"voraciously" poems
You are the sky
While I'm of dirt and earth
Sharing the universe in separate realms
Conflicting factions, diverse births
I would forever look up
Rest my gaze on the tide of the air
And dream for our eyes to meet
Temporary eternity that we would share
I've cried many a teardrop
But you can never know
Because to you they never could reach
For into my core they'd only flow
But when you stare down sullenly
Your tears would fall, soaking my plane
I'd drink the drops voraciously
Those gifts of love from heaven's rain
Your tears would nurture the seeds I've planted
They'd take root and flourish in the sun
Resolve in my soil held firmly in place
Thinking our journey forth would've then begun
Roots would give birth to stem
Which in turn, would branch out into leaves
Plantling will eventually grow up high
To give back the love, it constantly receives
Such misfortune little sprout
You can only grow so tall
You can never reach that far
You and I can only kiss the drops that fall
So... My beautiful sky of azure
I am but dust on fate's heavy feet
We can only look to the faraway horizon
Only there could heaven and earth truly meet
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
You must begin early
while it is cool and your head clear
discernment, a sharpened tine
probing the rocky darkness
for all things latent and destructive.
Be aware that the velvet sage
of the leaves belies their power
to take over every space, remember
roots burrow deep, anchoring in
fissures we don’t even know exist.
You must delve as close
to the origin as possible
or the **** you think eradicated
will bide its time, germinating
in the still secret ground
waiting for light
to penetrate the moist earth
waking the sprout
who voraciously pushes up and out
a curled blemish
in your otherwise carefully tended garden.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 8:56 AM UTC
I learned how to draw dragons in 3rd grade.
I did so compulsively, and voraciously because it was therapeutic.
But they loathed me, and inherited no majesty from whom they were made.
Though I loved them. And I empathyzed with what they would never be.
Because what if my creator had no plans for me.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
It is not enough to see
a soul will manifest
what has been sown
immortal purple flame
gnarled roots in stone
the truth of nature
an external blooming
expression of the world
a flourishing vision
voraciously spreads
animating the meadow
with honey-scented breeze
steep slopes sweetened
magnificent blossoms
open lavender wings
to conquer the sky
here the air is thin
windblown seeds
so carelessly thrown
to harsh alpine soil
become willful weeds
persistently untamed
internally unchained
forever wild flowers
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
Peace of mind is ephemeral,
drifting in harmony, then abruptly skewed.
The quintessence of humanity lost in the blink of an eye.
A gravitational pull overwhelms
Persistent
Tugs at the edges of reality
Patient
Disseminates thoughts, life
Painful
There is no escape as the jarring force draws inward,
voraciously swallowing everything in reach.
Distorting changes,
a myriad of sights, sounds,
besiege a troubled mind.
Blackness
Heavy and infinite
A suffocating contradiction to everything that was.
Ripping, tearing
Impossible void of compressed nothingness.
Twisting, rearranging
Pretentious "used to be"s into trembling trepidation,
too adrift to find the way back.
This is the point of no return.
Who is that person in the mirror now?
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 11:02 AM UTC
If I moved a muscle right now a window would break.
If I took a solitary step the tiles beneath me would crack.
Submerged in the oscuridad save for a small pulse of luz called optimism because that’s just how I was raised.
I know I can’t pretend to make an oasis
Because how well did that work out for me last time
The lightbulbs can yell and scream and punch the air
But nothing will make them turn on without a power source.
I can’t be breathing hard or else the candle stub I have left will blow out I have to
Guard it but keep looking for my next step using its meager light trusting
That the beacon I look for is not further than the reaches of my
Light that I will with the remaining shards of my life to keep on
Reining now is uncertainty that is
diametrically opposed to the concept that the sun is gonna rise tomorrow I promise so let me stroke your hair and shroud you until it does.
I exist in this limbo of heeding the hours that come. The ticking of the clock drudges yet I gulp every last second as it arrives.
I voraciously **** the teaspoon of trust I have left that the
Audience is just watching the plot arc to progress and that
The dramatic irony of some surety is just beyond the radius of the hardly illuminated path beneath my shuddering feet.
Maybe someday I will stumble upon the next candlestick or something.
Maybe someday I’ll find a working light bulb buried in the snow or something.
But here I progress or something.
Un día a la vez or something.
Grappling foot by foot for something.
Something.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 5:37 PM UTC
Oh swaying willow tree
lower your branches cover me.
I am so cold without thee.
You're so green and gentle..
give me oxigen and shade,
you bow down gently
as in reverence yet detached
I feel more than gratitude
I too am detached as breeze!
In wonderment of your face
feel my breeze under
your starry sky
You like a hungry kitten
sensing timing to run for it
may it be that my pyramid's
wise winds shake your trunk,
to leaveless ****
blushing in your branches?
Are your hidden
fruits any ripe
you do sway delightfully
My frozen cocoone is detached
my tiny feet from my butterfly
might slightly tickle your fancy
as I voraciously neeble on
your green golden leaves?
will you fear my strong breeze
wild Autumn winds
as your branch may get
detached.?
~~~~~.
By;Mr and Mrs Andrews.
With Karijinbba.
Sep 18, 2021
Sep 18, 2021 at 8:20 PM UTC
It is my sincere pleasure to inform you of the return of the Robins to Hill Country .... Stately , regal birds they are , with a dark gray coat and a breastplate of burnt orange ... Telling tall tales of their Winter quarters ,
blessing my backyard by the veritable hundreds ..
Dining voraciously on earthworms and grasshoppers , sifting through the
grass like diligent window shoppers .. Singing sweet melodies and carrying on conversations , 'tis a great blessing indeed to have them home from vacation ...
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC
the strength in you
is voraciously eaten
by the soul of me.
your hands introduce
the touch of messiahs
to my frail , battered skin.
the tips of your cosmos
trace my spine
where your lips soon follow.
I am an altar.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC
I am here
Yet most times I'm not
Likened to a fleeting zephyr
Perchance may be caught
Beyond the bend, it's hard to see
Uncertain, unpredictable, unsure
There are chances however unlikely
To chart life's trot and canter
Awaiting the moment I would voraciously savour
The fullness of my being that's rare and transitory
Because almost always,
I'm drowning in doubt and clamour
With fevered breaths drawn more quickly
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC
Today I swallowed a hole
It voraciously
Devoured me whole
Insidious pit
And you
Moist pig
Fell inside of me
Exposing entrails to
This Gnawing
Gluttony for what it's worth
Is only a problem
Perverse
And what I know
Is you too are a hole
And two empties
Does not a whole
create
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
every moment
is continually shedding itself;
sloughing off the skin of time,
dying, into the past,
to freshen in exposure,
this moment.
to live, really
to breathe, by
impermanence.
constantly transforming,
the body is never solid,
here, there, as atomic flashes,
electrons popping in and out
of existence,
an appearance made,
to depart, in a flicker.
all turns off, like this,
always, eventually,
momentarily.
threshed and stripping
bare chaos
voraciously burns,
returning through extinguish
on smokey black horizons.
sinking, into
tendrils weaving,
knitting by fray,
tapestries engendered
by enveloping decease.
you feel this
don’t you?
unconscious
as much of it may be.
it is the nearest of near,
and dearly intimate,
passions corrosive kiss,
oscillating, opening,
to retract, in flow,
pushing in
to pull away,
thanatos is eros
together, apart again,
together-apart,
here-going.
the heart is aware,
supremely aware of this happening,
even when the mind is fooled
by apparent stability,
and the soul surrenders to
it's inevitability,
even hungering for
divine destruction,
as basic an urge
as the creative impulse.
to be composed
is to be subject to decompose,
fertilizing compositions
in cosmic chasms.
our lungs darkly shining
with every fall of the chest
mirroring,
each breath
one breath closer
to the final breath,
each exhale
a letting go
of what can’t be held
forever,
the expelled
foreshadows annihilation,
on the fading road, towards
this mortal coils entropic end;
a preparation.
to live, surely, is to meet loss
over and over,
to love, fully, is to grieve
again and again,
there is a deep
melancholic knowing
that exists in all living things,
water drops
tears like rain,
leaves fall
like sighs,
everyone,
and everything
dies.
our melancholy
might be sacred
could we truly embrace,
and feel, this reality:
death is the ever present condition.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
a tongue a knife a rhyme
a slitted try of silence mine
i could never keep it fought
rip the gut right from my life
ill scream the name until i rot
shreik a word so loud ill cry
i tried my luck but missed the cut
a trickled spiggot sputters with it
a soft spot for the eyes that fall out of my skull
flaming pupils burn the crop
the students of the fire
they stop drop and roll into the wretched thought
that comes each time they learn what has been wrought to build this pyre
to eviscerate the weakened soul
the empty rooms inside my home
voraciously in rapture
tearing sinews off my mind
splitting ears and feeding from the captured
nothing left behind my skin no map no muscles
missing compass knees buckled
******* leave me or ill pull the trigger
ill **** the lost and eat the hindered
incinerate your wicked splinters
and in this home
snap each of your twelve ******* fingers
its teeth are gentle on me in a way that only devils can
we're peckish for atrocities and it has given me a plan
a broken handed man within the corridor
his one eye wide
the other in the devils side
a matching type to mine if i still had my sight
the door is closed and i am blind but we can smell the horror more
breaking out we tore into that bodys core
but that devil, him, the house, unborn
as i woke up in a corpse
for i am dead upon the floor
Nov 11, 2021
Nov 11, 2021 at 2:34 AM UTC
Will you stand with me at the water's edge?
As my beats quicken and intensify
Likened to the pounding of war drums
Fuelling the skirmishes within
As my lungs remain obstinate and insatiable
Voraciously consuming every breath till they overlap...
As if the abundant air wasn't enough
As my mind races out in a million different directions
Crestfallen thoughts layered upon angry ideals
Violated principles versus tattered resolutions
Will you stand with me at the water's edge?
And watch me as I choose between
extinguishing the raging fire
that burns in my heart and mind
Or drown.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
.
*"Looking down from ethereal skies
Silent crystalline tears I cry
For all must say their last goodbye -
to Paradise..."*
- Paradise Lost by Symphony X
*Head buried
in pillows in the sky,
voraciously consuming
the fluffy whites.
Windy fingers
sieve the air.
Watchful eyes
tracing tails of kites.
He only hears
the faint hymns
from the outstretched wings
of feathered birds.
Leans back weightily
on his throne of clouds.
Notions form haphazard
in so many words.
Casting his gaze,
willing it earth-bound.
Careless trees sway
in synchronised tandem.
Diverse songs merge
seamless in harmony.
Singing in unison,
revelling the gift of freedom.
Silent tears fall
and trickle as rain...
As he reminisces
the images of his forsaken past.
Scored paintings
of a paradise lost.
All must say
their final goodbyes...
He will bid his,
last.*
.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
What do I love most about life? Perhaps the ability to cook explains all.
So, after our pretty laid-back meetings filled with lame jokes and modest talk about dreams, I offered myself to cook.
"I hate it", he said the moment I told him how much I love to cook shrimp.
It was ironic to discover that each of us loves what others dislike, and vice versa — or maybe, I am the only one feeling that way.
But then, he inexplicably enjoyed the meal. So voraciously. That I thought he did that for the sake of impressing.
Days roll into weeks, weeks into months, and I was still serving the same thing he could barely enjoy. And he eventually got low-key to that.
I was thinking whether he did that for the sake of adapting. It reminded me a bit of how acceptance is much glorified these days. And I was so grateful.
I even wanted to serve my heart for him.
I would gladly do that.
Aug 14, 2022
Aug 14, 2022 at 9:18 AM UTC
You...
To me...
Are the essence,
of the earth mother...
As you watch over your pond,
with an easy, laidback, grace..
and help us see it grow and
chart it's every, every season.
Turtles, weeds and all...
I adore the fact, that you,
write love with an earthy lust
And you lust with an earthy abandon....
You have an intelligence,
That always expands my mind
All the way over there
on the other upside...
You and I share old friends
Writers of art,
livers of life.
those who mark....
and make the small moments large
Yet, I know you not...
but fervently wish
We could sit and pass time
Over tea or coffee..
You are one of many....
Who write voraciously
With life and passion in your pen
But so too,
You are one of the few
Who I go to read ....again and again.
So I thank you...
My very own female
Walden...
For the lessons
of the earth, life, loving
and humbly implore you
write again and again..
Til the world stops turning...
Then....just write it's begining again...
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
with a soft touch and a blushing smile,
vibrant green creeps into the landscape.
the longsuffering trees,
whose limbs have long been heavy with snow,
finally stretch their arms into the warm air
as suggestive buds speckle their gnarled fingers.
the clouds swell with life, and the sun
glows stronger than ever before.
as their spidery roots drink voraciously
from the moist dirt, smirking daisies and
blooming tulips unfurl their alluring petals
and bask in the glorious yellow light.
the firm, unyielding ground is teeming
and bustling with a myriad of fauna,
unsteadily rubbing the remnants of slumber
from their bleary, squinting eyes.
the flat, chilly silence of winter
has been quelled by the lilting robin’s song.
and as the very earth herself wakens
from this melancholy hibernation,
i let go, and float down that euphoric wave called life.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 3:12 AM UTC
Constantly tripping, stumbling
The circus search for imperfect heels
I’ve offered so little effort to protect
My love for the empirically ideal
Concerted my focus on what never to expect
I’ve been wearing a chip upon my shoulder
With an Achillean charm
Been chopping at my shin to guard my pride
When I should have thought myself an Oddarm
And thereby learned to fly
And of all the endless grained aspects
Strewn on the gray beaches of time
I could not have wasted my ignorance
On one more voraciously sublime
To squander the virtues of such chance
And the glancing blows of life
Shape in me such strange affect.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
I'll fasten my belt, but I won't let my beliefs buckle.
I'll need more than luck, though it's sweet as honeysuckle.
Good things start; well the path will get bumpy.
No doubt I am strong, but we all need company.
Most matters can be solved by the mind: it is the original power tool.
It has its domain, as it grows it will prove me a fool.
Inventions of the imagination are poor substitutes
In reality, fantasy has its roots.
The tree grows lofty while I sit in the branches sipping coffee.
Looking down with a fantastic view, I think
"These visions will do--in lieu of a real experience."
Because watching everyone have a good time
seems to suit me just fine.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 1:23 PM UTC
Dedicated to the Hard Hats, ..for holding it all together.
**** frost on the green grass
There's a cold moon in the sky
The estuary waters black and calm
Where golden ripples lie.
Dawn's horizon lightens up
Bright stars begin to dim
Hard Hats all arrive for work
And with frozen breath...log in.
Work boots crunching on the stone
The men disperse to trucks,
The diesel motors roar to life
Their departures forming rucks.
Swarming in the morning light
Each to his own job's task,
Bridge building work underway
As dawn's first sunbeams bask.
Amazing the complexity
That building bridges has,
Amazing how voraciously
It eats up time and gas.
The planning and design work
The funding of supply,
Those organizational matters
And the labour standing bye.
Digging, lifting, shoving, shifting
Moving this to there,
A logistical nightmare
For the novice, unaware.
Steel and timber by the ton
Concrete pours en mass,
Gravel, sand and aggregate
And reservoirs of gas.
Procurement of supply ensures
A smooth transitional flow
Of successive small procedures
To make the project mesh and grow.
Day after day the massive trucks
Carting tons of sand
Are authorized by gate men
To unload on to land
Where motorway construction
Is steadfastly taking place
And progressing at
A gradual and steady building pace.
From concept to completion
A million multitasks,
Which involves a caste of thousands
And a schedule which asks,
That the finished installation
Be completed by the time
Of the Rugby World Cup kickoff,
Our global status on the line.
Like ants the Hard Hats swarm about
Each does his little bit
And gradually, over time,
The bridge emerges from the pit.
It emergeth like a phoenix
In a drab and sombre gown
But on completion, shines like fire
To be the nation's most re known.
The Manukau Harbour Crossing
A project for the Gods,
Of massive lengths of concrete
And miles of reinforcing rods.
Of an eternity of effort
From everyone involved
And an asset for New Zealand
And a beauty to behold.
Marshalg
@theGate
MHX
Mangere Bridge
14th March 2009
Please view the following link
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzQZ-M90Zig
Nov 14, 2009
Nov 14, 2009 at 1:07 PM UTC
Definitely not the type of girl to plant
flowers on a window sill, the type to carry
softness on her shoulders or a desire to witness
hesitant, supernatural births of new morning suns with
enchantment. She was a trigger
aimed at empty clay pots, balancing
on balconies and devouring emptiness as if volume alone
would make her feel satisfied.
And her body held as much sentiment
to her as a graveyard, skin crawling in an empty house
she carried in her head. Everywhere she went
stormy impermanence concatenated
with the things she tried so voraciously to erase, like
tethers
tying her name down to insipid figures, like
beginning chapters of stories
she didn't want to hear
with a protagonist
too similar, too homespun,
to herself.
Perhaps she had intention of detonating in
her final, grand exit strategy, an elaborate move
where the Queen conquered escapism, but now
but now
no one will ever know.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
near the surface,
just beneath the sounds of our feet
among the bones, are arrowheads
maybe a spent cartridge from the bluecoats
who brought a strange thunder,
disturbing the a cappella birdsong,
deeper
hidden in eons of darkness, unperturbed,
until now, by the shallow, scratching efforts
of the creatures above,
a black organic soup, remnants of plants
and animals who once breathed
like we, we who now voraciously drill
through the tired but tenacious skin
to reach a rich marrow, one we resurrect
to blaspheme in our mobile ovens
and scatter ashes
on a deaf and dying rock
Post Script:
The earth never forgets.
Whatever we do to ****** it is recorded, often in ways undecipherable to man, but etched permanently somehow, somewhere.
Does the earth seek revenge?
Or is it retribution, or a reckoning?
Anything that has the power to recall every act in infinite detail and in perpetuity has the potential to respond.
Maybe a propensity to respond?
Is the earth an angry god?
I do not know, but
the earth never forgets.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
You still make your own bread
because it reminds you of your mother
working hard to feed her 10 children
during the dreadfulness of war, near the flaming stove
It reminds you of a time when things were anything but easy
When you had to save your meal for a scarcer time
When you woke up before the rooster's call
and prayed for your family's safety
When you realized just how much
burden and uncertainty your rib cage can carry
When you learned what strength really is
and how grief truly feels
When dehydration turned your tears into dust
When sleep was a luxury your worried eyes could not afford
When every new breath felt like a responsibility
and every water drop down your throat
felt like blessing you couldn't afford
You still make your own bread
I think people wonder why you want to remember such a painful time
But I understand you completely
Pain is the bitter flavor your taste buds are used to
It is the background music of your video
The idea of remembering the painful past
Is not to feel pain, it is to feel the joy within the pain
The flour taste remaining on your lips
after you voraciously devour the loaf of bread
The weight your thin arms learned how to carry
The look of appreciation your mother gave you
The sense of responsibility that made you feel needed
The sunrise that made you feel yet alive
The 5 minute snooze that gave you energy
The relief after tear-less cries
The prosperous smiles
And the loss of fears
You still make your own bread
It tastes terrible
But I love it endlessly
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 1:22 PM UTC
The Red Sea! It lay like a distressed soul, unsettled, deserted and restless;
On its tile-paved shore, I leant against a lamp post, in the desert land;
Women in burkas busied themselves with their kids and picnic baskets;
While cats searched voraciously, among the rubble, for the left over bones.
On my left lay Sanaa, the once upon a time city of Shem, first-born of Noah,
Whence Queen Sheba embarked in all majesty with gifts for King Solomon.
And far, beyond the saltiest swelling Red, lay the darkly exploited continent.
Now, a warm gust of wind slogged its way into my lone distraught self.
Tides heaved, flickered their wet tongues across the rubble, and licked me,
Then withdrew themselves tired, but again and again returned half-heartedly
With much salty tears and sweats of ******* and sufferings of bygone ages:
The assorted agonies of the Mediterranean, the Indian and the Pacific deeps.
Through the dull splashes, waded to me, Moses and Aron and the Pharaoh;
They said: “Visitor, listen to the voices of the depths!” And I heard well
The abysmal rattle of chariots, wheels and bones, uncarbontestably ancient.
And in the splash of the Red, I scarily tasted the tears and blood of torments.
Then they cautioned me: “Beware of the pseudo-democrats and pseudo-reds:
The gunpowder brokers!” and quoted: “In this world, you’ll have troubles.”
And now, the Sea sounded: “Sorry my dear son, I’m here to bear all these.”
I sighed in pain, but the Sea, through the burning lamp posts, smiled at me.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC