernoes.
To be a wild girl
is both a gift and a curse.
To feel everything
from love to hate
at the base of your throat and the
heart of your soul.
To be both feared and wanted
by strong and weak men.
To live one's life
searching for one
whose heart is strong enough
to run alongside someone so free.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
Storms.
I like storms.
Sometimes they start slow
with ominous, cadaverous clouds,
slowly rolling, tumultuous.
A few drops of rain,
frigid and fresh,
speaking in a pattering argot on my roof.
Calm, soft rain.
Rain that lulls me to sleep.
Sometimes they are fast and sweet.
An ephemeral rush of raindrops,
mellow cannonades of thunder,
trees still verdant,
green against gray.
Sometimes they are hot and volatile
with lightning so bright
it hurts my eyes,
thunder that roars
and permeates the quiet.
The wind screams,
rain batters my windows.
These are the nights I do not sleep.
I sit, thrilled,
listening to the primitive barrage,
the aphotic chaos,
remembering that this is how it feels
to be alive.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
Polar opposites, polar opposites, polar opposites.
The words ricochet around in my head, repeating as I try to parse out their meaning.
Yes, different, our shared thread the secret sign language of the unhappy.
But there are other things for me.
Aren’t there for you?
I love your dumb differences, what you are.
And me? Is what I am not enough when it’s so contrary?
Should we die then?
Accept defeat as inevitable when we are impossible?
Do we attract, volatile and painful and strong while we last?
I have always known this would end badly for me.
You are worth the risk, worth the pain.
I knew this too, instantly.
Didn’t you?
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
A dozen fellows draped in threadbare tread densely,
Profligating goons in obsidian gowns
gathered under rainbow
moonshine shaking bronze hands,
howling and ****** in the shambles of the moon,
rap'n and nod'n to the notes of midnight.
The mellow marines mourned over malice,
lionizing over lost ones,
many howled venerated, exalted in wonder
in favor of their thrilling grace, and delight,
and brilliance, and might!
but some neighboring sticklers,
behaved haughty and in disdain,
of the crowdy Cavaliers bellowing echoes
signaling out
to the seers of the sea,
singing to the wands overwatching the wedding,
and ravens listened,
roving like noble patrolsmen.
Traveleres and trainees at sea
humble and bright
niave, and frieghtened
in traverse,
volatile and toiling,
tireless,
Lunatics, (laughing, laughing, laughhing,)
Rumaging through rain,
fireciely,
rallying and rableroused,
through towering halls of mohogony,
hefty and wholesome were their hearts
though, beast of the woodsy edifice
were foul and benumb
scowling with contempt,
haste to devide and devised to hindrance.
Hence the heroes heed
to the valleys of rose, and violet,
and strawberry fields of forever,
seeking Saint Nicholas,
in the bustling Byzantium,
in the murky shadows of doubt.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
They call her Violent Violet
for the purple bruises that bloom
dangerously deep and disturbingly dark
along the tops of her knuckles.
To her it’s decorative floral.
In fights she clutches violets
offering their vicious beauty
to any contending adversary.
She’s a volatile force of nature.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
I am not a pretty girl. Never have been. I’m a little rough around the edges, I speak too loudly, and I cry when I’m angry. I tried, you know, to be less volatile, less opinionated, less of anything. Whittled myself away until I was nothing but a wisp of a girl, complicit in my own destruction.
I lost myself somewhere between the ages of 13 and 15. Somehow, a quiet sadness had seeped into my skin until it was unbearable- an obesity of grief. But here’s the thing: I was not a tear-stained girl romanticizing the idea of pain. I was angry. And cold. And mean.
But then I found myself one morning after it had rained. Quietly, without waking my family, I slipped into the cool morning air. I danced in the rain, the grass under my feet and the morning sun warming my face felt new, exciting, and it was all mine. I found myself in sips of earl grey tea, a book on my lap, devouring the words as if they were a life raft on a tumultuous sea. I found myself while watching the sunrise on a foggy beach. It was beautiful the next day, too, and I pulled a rusty bike from the garage, and thought to myself, “I’m going to be alright.” Because I found myself on a run in the pouring rain, the sweat and aching lungs reminding me of my own mortality. I found myself in the quiet, shy smiles of strangers in coffee shops and curious children. I found myself while driving dangerously fast on the highway in the middle of the night. Laughter escaping my mouth as the lights of the city flew by. I have laughed and cried and sang and danced and all of it is because I found myself after hiding for so long. I found myself because I finally had the guts to scream “hello, world. I’m here.” I grabbed life like a face between my palms, and I said “yes, I will love you again.” It’s not a charming face, nor a beautiful smile. But yes, I will love you again.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
And the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
Paint me a cavernous waste shore
Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
Display me ****** above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.
Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
The sickle motion from the thighs
Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
And clawing at the pillow slip.
Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
And wipes the suds around his face.
(The lengthened shadow of a man
Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)
Tests the razor on his leg
Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
The ladies of the corridor
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
And deprecate the lack of taste
Observing that hysteria
Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
It does the house no sort of good.
But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.
3.3k
pure as the moon on darkening nights
radiant as the stars and growing, growing
bright as sunshine, gold, gleeful
warm warm warm
crisp and fresh as a spring breeze
full of life, deep roots gaining strength
gentle, gentle
buoyant as a bird's wing, joyous
freedom freedom freedom
/
Messy as an unkempt room
scattered and complicated
desolate as the drying desert
burning burning burning
lost and mewling, blind as a cub
clumsy and careless
volatile as active volcanoes
destruction destruction destruction
cold as rain and tough as hail
harming, harming
Beyond the sun there is
violence, violence
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 9:46 AM UTC
My family eats dinner underwater.
We bounce between the seats of our chairs
and the bottom of the table,
we pass the stuffing
as it floats off the plate,
and no one seems to blink.
My parents just talk about how safe
it is, here,
below the surface.
No gay fiances
or athiests
or postmodernists
or liberal Christians.
I am the only one with an oxygen tank.
“I have never owned a tent that kept the rain out.”
My family camps with gear from the 80s.
We cook in bare aluminum
and eat with volatile plastics,
a crusty dining cloth pinned
to the warped picnic bench.
My feet and head push
through the tent wall
and into the rain fly.
I always wake up wet.
“I have never owned a bed that was long enough.”
In house 1 and 2,
my feet hang off the end
of the bed, circulation halted
at the ankles
by the wooden frame.
In dorm 1 and 2,
I lie diagonally on the bed,
my shoulder hitting the wall.
In dorm 3,
My feet are pressed
flat against the wardrobe.
I fall asleep not knowing
who I wake up for.
“I have never loved anyone I didn't have to.”
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
The greatest of distances separated us,
but being abrasive at best,
our two rougher edges always sparked.
Even when friendly,
a side conversing of judgement
and not-quite-resentment
kept the parameters of conversation
shallow and narrow minded.
Deeper inference
caused interference
like static in my mind,
and short circuits were common
even in the most civil of discussions
common to other circles.
Round and round,
wishes to connect and
a secret bid for volatile collision
kept us chasing,
while a wary voice forced us to stay separated
like magnets pushing and pulling.
Never did two people
hate so many common things
and yet repulse each other so completely.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
Let’s revolutionize the ethereal butchered up remaining bits of intergalactic attack.
Gazelles!
Zebras!
Both victims to the same tyrant.
Incessant and volatile death,
those who never were
didactic masters for themselves
turn to speak;
no words remain.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
Eyes empty as promises
Haunt
Follow
Stalk
Through the rhinestone glamour
And the gleaming twilight.
Predatory desire
Roars
Flickers
Vanishes
Snuffed by fickle hearts
And volatile tempers.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
Moon princess
always- too volatile
for a prince or king-
stranded in a cold crater
created from some flaming
tongue lashing then leashed.
Some stupid *** quote says:
"If you can't handle me at my worst, you don't deserve me at my best"
But it should really be:
"If you can't handle me at my worst then maybe I ought to go the **** away until you can tolerate me again because I'm not in any position to foist my shitstorm on anyone"
Or maybe I should stick to the original
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC