"willowing" poems
Ignorances innate wove curtain of veils
Cut usunder heretofore obscuring
Bodhicittas valedictory wintry gloom torn
Of enlightenments will factioning the
Silenced mammonish city kingdom truced
As the wings of Azrael clinch
Earthly thistles; monolithic raiments
Deposed Hull, Hell and Halifax parcae
The willowing of light unfettering Fenrirs
Durance, howling aconite psalms suspiring
Suffrage relict paving with mewed stars
Redemptions tithed talents bequeathed
Of Heavens sinister prayer burning
Acinta dusts thine ashes threading
The wilful sword of Gods destruction.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
Night wind scales,
Frosty Palace,
Must I ****
For law,
For order.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
I can see
how men fall irrevocably in love
with women
with so much soul in their bones
that it must ripple, and fill out living flesh
women who possess thoughts
that could bring down the sky
women with platinum eyes and satin skin;
willowing waifs and dewy dreams.
But how they fall even a stones throw
for women with
sallowed cheeks and deserted eyes
who paint themselves out of freckles and blush
women with
minds that contemplate only as much as the mirror reflects
and mouths that open to unwittingly break a misleading silence
women with
not an ounce of longing or lust
or love
in their veins, just a crimson thud
without a beat.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
A revaluation occurred
just the night before
an answer that I could not see
an answer that I could not bore.
It all started
with the simple number 8
at first it did not seem significant
at first it did not seem to translate.
Gradually and gradually
It began to haunt my life
and I began to wonder about it
and it provoked me like a knife.
I watched many flicks
and went to the gym
I did everything I could
I did everything on a whim.
Just to forget
the blinding and boundless pain
that you have brought upon me
that you sought to make me drain.
One movie stood out
and it eased my depression.
I then continued on with my days
I then continued with my aggression.
That movie had a scene
about seeing the solution out of a problem
Could you be the problem I've faced?
Could I live with out them?
Again I thought nothing of it
and week after week went
the number 8 persisted
the number 8 made me vent.
So then, So then
On a drive, in the night
to the city, with my best music
playing to my minds sight.
The answer hit me right when recalling the movie Patch Adams.
How Arthur Mendelson tought Patch
about seeing the good in every day.
How to get out of the depth of drought
Out of fear, conformity or laziness.
and then I thought:
Annie was my problem
I've sought out for a solution
but I was too focused on the problem
and could not look beyond.
In Patch Adams the answer was 8
To see what nobody else sees
To see what everybody chooses NOT to see.
See the world anew each day.
That's when it hit me like a punch to the gut.
The combination of "Big Fish" finale music,
"Patch Adams",
Annie,
8,
I worked it out in my brain.
Was no longer driving me insane.
That this divine message
of constantly seeing number 8,
was not a lucky number,
nor a date.
Nor a month,
or a time frame.
Just a reminder
to not be lame.
If I died tomorrow
what would I leave behind?
Cannot be this willowing self-pity.
What would people say of me?
That my last few months were ******
So whether it was God, Allah, or a cosmic sign
Annie is the problem, and my solution I must see past.
The 8 was telling me to move on, no more should I whine.
I should no longer look to the past.
Infinitely this sign fed itself
and made complete utter sense.
I am strong, and full of love.
None of which to you I give.
No more, No more.
No no, not any more...
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
oh sweet
scintillating
sunshine
that
saunters in
through my window
willowing
my rug
with your rays,
your dubious
delightful
untrustworthy
ways
wither
my solitude
with a saint-like
smile.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
there’s a boy I love,
the boy doesn’t speak,
the boy is pale, a body full of bones.
his **** limp
his eyes, weeping
his form, skeletal and twined.
i want to dissolve him into body wash,
clean my body with his.
there’s a boy,
a touch of 25 to his grace.
the boy kisses like he’s carving gold into cement.
he makes art out of willowing branches of thighs,
out of dove-necked wrists,
out of a sloped, vining neck.
there’s a boy,
mute; but as loud as roaring packs of waves.
there’s a boy i love,
even when i swore love was what I was most afraid of.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 9:09 PM UTC
Overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves in labyrinths of coral caves
The echo of a distant tide
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine
And no one showed us to the land
And no one knows the where's or why's
But something stirs and something tries
And starts to climb towards the light
Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me
And do I take you by the hand
And lead you through the land
And help me understand the best I can
And no one calls us to move on
And no one forces down our eyes
No one speaks
And no one tries
No one flies around the sun
Cloudless every day you fall upon my waking eyes
Inviting and inciting me to rise
And through the window in the wall
Come streaming in on sunlight wings
A million bright ambassadors of morning
And no one sings me lullabies
And no one makes me close my eyes
So I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
A quasi fog hole is born
An urge to be somewhere
Anywhere but these islands of bloodstreams
Far maybe in Thailand
What awaits next is a scaber of thresholds
It's an unknown world if you fall and land here
Shimmering camels going about their own biz
Wearing demon suits with demon ties
Auxiliaries conversing in Bonomos
Common hats all practicing, choreographing all catacombs thundering novels that are occurring as they scream, pictures willowing one by one, second by second all occurring simultaneously
...and say again
Awaiting ...
Not occurring at all...
Never had occurred at all
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 1:37 AM UTC
Sunday's somewhere in the teal dawn
wandering on a lukewarm breeze.
Monday pens weary travelogues
with fugal prose of frozen seas.
Tuesday holds a gilded halo
of sunlit cirrus atop the knoll.
Wednesday gathers ornate words
and begets infinity upon a scroll.
Pale gleams flutter
upon a lap of willowing streams
and in a dream, the sun melts
as the moon sets at the end of my bed.
Island marooned, mana consumed,
and with ancient runes, a song is stitched
as love is woven in the white of wool threads.
Thursday hums a quiet tune
and lilts over the azure morn.
Friday trods the afternoon
through blossom and thorn.
Saturday nestles in cool dusk;
a shroud of purple-painted skies.
We'll blot a scarlet streak of stars
and crown the night with your hazel eyes.
Mar 11, 2023
Mar 11, 2023 at 2:51 PM UTC
The door up the stairs,
It eludes my conscience,
I'm ignorant of what is to wipe,
Across my thoughts.
Come here, they say,
Sit down, they say,
We have news, they say,
Stage 3 ovarian, they say.
How could it happen, I ask?
That so innocent a person,
With so much life and vigor,
Can fall into such a void of hopelessness?
She arrives in the door,
70 years young,
Sullen and tenuous,
Her tears fall caustically ,
Down her face.
The older man, hit so hard
Falls short in his strength;
His arms fall numb,
To the pain of occurring loss,
His tears fall caustically,
Down his face.
Hugs are thrown left and right,
As tears shed violently,
The shock kicks in,
Where will she be in the future?
I suddenly think, as quickly as i see,
Their willowing visages,
How long will she last?
And my mind drifts into the unknown.
I see her face covered in sun,
Illuminated by the vigor of health,
Her breaths cease to exist,
Yet she is more alive than ever.
She turns to me and says,
Isn't this wonderful?
My mind snaps back to reality,
The cold house chills my body,
The tears still feel caustic,
And the pain still feels unbearable.
But in all of this misery,
There is one thing,
We can look forward to.
The thing that we can't predict,
The place we can't imagine,
The experience we can't escape,
The Future.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
stuck on a path of no return
the fire of love with always burn
through your soft, breakable heart
the pain of love with surely start
more then just a willowing fright
the road of love will set you right
stright, down the street of torment
the pain of love leads you to decent
so i ask myself one simple question,
the fire of love leads to a sudden depression
but is it all really worth it
cause love will slowly rip you apart
bit. by. bit..
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 2:30 PM UTC
Its about this time of the year when the fog feels melancholy. Sticky in the way it hugs around your fingers, and sometimes your toes. When the grey gives way to blue, and theres a breeze right aroudn midday before the sun comes in, warming your shoulders and brightening his hair.
Its right about this time of year when change sits regally on every windowsill and rooftop, reminding you that it never left, you were just fooled by the frigid frost of february covering its tracks.
Look over your shoulder, she's not there anymore. The way you left her, at the door. Its open, swinging.
And its this time of year when its spring again. And the regality of change crowns the blossoms on each branch, willowing by your doorstep. Sitting on the stoop smoking a cigarette you see the smoke, blowing in little curves to your neighbor Mani's door.
How long you'll be here, you don't know. Mani doesn't either. You both came in from the countryside, a while back expecting to find a gig singing or acting. Lately, you've both been doing that, but what you earn money for is pouring whisky and ***** and gin for people who's lives are made or lost or forgotten by whatever you give them. Sometimes it feels like you control some secret potion, like you have an elixir to share at your dispense. a secret, just like the patch of grass that lingers growing and re-growing under the february frost.
She left pretty quick- you couldn't catch her, there was no way. See you have to know that that kind of thing is coming, or get ********* lucky. But you lost her you really did. With her hair in the wind, and her eyes, so clear you could see the wind blow through them, and the sun shining rays, she used to sit on the stoop. Now that's what you've got. A pretty picture in your mind- one that's all too connected. You remember the smell the touch the heartbeat. Its all there, and it will be. It'll stay you know. She was designed for it- to break into your little shell and leave her mark, make room for herself in your life just in case the spring wasn't coming back, in case change wasn't going to slip through a hole in your pocket and fall down, down into the new york city subway to be carried and picked up and taken on odyssey upon odyssey.
You would have never known. And so, now change sits regally where she did, mocking you for having turned you into a beggar, a gypsy, a fool for little pieces of silver and gold. You begged for change, and I warned be careful what you wish for.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
Jagged bottles, freshly broken, line the
cobbled pathway leading to the house.
An open window and the heady smell of warm beer
implicate the under-employed and over-stimulated
inhabitants of something.
A frazzled flag, ruined by the wind and disinterest
drizzles limply in the breeze. Broken lines and
pointless stars point to broken lives and
pointless wars that spit on the lithe and measured
stiches of an avant guarde Betsy Ross.
Ancient wooden placards, blue and white and peeling,
shoot up through the hoarfrost of the unkempt yard.
Promising something, though not articulated, they
describe a geometric shape, strangely triangular,
between signs and flag and glass.
A strong confident voice, "Yes we can," wafts
through the open window, and floats above the dismal house.
Then a curse word and a shotgun blast and the
willowing smoke from a TV no longer in need of its
power switch punctuate the scene.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
wandering in the west wonderland of the east
coast of psychedelia along the northern coast
of a southern island
I came to the perception
of me as a scorpion
tail held high prancing venomously
striking the hand that fed me
along the willowing trails of honey nectar
the rainbow sailing sailboats in sun
colors glistening
the breathing cloud skies of blue gold
right next to a godlike creature sat I
tail up telling tales
with poison assed consequences,
making promises like a politician
was a bad trip then , until,
I saw bodhisattva sipping brandy and being just him
along side a unicorn on a hill
outside Hollywood
I took his hand
his discipline his calm
his realm now mine. He gratefully shared.
Now this was my kind of dude.
I waited around and he melted away
and ten vestile virgins appeared in his wake.
Each more beautiful than I can say.
And we ate strawberries and flew in the sky wingless
partied on shortcake and cream and I was happy once.
A beautiful dream a memorable trip.
It opened my eyes. My senses cleansed.
I try to live just like that.
Imaging Nirvana again, every day
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 3:15 AM UTC
absence of fear and hunger,
replaced by the need for time and blundered veins
create this enigma, destroyed by thinking it over
it's a bomb, vulnerable to detailed thought
how to escape
is simple-
love the pieces it has
and forget the ones it lacks
-cj
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Halfway through the year time crept
Days seemed to flash like thunder
each vanishing by to its paradise
Sometimes I wonder about the days
If they will reappear above the mirage
far beyond the ever breathing skies
above the unreachable starry skies
above what is unfathomable and unattainable
and if these days sat on a mountain?
would it ever sink or be weighed down?
submerging below the strata and volcanic tension
aren’t we all stuck in a driven world
where souls are trying, prying, crying
each trying to find a place, some freedom
a resolution above all the substitutions
Yet as she sat at the fountains of love
all she could find was second class crowns
rusted copper coins sunk at the bottom
and all their wishes echoed eons ago
articulated with tainted rosy promises
pardoned within a series of mysteries
as if happenstance as delicacy was outpoured
and as she sailed, willowing voices unfolded
and all she could visualise was the future ahead
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:10 AM UTC
lark, perched and persistent,
upon that willow,
and billowing, that screeching wind around you;
and willowing, those branches stretched out to guide you;
and singing, that song reaching out to hold you;
and ages dying, fading away beneath those yellowed branches—
now you wait for the advent of spring, an eternal lament
of slowed, persistent flowing, of pointed, ageless growing—
of wallowing in the hollows
and promising in the branches,
and leaving in the sunset,
and learning in the shade:
she flew away, I think, to the edges of the sea.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 5:49 PM UTC
At the LAUNDROMAT / the sign, all in Caps.
Time : Midnight at half past
It’s like a home for my home-girl
And that Chicano Youngblood
Cutie with his family duties /
in the lateness of tonight, doing laundry:
Folding his brothers’ Johns
His Tia’s Lacey skimpy's
Crumpled like tiny ****** / scrunchies.
He’s Methodical, his eyes don’t waver
From his work,
Tries to not notice mines
I feel like I’m in a rap video,
My chick being clocked by dark eyed,
She does not notice,
& while at tumble dry
I can’t quit ogling at ****
Hanes-shirt white,
Mr. homegrown boy / guy.
Headphone Speakers have his ears
Texting back at spam / females,
Smartphone shiny thick ‘uns
While I watch salivarily, licking lips
**** so Fine!
My muffled salutations—hot ****
He’s Adjusting himself front faced
my window to
Things that makes you go hmmm...
I feel I should somehow
Cater to these wiles inside
Aquiver / wrought / A high
Willowing / body admonishing
the vibrations of deep bass
like hard hip-hop rap beats from
Impalas riding way low,
Tinted windows vs. blind faith
Reality vs. perceptions from our
Fantasy / briefly close shuddering eyes
Awake not a dream spared.
(Hello there!)
Midnight at the Laudromat,
This is some reality at that!
Home grown boys
And drool drops / swimming in thought
From the corner of mouths
Words are *****
Past the late of moonless nights
In the neighborhood of Twain and
Corona beers (hold the virus)
We’re all marked by the streets
And the big empty inside us...
The hunger pangs,
Homeless outside chitchat on black
Skittering past
City Wildlife
At Midnight at the Laundromat.
Yes ****** &
Too **** at That
(In all caps.)
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 6:07 AM UTC
Is it the silence of all remains of civilization,
willowing their thoughts on the threshold-
of humanity, crying to be born out of-
the crest of creation?
Or is it the soft penetrating sounds of-
birds chirping, singing in their-
harmonious tone, nesting on the-
foundation of what is love?
For if you cannot find peace within-
yourself, there is no reason to look-
somewhere else. For to look is like-
a withering flower, crying to be born-
out of the pedestals of society.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
Ten years to master a spear,
A hundred to master the sword,
But an eternality to master the brush.
A spear, I used, to hold a fortress,
A sword unsheathed, the heavens fears,
But a brush in hand, ten thousand enlightened.
Ah, is not the spear a weapon of soldiers,
The sword, the hero's friend,
At last, the brush is the sage's kin.
Why shed blood of a thousand men,
Why not teach immortals and men.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC