"whisperings" poems
~
think again if you believe
light is but a rapid blur,
consider that the spark
that lives between
two lover-friends, is light
exchanged in slow fashion;
the slow burn of a campfire,
the sparkle of her passion,
the flicker of a candle,
whisperings of the starlight,
the way a moon beam
bends the tides,
and makes her eyes twinkle;
each my confirmation,
of light that moves
so satisfying slow,
allowing flames to ever grow
ever higher, higher,
kindling sparks into a fire,
for love that lasts
is not a spark alone...
no,
love’s passion is a bon fire,
a sunset setting sky aglow;
an ever-building slow,
to effervescent ether;
a gently flowing kiss,
a living, colored tapestry
of drifting twilight mist;
this the speed of light...
my heart’s desire,
mirrored in my lover’s eyes.
~
*post script.
love at the speed of sunsets and star gazing;
evenings spent round the campfire
with only the light of the fire,
the stars and that sparkle in each other's eyes...
falling in love, all over again!*
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
*The chill in the frigid night air
casts tremors of lingering shadows
upon an ancient windowsill
where a liquescent candle’s glow dims.
Peering into shattered mirrors’
silver hued jagged edges
that no longer reflect counterfeit images
a nascent paradigm unfurls in the wind.
Terrifying diminutive steps are taken
in directions au courant
enabled by years of refinement
in torrid near incessant fires.
An excrescence of wisdom
has broken the weathered mold
allowing a senescent wisdom
to shimmer a phosphorescent glow.
The venerable map leading
to this transcendent destination
is not read but perceived
through intuition’s faint whisperings.
©2015 janetaylor
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:50 PM UTC
I
Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,
The snake has left its skin upon the floor.
Key West sank downward under massive clouds
And silvers and greens spread over the sea. The moon
Is at the mast-head and the past is dead.
Her mind will never speak to me again.
I am free. High above the mast the moon
Rides clear of her mind and the waves make a refrain
Of this: that the snake has shed its skin upon
The floor. Go on through the darkness. The waves. fly back
II
Her mind had bound me round. The palms were hot
As if I lived in ashen ground, as if
The leaves in which the wind kept up its sound
From my North of cold whistled in a sepulchral South,
Her South of pine and coral and coraline sea,
Her home, not mine, in the ever-freshened Keys,
Her days, her oceanic nights, calling
For music, for whisperings from the reefs.
How content I shall be in the North to which I sail
And to feel sure and to forget the bleaching sand ...
III
I hated the weathery yawl from which the pools
Disclosed the sea floor and the wilderness
Of waving weeds. I hated the vivid blooms
Curled over the shadowless hut, the rust and bones,
The trees likes bones and the leaves half sand, half sun.
To stand here on the deck in the dark and say
Farewell and to know that that land is forever gone
And that she will not follow in any word
Or look, nor ever again in thought, except
That I loved her once ... Farewell. Go on, high ship.
IV
My North is leafless and lies in a wintry slime
Both of men and clouds, a slime of men in crowds.
The men are moving as the water moves,
This darkened water cloven by sullen swells
Against your sides, then shoving and slithering,
The darkness shattered, turbulent with foam.
To be free again, to return to the violent mind
That is their mind, these men, and that will bind
Me round, carry me, misty deck, carry me
To the cold, go on, high ship, go on, plunge on.
5k
It keeps eternal whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
Often 'tis in such gentle temper found,
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from whence it sometime fell,
When last the winds of heaven were unbound.
Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vexed and tired,
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;
Oh ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,
Or fed too much with cloying melody,—
Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs choired!
4.7k
The scars on your arms
Form the box of my jail cell.
I'm serving a pseudo-voluntary,
Compulsory sentence for someone
Else's hell.
I guess I chose this fate
Despite it being ****** in front of me.
But the illusion of free will
Is a broken façade of
Immaturity.
I suppose I do like you,
But be with you? I don't know.
Your unblamable desire for
Love and affection is something
I can't show.
Because while your world may be Torture, mine isn't heaven either.
With heart flutters,
Stomach aches,
And leaving class for breathers.
The help that I can give,
Is reaching its end.
And whisperings
Tell me to leave,
From nefarious, bitter friends.
Yet when I entertain departure,
The only things that I'm left with are
My thoughts in the shower,
My tears joining the water,
And I remember looking in the mirror
Trying to figure out where I am.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
Listen to the slivering paths of the Autumn breeze
The coming velvety skies drenched in ink reflecting silver stars
Wave goodbyes to the elusive flawed brown stone with pensive eyes
A heart will gasp years ahead for callousness past shown now in tears
Remember those golden sunsets for now woeful days are never azure
Watery eyes and wrinkled mask lament a time you could have shared
A King's ransom at your feet twined with an honest heart assured
Hear the whisperings of the mockingbirds and muted cold choruses
Rainbow starlights betrays pots of gold hidden never to be found
Maidens dance retro and the harpist pluck for painters with brushes
By sunkissed shores blends of contrasts joyous in customary ponds
Smiles pure from honeyed caves same when as waxed spears plunges
Save me a place in the delights of Troy and tell Helen to send a sound
Bring me home to peace and love, rescue me from lions in golden cages
[email protected].
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
The silent whisperings of the wind
The Enigmatic dances of the trees
They are welcoming my presence
After a long time I am home…
Woodpeckers are laughing with me
Warblers are making a fuss
A white moth came to greet me
After a long time I am home…
This place is God’s own
In the silence I can feel the soul
The music in the air is prayer
For making me alive and be here
On to the bed of fallen leafs
I want to rest my aching beliefs
Harsh journey I have been through
A beautiful world its suppose to
The Lianas are the playing ground
Where the childhood dreams rebound
The faint memories comes alive
After a long time I am home…
I know I am not alone
She is there if I ever get blown
Into the comforting lap of her
After a long time I am home…
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
_As I,_
_Once lived;_
_On great mountains;_
_Making not a piece of sound._
_And in my dying moments,_
_I lay silent in a bed of pretty flowers._
_I’m crushed, with my skin of shaded brown,_
_Now a part of the Earth' ground as it erodes._
_In the wind, I whisper whisperings of my time,_
_A forgotten season lost in winter, and life._
_In a forest filled to the brim of dreams,_
_Parked underneath the shade,_
_Once guarded, and unafraid._
_And what a shame,_
_Soon I’ll be gone_
_With the wind,_
_Forgotten_
_Of_
__N__
__A__
__M__
__E__
__S__
Nov 17, 2021
Nov 17, 2021 at 3:23 AM UTC
At What Cost?
This Purchase of Our Future
*a thousand answers + variegated shadings, a summation:
∑
of millions layers of our owned chosen complexities,
so many possible outcomes, it makes infinite randomness
seemingly simpler than our googolplex crazy preposterous
notational choosings, our owned decisions which though false,
cause nothing is tandomn random except for love at first sight
it’s all just ******** we conditioned from pre-birth,
the expectations subtly subsumed into the woman’s womb,
overlaid by the ***** donors whisperings that you will be a
great third baseman, or a great bass player, or both, but
“your” fate, ha!
is anything but yours…
to purchase!
if you were born to live in a home with no heat, and water was
obtainable by walking 100 yards away, you would still be a
pianist, writing notes of plaintive need, grand desires, musical
words of agonizing delight just as when
you first blushed when the brain
connected yellow rays with a word,
sunrise,
and an experience was synapticaly imprinted,
that real things could be defined by an ordering of letters and sounds
and you were tongue burnt by a need so great
to collect these pleasurable things and put them in a right order
of your
peculiar
particular
personal
inherited inputted
design
=
and
you yet debate
what is my instrument,
knowing that the multiples of your fingers
are the engine of your existence,
and on any particular day they, your well connected perma-crew,
will pick which is the chosen one,
and
no matter which,
for you had nothing or little purchase,
it was coded in your pre-history
just as you prepare a transmission list
of your own,
when you daily first touch your face,
closing the sensory sensual connection tween
the ephemeral and the physical
and
the new combinations
that you will imprint upon
someone’s flesh,
that is your right,
that is you write,
that is what you were
predestined,
to
create
but,
(what the heck)
you get
to-pick the instrument of the day…*
(
that,
is your purchase, your only cost,
everything else has been
pre-paid
)
Nov 9, 2023
Nov 9, 2023 at 8:54 AM UTC
Once upon a Time there lived a peasant
whose poems were whisperings of nature.
Nature aims toward growth, abundance
and decays softly back to succulent soils.
My homeland is not for your feet to step
upon, you belong to surrealistic cynicism.
My psychedelia does not approve of horrors
mundi and skips on every third classical tune.
What was impulsively chosen, can be a mistake
in pompous rituals on established compilations.
Apologies, for all the misdeeds lacking a true
appearances. You implied my life is a great lie.
No, it's not! Sometimes it is a knotted charade,
noose chameleon dreams wanting to create in
Castles build upon puffy clouds, youthful Ars
Poetica meeting a Pat Metheney's wonderland.
Beck is a phenomenal artist loving green lands.
Bachus was a goat. And Artemis protects us all!
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When all artistic, damaged or insomniatic souls
Feel like they're completely alone
Even though we're all awake and feeling the same thing.
12am is still too loud, still too car engines and shouting,
And 6am is too light, too exposing and awake, aware.
It's blackness but for the starlight puncturing holes in the sky,
That's when the magic arises and enchants us.
The way the moon looks at us and begs us to untrouble our weary hearts,
So we do it, and we do it willingly.
She is the most unfaithful lover, and it is beautiful.
How she cherishes each whispered secret so deeply
That it leaves a crater on her being.
How she takes on our pain unflinchingly,
And only needs 28 days to feel whole again.
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When the most trapped souls can feel such freedom.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC
'you're such a good girl'
beep beep beep
unfamiliar breathing, followed by
silence. my naked body is
alone on my bed sheets.
loneliness breaks my own hand and
morals for a way to get
off but i don't. i sit there and
conjure up sweet whisperings
of how i want you. tied up,
deep and hard and cold.
if i'm such a good girl, then
tell me. why do i wish my flesh
will melt away like the leaves?
masochistic idiosyncrasies
wrap my vanilla heart up in
a pretty little bow. your fingers
beg to scratch off my humanity;
they have to wait their turn.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 1:34 PM UTC
Our love flows in the moon,
Entangled in its craters and mountains,
serene, pure with soft whisperings.
My soliciting heart seeks you.
And you make it drink the elixir of love.
Far away the ocean sounds and resounds,
Like the echoes of your name in my heart.
I love you and now I write on my heart.
I end each sentence with your breaths,
A perpetual poem, it is indeed.
Come here and I'll love you till the end of time,
We will be drowsy and drunk on passion.
You are the one who can make this day sublime,
So will you please be mine?
© Neha Chaudhary, 3 months ago
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
I take my keys and put it in my pocket.
Put my black jacket on and raggedy shoes
Put on my music and head out the door to the spring night air
“Finally” I said.” I'm free”
But I'm not of course. I'm trap, tied down to the ground leading me to suffocation.
The reins of my dog pulls tightly on my hands.
It cracks and cringes, it erodes in time.
But I still held on to the blue cotton chain.
People stared. Stared with hatred, remorse, disgust, disruption.
Their eyes popping out of their eye socket.
STOP WATCHING ME!!!!!!
But it is not as worst as the other snarling dogs.
They grind their teeth showing their black gums
But then nothing is more worst then the police officers
Their cars patrolling the streets like gangsters part of a drug industry.
But then I cross that bridge, that safe haven full of joy. Full of space, until the sun doesn't take it at least.
But it's okay as moonlight drowns me, renewing my soul.
The whisperings of the trees swaying in the wind.
The salty waters of the island
and that wonderful moist air of freshness.
It only survives for a split second however.
Just a second of hyper real reality.
Until the dullness of life suffocates me again.
The dogs ,the chain, the people. Everything comes back to me.
But it is okay.
That addictive moist air.
O how I desire that taste of moist air again....
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
~
Till sunrise comes once more...
You and I…alone
Beneath a silent crescent moon
Sultry sighs echo passion’s enchantment
Fireflies swirl illumined whisperings
Hydrangeas glow luminous desires
Your love envelopes me…breathless
Azure wing’d rapture engulfs
Ferverous lips ignite dark chocolate pulsings
Savoring luscious yearnings
Rhythmic motions blur starlit fantasies
Entwined of twilight fingers…roaming
Softly probing cherry blossom seams
Satin cream thighs…aching… delicate…fragile
Slowly entering, honeysuckle’s fragrance’d portal
Warmth devours gripping’s pleasure
Moist tongues dance tango’d steps
Crimson trickles paint skin’s textures
Cricket song wafts fever’d pitch
Comets blaze heaven’s canvas
Harmonies melt…one voice pleads
Echo’d moans soar elevated
Pearl’d beads mingle…lustrous
Glisten’d affection unfolds
Midnight beckons endless dreams
Till sunrise comes once more…my love
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
The last of God's angels
Presence that gracefully push lungs into cessation
Beauty that beckons radiantly in the dark
Immense, Intense
Innocent
Winding curves of silk
Gently strewn upon the ****** skin of creation
Mental fingers running from head to toe
Burning, Learning
Yearning
Coitus whisperings of Heaven
Fabrics slowly cascade with ******** revelation
Tempting Temptress of the moon-lit night
Mentality, Physicality
Carnality
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 7:03 AM UTC
When days to wilds became
Bright song of spring so real,
We gifted selves shameless,
Blooms laden in sunny fields.
Kisses grew whisperings airy,
Whizzing round us like bees,
O when we loved true dearly,
Gusts blew breathy thru trees.
Our touch devoting like rings,
Golden in grasses rung green
And eyes glazed over singing,
Wet and sleepy as ***** dream.
O how inmost times passed,
Winsome wee flowers in grass.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 3:41 AM UTC
You tread so, unfondly and almost—
too carefully after the echoes
of wintry whisperings, yet swerve—
and twirl in a grand vesture
of fireflies, of distant worries;
dream like a glowing summer
amongst dwindling youths
and enraptured stardust:
solemnly, and dearly too.
"I will be happy, if you were..."
insistent, you professed; yet deny me—
your caged heart.
Your silhouette casts over
the fiery meadow, over—
the vibrant ruins; finds harbour
only, in the eyes of the serpent
and prance wreathed in light.
Caress your clipped wings; embrace—
yourself and bear in mind, always:
I will sit with you in the dark.
Jan 7, 2023
Jan 7, 2023 at 9:52 AM UTC
Fireflies float in lightless rooms,
Spelling out words with fluid constellations
And my heart still tender from afternoon
Drugged up and fussed with the want of rain
Interprets these flecks of dancing
as love letters to pain
I think of dreaming and I think of you
Somewhere basking in summer rain
While I fall for foolish stories
written on the windows of a midnight train
These conversations that go nowhere
heavily soaked in honey stick to my tongue
These whisperings float in pools of ink
Like the daunting midnight sea,
But i'm too far gone into this dream state
Yet ready to drown, before I can hesitate,
In this ocean that you call home
May 27, 2022
May 27, 2022 at 5:53 PM UTC
Babble, babble, disloyal and troubled
Get out! Get out!
Who’s there? Why are you here?
How did you get in? My safe haven!
No, no, no! I’m hearing but not listening.
Invaders…on the inside forcing their way out.
People can’t know the fugitives I hide.
They made me do it! Not my fault!
Not my fault!
Whisperings, not of a lover.
Betrayal. **** you, traitor!
You promised me safety. You said I was supposed to feel better!
Where’s my prize?
I’m rocking, rocking, rocking…
Where are you?
All’s quiet on the eastern shore,
I’ll wait for you to come back, my Brutus.
This corner is not the same without you.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
My soul has known heavenly places
Once I slept on the shores of light
Before my soul learned its name
I once saw the aching darkness split
And matter was born from ***
I slithered among the foundations of the earth
And made my bed in the tall grass
Pure bliss and warmth were mine
There the whispered revelation was my lullaby
I watched as suns were born
Dim beings of ultraviolet laughter
It was much easier
To see and understand
Before time was invented
From the mind and body
A cancer of spirit was born
Its whisperings were the first ego
Evolved so or created
It truly matters not
For the bird knows nothing of war
Or beauty
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:25 AM UTC
There it was -
Among lost flowers
And drained cups of espresso.
Among corrupt cabinets,
And torrid affairs.
Among the soldiers and the artists,
Among the philosophers,
The drag queens and the disasters,
And T.S. Eliot and his mermaids.
There, in a smoky haze
Of toasts and time,
I found meaning.
Friends, lovers, actors,
Huddled together one cold October,
Not for pay, not for fame.
Drawn together merely to drink our fill
On the intoxicating elixir of humble creation.
It was there,
In those chilly nights
Of backyard theatrics,
In the raw camaraderie
Of presenting art for art's sake,
That I found myself,
Whole and true.
So many plays and shows
I have oft participated in,
And many days have passed
Since that blissful October,
But the vivid memory forever remains
Of the perfect cast of players bound together
In the pure glee of organic imaginings
As we explored the dark against the light.
Did we know?
Did we comprehend, then,
The magnitude of beauty to be found
Within the ties that held us together?
Perhaps the rest never did quite feel the current
Of the electric wonder we evoked beneath the stars;
Not only in our karaoke-laden performance,
But in our offstage whisperings and antics -
Friendships forged in a campfire flame.
I cannot speak for the others,
But as for myself -
A girl now disillusioned
By Louisiana cynics
And toxic hometown politics -
I am nostalgic for those nights
That I spoke of Michelangelo.
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC
In the light of your immaculate form I make the following declaration:
I will be your jealous cellist-
(I.)
And I will play you like a stringed instrument - then
When you make delighted whisperings
And finesse the fine music of the feminine, magnificent
Your heathen distemper
Distributed,
woman-like, goddess-like
Classic cello-shape
Draped in lilting silk
Then
I will fiddle and pluck
Cast broad swathes near and about your single tingling place
Your attuned instrument
And it's spruce wooded
frontispiece.
(II.)
You faux arabesque
(for faux is our shared domain)-
Your hands moving gracefully - you pause -
Feigning flight
Feigning fancy
Considering
My rising fire
Weighty desire
Shadows mingle with glimpses of
My thickness and length-
Veined skin and steel,
White - waiting, wanting -
And there's an answer.
(III.)
You are girl - such a girl
I am boy, only boy
My persistent mans eye view
Part pleased with the flashes of you -
Now in new
Near **** rhythm
This gilded exuberance,
Radiant
Hypnotic
Sets sparks flying
Tickling toward sky and stars
I would have you
My dexterous digits upon your supple, warm-
Fragrant fresh flesh fret board
I would squeeze you where
Your mystery resides and
Elsewhere besides.
(IV.)
Roughly - at first - needy
Determined -
I would play upon
Your duet of juice creators
Invoke the
Holiness of your
Secret sacred spaces
Doublet, Triplet, Quintet
Play on! play on!
I would have you
With my plugging piece
There! There!
Your open legs
Secretly seeking my carnival of thrusting
Inside your warm girls pearl
Antidote for collective loneliness.
(V. )
I would hold you, your sides -
Firm in my greed
Our lustful minuet in 3/4 time
Play on, play on - I
Kiss your neck,
nibble your *******
It's you, it's you
You arch yourself toward me
Warmly
Affectionate,
We hold hands, fingers between,
And dance.
(VI.)
This some time Summertime
Bright flame
We reach - how we reach-
Our mouths, our tongues -
The very words we speak- yearning for -
longing for -
Connection
Each to the other, and
Our connection to God
"Rightful sin -
Come to us again
And again - and again
Satisfy our minds!"
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
How can one describe
these hot-pheromones
flowing wildly in space?
Without the genetic code,
the scent-nature of animal attraction,
can these electrical-keyboard
love-lust-connections really work?
Word-whisperings flow like an avalanche,
such heated-moments visualized
through the placement of the alphabet.
The ooooohhhhhh's & aaaaahhhhh's,
do me's & give it to me's,
building of fiery sentence-structures,
creates raptures beyond our wildest dreams.
Then the aftermath.
No hugs, no kisses.
A virtual wham bam, thank you mam
& a good day to you too sir,
I'll write you next time!
;;), :), ^_^, -_-, 3:), :D, ;P, :-P, :)..., 0:), :x, B-),:-*, 69,=), >:)<.
O, I'm sure I missed a few!
O Darling, please please let me know...I'll text you...:-?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
~
a crystal cradle slowly falls,
from an indigo sky;
coyote’s distant howl,
blends his primal song,
with the whoot, whoot of the owl;
desert minstrels, keeping beat,
with cricket and cicada’s chorus.
above, a dark horse grazes,
in a field of ancient stars;
and below, encroaching mists
gather in the waving grasses,
crouching... waiting to devour,
all who venture near.
the endless whisperings,
of the brook, stream of
ageless waters, tell of tales
of distant ice and snow,
far above these thirsty plains.
aurora’s blend their magic,
their enchanting flame,
dancing in the rising ethers;
mesmerizing sleepy eyes,
a shepherdess is lulled away;
transported by her distant dreams.
dawn’s approach she fails to hear,
’til it's much too late;
when songbirds of the desert,
now seated in this orchestra,
sing her sleeping soul awake.
~
*post script.
watching the set of a cradle moon on a late night return from the rolling hills of Central Oregon’s high desert last month prompts just enough lines to keep these images alive, until i am able to give them complete thought and words this morning. aside from fatigue, i love driving at night. 197’s winding crossing down to the Deschutes at Maupin and then it's descent into The Dalles beside a wide Columbia; these, and my longing to be home beside my wife, keep me from sleep driving, alone with my thoughts and imagination. though rare to Oregon, there are times of year when the aurora borealis pushes its way far enough south to be viewed on moonless nights.*
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 2:20 PM UTC