"wades" poems
The lotus wades
Shallow water
Even and calm.
Her petals brighten
In the beating sun's rays,
Glowing of tranquility.
The onlooker grows jealous
Venom green with envy
While the lotus rests,
Mockingly green leaves.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
a wan moonlight wades
the pond of the cold tiled floor
beaming existence
I could look up yet choose a
reflection of its presence
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
This poem casts a line from insomnia to morning
On the wind of a prayer that whatever bites, holds on.
See I have counted eleven score and ten,
with rainbow like curves of my neck -
contemptuous beasts leaping in formation
each bleating out a preach of vague platitudes;
A narrative for the night sky.
My hands clamour at keys for escape
until I tumble headfirst into a web so vast
it has ensnared the whole world wide -
millennials are living in-ter-net over in-the-world;
a new ultraviolence against humanity.
I beat my words into the screen until it breaks;
shattering scarlet emoticons like confetti
pouring over language as if it were a compliment.
My mind massages shapeless polypous thoughts
like tight constricted muscles aching for release.
3am casts these philosophies into horses,
whipping them into shape and speed
before the eyes of this statuesque ******
This anxious wakefulness begs my manic self to dance;
suggestively ********* tickets to ride like cleavage.
Sleep is fast becoming a neglected former engagement;
as my mind trips over fallen heroes
wades through my favourite mistakes
in a wonderland unfolding faster than I can fall
while the world beyond my window remains dark.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
It wades, it stands still, it's very clever.
White heron patiently wait, wait and wait,
Till a fish darted by, reflection on the river.
****** its bullet head it's time to deliver.
Beaks sharp as spears strikes accurate,
It wades, it stands still, it's very clever.
None disturbed nature stays as it were,
No news of any fish that the heron ate,
Till a fish darted by, reflection on the river.
They flock in by the thousands I wonder,
No reduction in fish they don't annihilate.
It wades, it stands still, it's very clever;
It takes what flowing water has to offer.
Teeming with migrants to each their fate,
Till a fish darted by, reflection on the river.
To its chicks it'll provide it'll ensure,
By the banks spear fishing till it's late.
It wades, it stands still, it's very clever,
Till a fish darted by, reflection on the river.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 8:54 PM UTC
THERE all the golden codgers lay,
There the silver dew,
And the great water sighed for love,
And the wind sighed too.
Man-picker Niamh leant and sighed
By Oisin on the grass;
There sighed amid his choir of love
Tall pythagoras.
plotinus came and looked about,
The salt-flakes on his breast,
And having stretched and yawned awhile
Lay sighing like the rest.
Straddling each a dolphin's back
And steadied by a fin,
Those Innocents re-live their death,
Their wounds open again.
The ecstatic waters laugh because
Their cries are sweet and strange,
Through their ancestral patterns dance,
And the brute dolphins plunge
Until, in some cliff-sheltered bay
Where wades the choir of love
Proffering its sacred laurel crowns,
They pitch their burdens off.
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Lazily, a boy with silvery hairs muttering requiem aeternam
lifts his neck at the piercing radiance skimming off the eyeglasses rim,
and there looms the glory, the spotless sea of blue,
varnishes of spring gloss fuming out of the French coronation robe.
The still-brisk branches hung bent at the weight of vivacity,
sight of maidens whose eyes and grace bath in the full warmth of light,
the kisses on the face of the river by the shower of half-bloomed petals,
just as the stillborn thrills of the beating heart to the splintered fingers of Moirae.
The time of adieu,
the season of life.
The mourning procession amidst the lustily caressing May breeze.
-Primavera, thou name be the sweet irony of the dying flowers
The evening wades in, and the coy face of the mountain blushes;
Thence strides away the man whose gaze speaks of premature nostalgia
Here the wind whispers the rosy delirium from the sakura tree at the far side,
the faintness lushly hazed away by the cloudy veil of bittersweet grey.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 7:13 AM UTC
Blindly crawling, ****** kneed, trembling.
Feeling in the darkness, the murk and muck on the floor covers knees.
Breath uneven and scared, terrified again.
There are no doors, no windows, no others.
The cell has no features, only walls with no color.
An expression of the mind, an image of nightmare. Empty.
The lack of content is what scares.
Air so thick, one would choke, but I can't open my mouth.
Nothingness pervades. Wades through the thoughts to another corner.
With but thy blood and fingernails, messages are cut, carved and scraped into the grey concrete of these walls, words begging to not be forgotten.
Messages mandating weak memory to scribe.
This is my mind. This is where each day I reside.
In terror of the world, I am not inside.
in horror of the things I think, or thought?
I know not nor remember what I do, I am scared.
Naked, afraid and trying to remember the lessons I learned so long ago.
Goose-bump covered and huddled in the corner.
Hands wrapped around my knees, crying, shaking.
Dead inside, hollowed out. Nobody home.
Betrayed again...
By myself.
Beside myself.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
#
*River running..
That rushing sound in these parts
spell out the words, crystal-clear..
Tree-lined banks, giving way
to the Dark Hills, upslope
Giving way, to
granite-rocked outcroppings
giving way to elk-hidden quakeys
Surrendering their holy-huddle's
pristine stances
to tall prairie-grass, waving
wild raspberries and tall pines
And I, myself..
am surrendering also
She is watching the water, believing
That as it flows,
she will not lose herself in it
That it will not steal, but heal
That I will not rage again
within my fear
I am watching her,
watch the water
I am watching the water-- believing
That as I give of myself
further into the flow
that I will not become diffused
by humanity
By the love of man
and all of its dishonesty
and all of its diabolical treachery
Of its lack of concern,
or understanding
Or ability to break through
its own, self-centeredness
Or its need to swallow me up
into the mundane.
Her hands are in the air now,
praising..
Worshipping
the true nature of the flow,
Believing..
that I will let all of this, go
And as she wades in
I ease, back--
Retreating
up the Dark Hills, slope
Clutching tightly..
To granite-rocked outcroppings,
weeping.
Hiding in the quakeys,
among the majestic elk
Begging for the tallgrass, cover
among the wild raspberries.
Now, fully concealed
in tall pines.
Her hands
are stretched out, now..
as if hovering over the waters,
participating
While I hide from it all
While I hide, from humanity;
From the fallen, love of man
She is wading in,
Believing
.
As I am leaving;
Believing
As the cloud-hidden sky,
starts raining--
playing the most incredible, of tunes.*
#
Aug 8, 2021
Aug 8, 2021 at 8:01 PM UTC
In all of the pages that you wrote
There was never once talk of the past
In every single story that was sold
You locked away all stories to be told
All of these letterboxes used to leave me love
All of the hopeful words you could dream of
But now your past is dead
The future wades in your head
To your new self
I say goodbye
Well, should I change? Must I remain?
Should I love you all the same?
March on steady to the beat of that drum
If it’s gonna go- I’m going this way, on this line
All of the people had the notion to speak
All of the words, now so weak
Surrounded now, blank white walls
Paint a life, your world calls
To some motivation
I say hello.
I’ll walk until I think I’ll stop
Rest awhile ‘till you catch up
Put my boots next to the fire
While the body and my mind do conspire
All of the birds would sing their song
Don’t mind at all if I sing along
In a quiet world sound erupts
The chant of choir soon conducts
To this plague of mice-like men
I shed a tear.
Beat, beat on that black-laced drum
The march that gets every man from
A kingdom to a kingdom in the sky
Living in a world of life just waiting to die.
All of the eyes were looking stern
All of my letters have been burnt
Carry coal from that mine
Who knows, he, she, or mine?
And tip my hat to whom it may concern.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
she's never
known a man
that could walk
on water before.
'come on in,' he said
the water's fine,'
as he wades farther
and farther out into
a tided pool of nothingness.
'i'd rather stub my toe
against something sticky like a
starfish-
then feel nothingness
with you.'
she's never
known a man
that could
walk on water
before.
do you
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
He lost his wings at birth
Soaked in the misery of nothingness
Child caught the face of a dejected mum
Dad gasps for breadth in vanity of time
What lurks in the darkness beyond?
Where is the answer, the poor child reels
Eyes glinted at ignorant jubilation
Not again, the village moaned uneasily
Wings refused to flap inspiration
Sun refused to dry soaked misery rule
Conscious of the stream of pain not long
On and on breathlessness overcomes hopeful desire
Heart overflows with helplessness
Birds fly around filling the air with hope
Child closes eyes not to twig bitterness
So that sorrow could fly away
All at once the days come by
No means to endure the crunch of time
Denial by the offensive of futility of all
Rescue for survival nowhere to find
Staring the freshness of gentle breeze
Hope wades in with a struggle to live
‘Abrakadabra’ the witch doctor screams
So that sorrow could fly away
Don’t give up my brother
Determination beckons with authority
Sorrow and hopelessness dumped on the side
So that no other child sees it no more
Holding firm to tomorrow that is not lonely
Misery in abyss pushed aside to give way
Alas the flower glows and sweetness flows
Like the river of life beyond comprehension
Fly away your sorrow.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
Static whimpered then, now
was a moment, is and will be.
But in my deeper blue, waits a
Sapphire cesspool; waste and ivory
the Isle of Man, wades and drowns
silk swollen in the silence of still water,
through Hesperian greed and the tide
of golden apples.
In wandering, the cicada and cypress
grew in a moment's swan song,
Paradise was a pyre, and it was Winter
and the modern world.
And in what days of one day
would the enchantment bring-- of
the red faces and quivering tongues?
And what would the harpie bring--
icy tendrils of Spring to cool the flame?
A wretched smile, of the witness
blackened, knelt cradling his
head in his hands.
and in that moment, I was a lost man,
a lost man,
And then the happiest on the face of the Earth:
Now, the night is shallow.
****** is a breath, Eros is breathing, I am still.
Still
caught in the net of waking dreams,
when a binary sunset births the piercing tone,
of frequency high and ears hollow:
I was on my back, floating
and Death stood waiting
at the end.
Chariot yoked, pinion on pinion,
I gritted my teeth, unfurled my wings
and wept-- the mind is vengeance
As cruelty is the Mother of love.
and Now
stands waiting,
in the memory of himself.
A war is waged each moment,
with the echo of forever:
soul for soul,
talon for talon.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 1:03 AM UTC
The moon wades the sea
and lifts his curved blade
to cut loose the tide
tied to the shore
and it's high time I listen
for the secret word
that tells me to turn
out the light and go home.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
My darkest friend who knows my darkest side,
penumbral spirit might eclipse her own;
she gladly walks my shadows stride for stride.
While living through what most would not abide
she bleeds for us through all the cuts she's known,
my darkest friend who knows my darkest side.
She feeds the beasts inside we've deified
and knows my monsters right down to their bones.
She gladly walks my shadows stride for stride.
She wades abyss's waters at high tide
and dives in eagerly to swim alone,
my darkest friend who knows my darkest side.
Sensual, seductive, sanctified,
soft as woman, hard and strong as stone,
she gladly walks my shadows stride for stride.
She writes her deepest secrets, never lies,
while keeping from herself how much she's grown.
My darkest friend who knows my darkest side;
she gladly walks my shadows stride for stride.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
792
Through the strait pass of suffering—
The Martyrs—even—trod.
Their feet—upon Temptations—
Their faces—upon God—
A stately—shriven—Company—
Convulsion—playing round—
Harmless—as streaks of Meteor—
Upon a Planet’s Bond—
Their faith—the everlasting troth—
Their Expectation—fair—
The Needle—to the North Degree—
Wades—so—thro’ polar Air!
1.6k
Remembrance in November grows repellent
each year we rob it further of its sense
by hunting down objectors to compel them
to stand in line or cause a grave offense.
No private contemplation or reflection
when strident shrieks of nationhood prevail
Un-poppied collars count as insurrection
a slight to every brave, red-blooded male.
Division, thumping drums and waving banners
the media wades in with guns ablaze
forgetful of respect, or simple manners –
that’s not how we conduct ourselves these days
If this is what our fallen heroes wanted
I wonder why the cenotaph is haunted.
We cannot know what sent the soldiers hither
or claim the fallen courage of the fight
think boys who marched to foreign fields together
were simple symbols drawn in black and white
If we could rise above the spite and chatter
We’d find unbordered bonds and understand
that shells and bullets lacked the strength to shatter
the looking glass that straddled no man’s land
From timid chaps to lunatic berserkers
we canonise the men who heard the call
if wives had had the power to shoot deserters
there never would have been a war at all.
Let’s render restless spirits more forgiving:
to honour best the dead, honour the living.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
Bring about a second war,
or pack up - and go home.
We can't accept apologies
from Sicily or Rome.
We can't impart cartography
to mayors without maps.
And no one wades the rivers here,
and water fills the cracks.
And water, liquid power naps,
repels us at the coast,
But draws us in at pipeline ends
and haunts us like Dad's ghost.
I died sometime, the future came,
and everybody smirked
and asked me, while we waited
for my casket, if it hurt.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
The river's current starts slow,
chilled streams trickling,
toes shifting, in the dark blue-gray;
almost unpleasant to the touch.
As she wades, the pull becomes stronger;
ice cold, it entraps her chest.
Slwoosh fwssh, she winces as the wind picks up,
and her mind goes still; resilient.
Drifting, her body gives way,
fwuomp, pssshhh.
Almost lifeless do her eyes wash,
away into the water's murk.
Like a ship stranded at sea,
her body struggles to withstand,
water filling her lungs like the hull;
her cheeks pale and wet.
Gasps break the water,
sending ripples as wide as her eyes,
and the tormenting storm laughs;
Each time it moves, grabs, without asking, takes without giving,
and she floats.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
he tells me dark secrets
and paints colors on the shore
where the salt mist speaks to him
in voices heard no more
along he wades, watching
the growing ground at his feet
careful to not crush creatures in the surf
***** crawling to bed themselves
in their own tugging time
before the moon full tides
slowly, he walks
as if one long step
might fling him into the abyss
he does not fear the fall,
he knows, it comes to all,
fishmongers and kings
falcons with their mighty wings
all share the descent, as the sea
turns from blue to black
while I hide far inland
he paints me dark secrets
vanishing tracks in the sand,
and I long to hear his brush strokes,
to see what vast weary waves reveal,
through his teary eyes
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
Piloting a rocket propelled spermatazoon
straight into the magma core of Arcturus!
And all the while our cute society
is humming a slithery little hymn
"Dip your toes and smile along
clap your hands and follow me home."
Alas my hands are golden waves
and bridge the space
where the monolith wades
Redemption plays
the poison harp
encouraging those forgotten
to never give up
the strings are dripping
and licking the ground
where flowers grow
the land is sound
there is someone at the door
always someone at the door
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
*Lavished; I endow many creatures
Trenchant and keen they denude as weepers
As we are harsh while we wangle
Deviser’s enriched are all riotous tamers
Crowns en-dowering among the fittest
Bounteous of all wades in telluric mist
Unscathed by deft spry
Admitting your mordant’s are never lies*
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 1:34 PM UTC
Is there a place somewhere known and yet unknown
where humans keep or lose their guilts
Is there a dumping hole or a snug
or a fierce incinerator blazing
That destroys or obliterates
human guilts
Is it a known some guilts carry comfortably and alone
just another thing for the holdall satchel bag or arm
Someday its worryingly heavy on the shoulders
other times it's just small and weightless
An accessory as any others
imperceptibly light
Is the heavy guilt or tons heavy ones like granite stone
a weary toil left in a storage or thrown over a cliff
What ever done guilts come with a personal receipt
bearing owners name time and number
Attached to owner and carried 24/7
marked as 'Non-Transferable'
Is your guilt or guilts bearable or carry-able like your phone
have you stored, hidden it or pushed down a crevice
What about the indelible receipt on your person
that which is there and rests on you
Does it flare like an incindaries
or just simmer quietly
Is your guilt a bedfellow that clings to your chest in a zone
whispering in tone foreboding and chills persistent
Or one that wades in and recedes like shore waves
perhaps it's a type like a central rigid statue
An unmovable edifice of horror
coated in fear and alarm
Is your guilt light and niggly, a Bonsai with no tall grown
did you amend paying a due and penanced did leave
And though the attached receipt still haunts you
least you know it will gradually fade away
Leaving truly tutoring imprints
Never to be repeated
Is your guilt a stranger yet unmet and your spirit happy flown
do you walk in salient steps with no recourse to remorse
And greet each morn with pleasantries to I, me and self
enthralled no rent paid for secret storage or a crevice
Just the one that stands before man and Creation
Held aloof by a Conscience unstained
Copyright@Laurence14th Aug2018.all rights reserved.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC
Stop.
Now feel the tongue inside your mouth.
Notice the words forming between your teeth,
their texture, their colour,
where they come from.
Now look towards me
No, not at me
but at the air between our faces
Do you see it?
It wades there, suspended,
kneading the space, folding into itself
and waiting for us.
It arches its back as it’s ****** into you,
as it’s ****** into me.
It wants to be inside of us.
But be careful how you treat the air;
it likes to be inhaled slowly, deeply,
swim through your body, wrap around
your bones and lick the edges of your soul.
Do you feel it?
Do not trap the air at the back of your throat,
where it cannot dance, where it cannot give.
And do not bend it it ways it will not bend.
Do not strangle it with your tongue and spit it out
tripping over itself. The air does not take kindly to
such abuse so when that sharp lick of breath reaches me,
my veins, it will toss and turn in your leftover angst.
Caress the air, the little piece of sky before us,
massage its shaking limbs with your own,
let it travel up from the meat of your toes carrying
with it the scent of your blood.
I promise you, it will dance between the grace of your lips.
Or better yet,
let the air between us hang loosely in space
Let it settle like silent water;
unscathed, transparent,
so we can see eachother clearly.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC