"wade" poems
i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
314.6k
Nikle to hum bhi the ghar se yahi soch kar ki shayad is bar manzil tak pahuch jayenge,
kyunki daudna to unhone hume bachpan mein hi sikha diya tha yeh kehkar,
ki agar nahin bhagoge to woh tumhe peeche chod jayenge.
Daudne ki kuch aisi adat se ** gayi hai ki pair ab rukne ka nam hi nahin lete,
lekin hume kya pata tha ki itna age nikal ane se, apne hi paraye,
aur woh sabhi raste anjane se ** jayenge.
Sabse door rehte hue bhi, in anjanon ki bheed mein woh ek chehra apna sa lagta tha,
lekin woh bhi hamesha kisi aur chehre ki talash mein rehta tha.
Sahi raste ko dhoondhne nikle to the, magar yeh nahin pata tha ki itni jaldi thak jayenge.
Kabhi kabhi to lagta hai ki ab ruk jana chahiye, thoda aram kar lena chahiye,
lekin woh bhi namumkin lagta hai kyunki, ab to sapne bhi ajeeb se ate hain.
Chalte chalte, wade to kafi kiye the is safar mein, kuch unse, kuch apne ap se,
lekin yeh andaza bhi nahin tha ki un sabhi umeedon par pani ferte hue chale jayenge.
Yeh mehsoos bhi nahin hua ki apne hi apnon ke pankh kat chuke the,
talash thi to bas us kandhe ki jo is ladkhadate hue ko sahara de sake.
Fir bhi, dheere dheere is katon ki chadar par age badna hai, dil yahi kehta rehta hai,
kyunki jhoothi hansi ki kuch aisi adat si ** gayi hai, ki ab chahte hue bhi dard ka ehsas nahin hota hai.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 6:01 AM UTC
When I look at you
You send shivers
No – sparks.
The air is charged with them
Dense.
I can feel just how much of it
is between us –
(always too much)
And I want more than anything
To cross it –
Wade through the ions
to you.
To only stop when my lips
Meet yours
(the only way I have found
to get rid of the air)
and you take my breath away.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
This heart of ice is multifaceted.
This stone cold ice is dense but weeps.
There is a shallow trigger that radiates
Shy a wade from me; volcanoes are deep.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
Neatly coating the floor in thin white trails, woven into floorboards like cotton twine, sunbeams snake their way across hardwood.
Books scream to be read & my yellowed pages ache to detail my experience as a widowed reader of time.
Magazines pile, while my simple hands grow a day older.
Heat on my neck.
The driver of time exhales grandiose,
tells me to travel while I'm young,
visit regions on this globe that grow green with age,
listen to honest trumpets before I gray,
wade in pools of clear urgency.
He said:
"Find a walking stick out beyond the ether
laugh with veracity, poking fun at Saturn & the Stars."
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
Too late
to turn back from the flurry
of painted snowflakes
on a gossamer wind.
In a
whirlwind they spin
up and upwards
to the timeless lands.
Frozen
specks of crystal;
perfect and unimaginable
melt on my face.
Shadows
fall and they turn
grey and the painter leaves
his canvas unfinished.
A soft
white sea has emerged
below my feet
and immersed the world in white.
Foamy
to wade through and yet
impossible to resist
spoiling the untouched.
Then sun
arrives, and he brings warmth
and light, and so
the sky’s daughters melt in all
their sweet virginity
and the ground is rendered wet
once more.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
you always had a pull on me;
you were my moon,
and I, your tide
many moonless nights have passed since the moment you decided it was over
the waves cease to crash against the shore
stagnant
the vast, black ocean
waits for someone to wade in
swim around
and make her feel whole
again.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
anonymous winds
bend tall Timothy grasses,
wake rabbits napping
in the brush
they ripple the surface
of the stock tanks, tickle the haunches
of the beasts who wade there
to slurp the tepid waters
they birth red dust devils
for my eyes to follow, as they scud
through mesquite, and hopscotch over canyons
older than time
one day, soon, they will blow
over a shallow earth bed; I will not hear
their sibilant song, but my sleep will be deep,
unperturbed by their mystic music
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
sundog—small and incomplete
half-chode rainbow.
light.
at least once a week for
the clever dreamer,
the girls with no eyes,
the men with small *******
there is
fortune in the river—it swims
away when I take you breath
down to it in a bucket. and my hands
quilt flawless wade of
nighttime water.
*where is the colored light?
nowhere, sundog.
nowhere.*
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC
#*You are my love light of summer.
For this I wade through winter.
Glowing 'bove, the trees are greener;
blooming nascent desire*
of which I never knew I'd need
let alone make a heart bleed
girl, you got me on both my knees
praying you'll also need me,
too, to finally be complete
or otherwise reach life's peak.
*Your hair stills heart's rhythmic meter.
For this I wish forever.
Strands spun with goddess gossamer;
softer than touch of mother*
of which I never knew I'd need
let alone cause ex's envy
girl, you got her so **** ******
she blames you as much as me,
too, as love for you made her weep
and revealed her love is cheap
*Your voice humbles angel choirs.
For this I listen eager.
Songs that shift the course of rivers;
in harmony with nature*
of which I never knew I'd need
let alone so romantically
girl, you got me frantically
writing you some poetry,
too, and I hope you now can see
that maybe I'm also sweet
*Your soul ignites wildfire.
For this I bear the pleasure.
Ethereal flames dance together;
fueled by spiritual tethers*
of which I never knew I'd need
let alone spark fantasies
girl, you got me crying, "please, please!"
that you never take the lead,
too, cause this would be a done deed
if you wanted it to be.#
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
Ladies on Water Street,
with coffee grounds
under your fingernails,
You are the reason
that I leave my bed before Ten
In the morning.
Some days I want to ask
if you’ve ever read Marquez
but I am far too shy and
you are far too
beautiful and
I think too much and
you are probably
Too Straight.
But while you are pouring that espresso:
Allow me (just this once)
To wade only ankle- deep.
Allow me (forgive me),
I know its marginalization;
You are a human and a person,
But I must give way to temptation:
let me engage in some
Innocent objectification
(an oxymoron, I'm aware),
as I sip an Americano
through dumb lips
and watch the little
movements of your hips.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
Happenstance to the melancholic gives leave the sin of pride.
Inbound reconnaissance tells not the bearer of influence.
Squeamish at first: a foreshadowing of calamitous bonding.
A space between the mark of corporeal and the ethereal; a stringent hiatus
That which rattles the concrete foundation of morality is scarcely a malleable recourse.
Regret stains the unfounded soul: an enigma of ephemeral perforations.
A separation of the unmitigated humanities; misandry topples the writhing snake.
Impact; a cleansing of the maker's flaws integrated solemnly.
Complacency arrests the administration of the abhorred; unbridled is the autonomy of a guru.
Ambivalent giftedness burdens the reliant and haughty.
A flick of the tongue brings forth the cinema mortem.
Castaway: alone to wade in the sea of obscenities.
A temporal causality allows no mourning to abscond.
Negligence is not the enemy, but indulgent wrath.
Hesitant: a stroke of qualia begets the end of a maiden.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
In the dour ages
Of drafty cells and draftier castles,
Of dragons breathing without the frame of fables,
Saint and king unfisted obstruction's knuckles
By no miracle or majestic means,
But by such abuses
As smack of spite and the overscrupulous
Twisting of thumbscrews: one soul tied in sinews,
One white horse drowned, and all the unconquered pinnacles
Of God's city and Babylon's
Must wait, while here Suso's
Hand hones his tack and needles,
Scouraging to sores his own red sluices
For the relish of heaven, relentless, dousing with prickles
Of horsehair and lice his ***** *****
While there irate Cyrus
Squanders a summer and the brawn of his heroes
To rebuke the horse-swallowing River Gyndes:
He split it into three hundred and sixty trickles
A girl could wade without wetting her shins.
Still, latter-day sages,
Smiling at this behavior, subjugating their enemies
Neatly, nicely, by disbelief or bridges,
Never grip, as the grandsires did, that devil who chuckles
From grain of the marrow and the river-bed grains.
6.3k
A seemingly fine day ruined with one headline.
Then another. And another. And by the time my phone stops buzzing the news couldn't be any clearer.
We lost a battle today. A battle for basic humanity, a battle to our own autonomy.
"Women" lost. "Women" should be afraid. "Women". "Women". "Women".
Every headline I read talks about how scary the world is for women.
Yes, the world is scary for women...or anyone with a ******
I don't want to make this about me. Because it's not. It's about every transgender man that fights for healthcare on a daily basis. It's about every non-binary person assigned female at birth who can get pregnant.
and yes....it's about women.
It's about people (men and women) who think their ideals should determine what I do with my body.
It's about every pastor, minister, judge, and human being who feels they have a say in how my life is lived.
Poetry has always been and will always be political.
Poetry is art and art is expression of feeling.
Today....I'm ******
I'm overwhelmed with a feeling of dread.
The same feeling of dread I felt during the 2016 election.
The same feeling of dread I felt the night of the Pulse Orlando shootings.
The same feeling of dread I feel every time I think of wearing my trans pride shirt out in public.
I'm not afraid to say how absolutely terrified I am....I'm just afraid for whatever is coming next.
Sincerely,
- Your friendly ****** having transman.
Jun 24, 2022
Jun 24, 2022 at 10:26 PM UTC
You call it self-esteem,
But I'm out of steam
To fight this fight
That you call life.
I'm stuck in between ... unseen.
My time to shine?
I don't have time to polish,
To wade through this anguish
That binds me to my anxiety.
Instead, I hide. You are the only one
Who sees me for me;
Yet you don't know how to help me
Become the me I want to be.
Why am I so defensive,
Unable to express myself?
I'm tired ... I'm wired,
I'm all fired up ...
But before I get started,
I find myself guarded.
I weep myself to sleep -
Maybe tomorrow I'll try again.
(March 2012)
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
I wish I could run with you
in your silent packs
I have done my share of howling
a prisoner of this sluggish, two legged species
that cannot chase down prey
or take flight, without the crafted creations
of others,
I can, if I wade warily through
waves of wind, and time,
dance with you,
on moon grazed prairies
but only until the sun cracks the dawn
and exposes me, for the vain actor I am
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
Poppies blossom like open cuts.
Ripe and red, they fill the air
With a cloying sweetness
So potent anyone downwind
Must shut their eyes and breathe
Through open mouths. Tasting
The breath of flowers, they grow
Nauseous and afraid.
The fields sway in the hot breeze
Until they resemble an ocean aflame -
It is here, among these poppies, I have
Found the blood of the Earth.
It is moist and toxic, an acid eating away the soles
Of all that wade through it.
How many gaunt, pale bundles of bone
Rest below these soft, red petals?
No one dares to count.
People do not fear such
Lovely things - if they’ve only seen
Pictures. How nice it must be
To know nothing of poppies
But their color, their shape.
They seem almost beautiful -
But you know better.
You have stood waist deep in the
Malignant fields, breathing the air
That slowed your limbs -
Turning your arms and legs into pendulums
Swaying to the beat of the buds
That encircle them -
Until you knelt, weighed down,
Nearly submerged by saccharine terrors,
And cried, hoping the water leaking from your heart
Would put out the fires you find yourself embracing.
After all, during the darker hours
Any light is better than no light at all
(Or so something whispers in your tired ear).
You know the horror of poppies -
But still you have yet to plunge
Past the black eyes of those red beasts -
For when the wind blows clean, cold
Air to you what do you do?
You raise your arms and let yourself
Feel as though you can fly -
And one day…one day
You will look down
And see yourself above
A ground free of poppies.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
Yes, I’m truly a dunce
Living among trees and plants.
Please don’t question me about illusion and enlightenment --
This old fellow just likes to smile to himself.
I wade across streams with bony legs,
And carry a bag about in fine spring weather.
That’s my life,
And the world owes me nothing.
5k
Today is the anniversary of another trip around the sun for the woman I love more than any other.
Happy Birthday to my mother, Elise
who drew me a picture of the female reproductive system
and labeled the parts
and explained the process
of ************
before my body ever had a chance to frighten me
who taught me the word
******
and taught me that there was nothing silly, or shameful, or icky
about the word
or having one.
who taught me
that people are inherently the same
and humans are valuable
and the meaning of the word
humanity
and the value of justice
and the meaning of the word
"injustice"
and consistently confronted it
often uncomfortably
but un-apologetically
whenever we found ourselves in its presence
Who responded to compliments
about my appearance as a child
with humble disinterested grace
and taught me with intention
in everything she said and did
that what is valuable about me
is my mind
and my heart
kindness
spirit
ethics
righteousness
some may say too much of the latter
who taught me about Janis, and Sylvia, and Frida
and Roe v Wade
and punctuation and articulation and diction
and the Serenity Prayer, and that Galway Kinnel poem about what is still possible...
I love you Mom. I could go on forever. My love and my gratitude for you - and what you have gifted and instilled in me - is bigger than the universe and eternity and possibility.
So glad you are with the sweetest child in the whole wide world this evening.
Loving and sending you love and bright light so hard.
Micah Haverly 2015
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
Snail trail leading from mouth to heinous ****
let slugs undulate their way across my listerine lips
old jokes like S-Car-Go
and stuff inside me more variable and insuppressible
similar to Inspector Gadget
Matthew Broderick was my mentor
as a child
I am not in pampers any longer
4 P's of teens
***** petrol party and paycheck
that doesn't include pampers
I used to wade in my own ****
that's ******* disgusting to think about now
now an adult
still just wasting time
and wading through my own ****
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
A pour of liquid upon the sky
hollows around the city
flickering unknowing lights
as she stands on the corner
A fantasy strews in my mind
with walls painted to emblaze
floors swarming with haze
Red on her lips
A tense that lures my eyes
reaching the inside-out
tangled in a state of enmity
as I wade in serendipity
nobody asked me how I feel
the fact she was never even real
We tag around the maze
I baffle between truth and fake
boundless as we kissed
Breathtaking, filled with bliss
A perfection I'll never miss
But twas a treacherous crime
And thankfully I woke up in time
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
Dear Beyonce, I love you, but I loved your thighs more. They gave me a reason to believe my thighs were just fine. I believed that they were worth the time it took to get my jeans on or trouble when I found a dress that fit the rest of me perfectly, but finding another because my thighs were making it too short. I was under the impression that the pressure on his lap from my thighs was just fine and that if he couldn't handle them, he couldn't handle me.
My thighs were supported by calves that were the pillars that support my *** that is almost too much for the eyes to handle. It was okay that my thighs jigged cause my muscles were chiseled from my *** to my heels when I walked in a pair of heels, revealing marble stone that Greek statues envied.
Where did they go?
Now I'm told that I have to cover them from the summer sun and they can't wade in waves the crash on them when I stand in water that's just below my waist. They can't be mimicked by a pair of jeans or matched exactly by a pair of leggings. They have to be lonely and never be reminded of one another's presence because they can get lost with increased degrees of separation.
But I will not eat the lies that media, airbrush, needles, and people feed me. My legs have walked a thousand miles and have carried others along the way. I will not doubt them because they have never failed me.
I think I've made my decision. Thank you.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 2:18 PM UTC
#
Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh—
(the greater, for the time being,
giving way to the lesser)
One day, I will be able to breathe life
into your strings, my love…
the way I do words onto paper.
And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-dick,
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul.
Nor will I continually need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry—
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be given the permission to make them become,
truly known.
There are those who thrive on this..
this currency of curated words,
seduction dressed as scripture,
all twisted into the soft ropes of poetry
to bind the vulnerable,
to rob the soul of its own infusion..
the self from the soul,
the soul from the self..
*--until all that remains
is the quiet, starving shell
of a heart displaced,
an identity diluted,
left wandering inside
the sociopathic intent
to truly bastardize poetry’s
life-giving potentiality
into nothing more than self-indulgent gain--*
always at the cost of the reader,
who, starving for something real,
somehow falls for their twisted game.
****
eh..
There is no alone-ness within the magnificent resonations
of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect, of guitars.
Like this one, sitting right here
in my lap.
#
Feb 4, 2020
Feb 4, 2020 at 9:40 PM UTC
Flamingos are my VERY favourite bird,
I love their adorable faces and their feathers of soft
Dark pink satin
They look so innocent and sweet
Never fly away, my sweet birds
If you would I would cry very hard
My tears would make an ocean for them
To wade and swim through
And my love for them would turn
Into to a mighty palm tree, tall and strong
With it's lacy green leaves providing shade
For you, my adorable Flamingo
And my thoughts about YOU would
Be transformed into infinite grains of sand
My blue eyes would turn into the sky
That you would fly in
But please, my dearest Flamingo
Never fly away forever
Or my heart should break
And turn into the blooms of Bleeding Hearts
My heart would be like petals squished and ruined
Never to be put together again
~Marian~
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC