"wisping" poems
notice the convulsed orange inch of moon
perching on this silver minute of evening.
We’ll choose the way to the forest—no offense
to you,white town whose spires softly dare.
Will take the houseless wisping rune
of road lazily carved on sharpening air.
Fields lying miraculous in violent silence
fill with microscopic whithering
…(that’s the Black People, chérie,
who live under stones.) Don’t be afraid
and we will pass the simple ugliness
of exact tombs,where a large road crosses
and all the people are minutely dead.
Then you will slowly kiss me
51.7k
Trying to feel the thinness of air,
Running through your fingers like silk
Gently pushing around you in a soft embrace
Intangible tendrils wisping around your face
Ever present,
And forgotten
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
.
A whirlwind of stagnant breeze
disturbs the warmest stillness.
Solar rays shimmer and coalesce
forming images of the Summer Girl.
Fragrant scents in light colours
float gently from her hair.
Flowers laced with golden thread
adorning her head like a wreath.
Chasing the shadows of clouds
across the heat haze so strange.
Her body lithe and newly alive
darting and flitting dragonfly style.
Arriving at the painting of the dawn
and here to nurse the day.
Leaving at the doom of sunset,
wisping images of the Summer Girl.
©Pagan Paul (07/06/14).
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC
moist moist moist moist MoiSt mOisT moIsT MOIST
now stop reading it, say it
moist
it's a weird word
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
a storm is coming
and I can smell it, feel it
MOIST
on my skin- slick
it wisps into my mouth
dirt patches aren't meant to be stoic
the storm approaches from the north, northwest
I am headed that way- north, northwest- approaching it
we have not yet converged but I can feel it
moist
it tastes of dry dirt
not local
nomadic
the clouds are foreshadowing --- foreboding
parting only to show more grey
we have yet to converge but I can feel it
the grey
the parting
the moistness
I am not yet there but I can feel it
wisping through me
I am not meant to be stoic
nomadic
the first d
r
o
p
refreshing
I can feel it. really feel it.
moist on my skin. weird.
the clouds are parting
lightening [effect] thunder [effect] convergence [effect]
I am the storm; its core
moist
grey
parting
wisping
can you feel me
approaching...
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
I'll seek refuge in places that don't hold my name to be true, and even in emptiness I remain wrought through heavy handed tones of antipathy
Echoes of resolute desire plea with somber empathy, but remain indefinitely beyond the horizon of which I can not seek - and I shall remain waiting for something that has yet to come, for good it seems..
It rings barren any semblance of genuineness, the shadows I fall under; in plighted qualms, through quarreled teeth; without strength to hold my own, my very soul becomes the ground with which they walk
Desolation is the staunch friend from which I may not doubt will never be there in my time of need; and what I truly need, I fear, will never set foot upon my gaze
Like a sullen rose barred behind a glass wall, bereft of life giving nutrients and slowly wilting away one pedal at a time: I'll solemnly gaze upon the last glimmer of hope what was once profound and pure, now gripped with agony, and sin; decaying, alone, forever out of reach with only my eyes and heart to embrace it, yet never once again know what it may feel like to hold close with my own flesh
I am surrounded by an unspoken emptiness; an infinite abyss in every direction, except forward - and to each footstep I hear an echo of its past, one more inch beyond itself and gone before the last moments incur what hollow life is left within
Each passing moment brings me further to the edge of the unknown, this hope that's guided me for this long has burned like an eternal candle, now wisping what light is left to bear before me
One step more, and into the embracing darkness I will fall unto
The cries of war are beginning to recess; the battle has ceased, and I am still without a place to call home
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 1:58 AM UTC
wary of sharp edges
magnets north to north
and south to south
our weariness abides
long the view through loves lens
seduced by wisping innuendo
cunningly untrue
stubbornly we here remain
the spark to see us through
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
I am captivated by a thought of old
Yeller in the streets of Madagascar.
Shot me dead indeed for standing up
to digs of my deeds done wrong.
But what of his Sister, and did he miss her
for fiesta on Friday last~Until a droopy~eyed mistress crooned a cock~a~doodle~doo straight against the face of death.
They loved Prima, come subtle still life into the night. Brought Passion'd brink of tears, thrown forlorn wisping shutter to my skin and I am Thought.. thinking I migh'nt be lost to soon to this moment mi'amour.
Charging hunted into the streets, taken by day or by night. Overrated artform of statuesque mystique, compendium of gods have struck me mortal and I am Death...dying unto pleasures infinitum.
Quell into question the material mourning, noon and night. Antidote to antithesis is Imagination...imagining everything in nothingness all at once...banging out existence, through the vacuum...all the way to Madagascar.
Take my place, take my bullet for me on the other end of old Yeller and I will take your end on the other side... of You ...being Me.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
The days keep passing, don't they?
Even when I watch with my unblinking eyes
the stoic clocks that only emanate innocence.
Time passes slowly, here.
The languid ways with which the water careens
and sways
-and how even the air stands still
wisping softly between our fingers
and our hair.
The space between then and now grows
smaller, yes
despite the sorrow that comes with
dwelling and indifference.
And each day, I and the sun
will do that which is impossible-
endure
patient
ly
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 8:51 AM UTC
In an old log cabin
In the middle of the woods
Eerie quiet around them
Still, it’s peaceful
Strong arms around him
Warmth, heart and home
Lips against his jaw
Hands against his hips
His own fingers roaming in short hair
Then running over stubble
Backs of knees hitting the bed
Tumbling down with gracelessness
Deep laughter echoes
Blue eyes roaming his body
Loving him as if for forever
They still
Quiet
So, so quiet
Breaths wisping past ears
And then arms again
Tight around his body
Never letting go
Lips against his neck
Against his bare chest
And against his lips
They’ll hold on to each other
For as long as time allows
A sultry southern voice
Breaking the quiet
But still a whisper
“You’re the best of them, cher,”
And it quiets
He kisses him
Long and slow
Making up for what words can’t do
He loves him
He’s in love with him
And he hopes even God won’t contend with them.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 8:44 AM UTC
Writing prompt of the hour: mandrake
oh poison, what poison doth whisper in my ear
race through my veins like molten metal
cause the hottest summer to season in my mind
echoes a terrible trembling in my tingling limbs
it is mandrake, oh such deadly shade of night
that raises me to the floor luring my knees to my face
in unequalled gross distortions
oh mandrake, thou art a shade so deadly
as to make the blackest night quiver
now this poison makes strange ineluctable rhythms
gradually and patiently enter my body, my thoughts
like a gradual orchestral cadence of static melody
subtly wisping around my whole being.
destructive mandrake now scampers in my blood
becomes inseparable and lives in me
in fiery flocks of hallucinated concepts.
it fires through my body like burning sulphur
this mandrake, this poison
that has prolonged persistence
makes an experience of antediluvian treachery
from another time, not of this time, this present, this now
this here
mandrake has embalmed me to
the red roguish clay
I die ghastly from a writing prompt
mandrake, mandrake, deadly nightshade
fuqing mandrake
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
Children, fresh as bib lettuce,
Green and tender,
Stand before me in my rocking chair,
Pearled new teeth,
Wisping hair, golden, brown,
Embarking up a stair way
That I am going down.
"Papa, can we go out to play?"
I look out the window
To see the kind of day
Before I say,
"Would you like to take a walk?"
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 11:26 AM UTC
i would like to play the trumpet for you
i feel i could breathe
the wailing of my soul into it.
i could play myself through this instrument
into consciousness
from this sleeping dream
into smoke from this flame
i could wisp and dissipate
like clouds in your eyes
can you see the clouds in mine?
or the dew, in the morning left?
i cant remember the rain
though i am drenched, i am dripping
every bit falling, drop by drop,
into a lake never quenched
before words, before television
you have always preceded
the breath standing at the crest of my lips
but turned, scared, naked
retreating, from the beach
back to the sea
where you close curtains
to my whale song
pounding at the door
unintelligible frequencies
on top of waves and across the sandy floor
i sink so low, shaking
chains shackled to the earth
i'd barter for the key
but the guards
they ask the trumpet from me
summoning vultures to my stomach
my burning coal punishment
for swimming so reckless
for weeping on the shoreline
because you and the rainwater receded
back into the depth of chambered winds
slipping like the valves from my fingertips
before the hushed tones of my non harmonics
my soul blossoming out of it
my song on every radio, every wax and needle
in the air wisping out
when you are not the sun
and not listening.
clouds in the back of eyes,
and sleepless nights.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
***** the wil-'o-the-wisp sadly sat at home
for he was young and much too small
to roam the swamp alone
He wanted to be an elusive light
mysterious, misguiding and haunting the night.
„Oh swamp“ he whined „it all goes so slow
I don't want to stay home – please help me to grow!“
„Shut up, little ones, enough of that weeping“
bubbled the swamp and then started sleeping
„Oh not again“ the old tree moaned as ***** burst out in tears
and raised his branches left and right
to cover up his ears.
Meanwhile a burglar with Police had a battle
with a big bag of loot he had to skedaddle
into the swamp and lost the way.
He watched out for a guiding light
but all he found was crying *****
(wil-o'-the whisping really not bright)
„What's that?“ the burglar snidely asked
„a lousy glooming firefly?
can't even light my cigarette
get out of my way little bug“
and proceeded to pass by.
This now was too much for Willy's pride
(teenagers often freak out)
He drew himself to his fullest height
and he shouted loud:
„listen you mean and human thing – I am no dim-lit light!
Beware of the rage of an wil-o'-the wisp!“
and then he run completely wild
„Hear what I will bring to you
first death then pain and sorrow
I'll **** you first then chase you down
for you there's no more tomorrow
I'll lead you into deepest swamp to a puddle of mud
and when you start to drown in it – I'll watch you in cold blood“
(if we were picky in logic and order we surely now have to complain
but let's close an eye for he is still very young – back to the story again)
Inspite all efforts and Willy's threats
the burglar did not catch a word
(wil-o'-the-wisping as language is not very common
and therefore not often heard)
Let's say (to help our ***** a bit)
the burglar was slightly confused
so nothing much happend
until the swamp woke up
and swamp was not amused
„Who dared to disturbe my holy sleep?“
he blubbered with utmost grim
Willy's finger pointed out to the burglar then
and he sheepishly squeaked „that was him!“
Swamp did not hesitate too long
burglar sank into swamp to a place deep and stealthy
(for medical reasons we have to admit
this can't be considered as healthy)
In the next days ***** did not no more complain
to spend some more time at home
as he learned one thing this very day:
there are many ways that lead to Rome.
(©Heike Borgard 2014)
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
*I gaze outwards, hoping to eye
the secret source of my amazement...*
Such a subtle notion to be keenly aware of
my concentration whispering soft to me
like wonder washing over the clear eyes of a child.
Standing in the midst of a wild garden,
lost in thoughts and knee-high daffodils
rising to the occasion,
pacing the breeze in celebration
of concentric release and liberation.
The tone of my attention flows outwards
drifting in the vortical tumble
of wisping moments and spiral smiles
only a kissing kind of nature could spin
so effortlessly across the dusky horizon’s curving finesse.
Propelled into the Painter’s portrait of stars swept canvas
sweeping over my vision with the image
of the wonder-washed child standing in a garden,
gazing outwards from the picture quietly searching
for the secret source of her amazement…
..and I wonder if she sees me gazing back at her?
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
Your shining eyes excite:
Those pupils, fathomless black,
That grab, and drag me down
Into bottomless pits;
Like magnets drawing me into deep radiance.
Your swirling, tumbling hair that makes me dream
Of cascading feathers wisping all over my face,
As leaning over you draw closer,
To kiss me with your moist, shimmering lips.
Those lips that pout their promise,
To cushion mine in hot embrace,
And pull me down a never-ending tunnel:
So deep to Ecstasy’s black space.
Your body is a flowing land,
A symmetry of mounts and vales:
Seductive wiggling curves,
With endless
Tapering
Legs.
Yet beauty’s bettered by your warmth,
For looks are just skin-deep,
It is your heart that I adore,
Your Love I wish to keep.
We should be soul-mates, you and I,
Of this I’m very sure.
With Hope, and Luck,
And not a little pluck,
Our Love can long endure.
If This doesn’t Pull her nothing will!
PAUL BUTTERS
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
It is in the midst of strife
when the burden weighs most heavy,
your innards writhe and twisted;
the discomfort tugging at you so intensely
you cannot help but feel the tightness in your throat.
It is in the thick of this black mist
when your hands pick and pull
upon the wisping thread inside your head,
unraveling the rabble of cowardice voices
which spill like venom on your thoughts.
It is the unsettling notion
you are alone in a vast and empty ocean
sinking, suffocating and claustrophobic,
your mind is brimming, overflowing,
afraid it might just crack right open
It is knowing
these thoughts which come pouring
from that fractious bore inside your skull
seethe with undisclosed emotions
and their exposure to the air could crush you whole.
Will you allow this shameful wave
to crash atop you with all its galling weight
and drag you under grain by grain?
Or-
Will you battle back the coming storm,
standing above the surging tide
a rampart refusing to forfeit a single inch
of your distinguished shore?
I say battle.
Battle with the erosive waters rising inside you.
Battle knowing fully at first you are destined to lose.
The hero must be humbled
before others see him as the hero too.
So battle **** it, battle you glorious fool!
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
Strange ineluctable rhythms have gradually and patiently entered my thoughts
Like a gradual orchestral cadence of soft melody subtly wisping around my whole being
They scamper in my blood become inseparable and live in me
Flocks of hallucinated concepts
I become possessed of ever changing moods
The catatonic calm
The delirious frenzy
The ungovernable mania
My pleas, my questions, are ignored
I live
In wondrous chaos
In disturbed turbulence
In manic colors
In the the Darwinianism of shapes
I experience a feeling of high elation
A complicity in my adopted position
Intoxicated by the prospect of my duality.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 1:31 PM UTC
I'm lost in the city
But I'm taking my time
The streets keep talking to me
They're asking how everyone can spend so much time looking down and straight ahead
When a whole world grows rapidly above them
Buildings grow into the stars
A new styled solar system
They dance among the clouds
Wisping fluffs of greys and whites
When I look, I know that I want to be where it all connects
I am gliding down hills
I am fumbling through crosswalks
I am slipping past street signs
because I can't keep my feet on the ground and my head from that new world
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
MEPHISTOPHELES. Make good use of your time! It hurries past,
But order and method make time last,
So, friend, take my advice to heart:
Hear lectures on logic for a start.
Logic will train your mind all right;
Like inquisitor's boots it will squeeze you tight,,
Your thoughts will learn to creep and crawl
And never lose their way at all,
Not get criss-crossed as now, or go
Will-o'-the-wisping to and fro!
We'll teach you that your process of thinking
Instead of being like eating and drinking,
Spontaneous, instantaneous, free,
Must proceed by one and two and three.
Our thought-machine, as I assume,
Is in fact like a master-weavers loom:
One ****** of his foot, and a thousand threads
Invisibly shift, and hither and thither
The shuttles dart - just one he treads
And a thousand strands all twine together.
In comes your philosopher and proves
It must happen by distinct logical moves:
The first is this, the second is that,
And the third and fourth then follow pat;
If you leave out one or leave out two,
Then neither three nor four can be true.
The students applaud, they all say 'just so!'-
But how to weavers they still don't know.
When scholars study a thing, they strive
To **** it first, if it's alive;
Then they have the parts and they've lost the whole,
For the link that's missing was the living soul.
Encheiresis naturae, says Chemistry now -
Moccking itself without knowing how.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
Darkness of the patterned cloth,
Roughness of the sheets,
Wakeful wisping washing dreams,
Needless, needless sleep,
"Awake!" and "Awake!",
Alarm clock cries,
Quick and roll,
Avoid demise,
Bright and vivid bleakness seeps,
A coil to neck and chest,
Lost and losing the way it seems,
The serpents war is best,
"Arise!" and "Arise!",
A savior shouts,
Cast off the snake,
Forget your doubts,
Blackness of the inner eye,
Restlessness, heartlessness drives,
Struggle to the surface so close,
Final, dreaded release arrives,
"Sleep." and "Sleep."
The demon chides,
Hold gets tight,
Time he bides,
Sleep, Awake, Arise
Sleep, Awake, Arise
Sleep,
Awake,
Arise.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
I hope she teaches you the meaning of loving someone to death.
I hope you lose sleep talking to her, and then later that night when you can't stop thinking about that one thing she said, just keep replaying it in your head until sleep washes you into its sea.
I hope she brings back the faith you lost in people.
I hope you let her mess your hair up, even though you can't even stand the wind wisping softly through the strands.
I hope you memorize her favourite lines in movies and songs.
I hope hearing her cry makes you want to go to the ends of the earth to hear her genuinely laugh again.
I hope she's the calm to your storm and the colour to the, sometimes grey, life you lead.
Most of all, I hope you love her passionately, devotedly, selflessly, and without reason or hope.
Because then you'll finally realize, that's the way I loved you.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
Bestowed whispers abound
wisping against softness;
an alluvium flows in abated
breaths, crashing into dreams
awaiting uttered sighs;
aching to taste prurience rage
as tongue besieges pout
of want, awakening soul;
melding into silky fragility
gliding across masculinities
plain, caressing in tender
fingertip forages as I'm
consumed within his essence...uncoiled
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
I remember seventh grade
When life was wisping by
I remember how full my
Heart was
And how naive I was
I remember the fall leaves
Slowly dancing around us
Falling,Falling
I remember how
Peaceful it all was
And I remember how
Hard I'd scream and laugh
Whenever you gave me those hugs
Those amazing hugs
As though I was wrapped
In a snuggly cocoon
I remember how fun it was
To be your best friend
And how I loved you more
Each and every day
I remember our snowball fights
And how we laughed
I remember that mound of snow
And how I felt a spark when
Our faces neared and
Our eyes lingered
I remember running to your arms
With my declaration of love
And my acceptance to the idea of us
I remember the rain just two days after
The most beautiful drizzle
I have ever seen
And I remember running my hand
Across that pipe
Smiling knowing what was coming
It wasn't just my stomach with butterflies
It was all of me from head to toe
I remember sitting on the step facing you
And how a tap kiss scared me
And more made me jump back
And the most romantic thing
I'll ever know
Is when I said I couldn't out of fear
And you whispered "I know"
As you slid closer and kissed me
So passionately
I remember you and I
Falling in love
I didn't let you go
Because on that day
On all those days
You proved to me you,
You were worth fighting for
Your always worth fighting for.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
somewhere in my mind
a sky is full of kites
sunflowers blossoming on a hillside
fields of grapes, of my salt mixed with your perfume
my eyes drift across a canvas of waves
on which your warm feet have flattened grapes
into a sea diluted of sadness
stretching far from left to right
and wisping clouds above.
the heart follows timidly behind
approaching cautiously the soft strokes and waves
seeing each kite as an arrow
shot into the air by Cupid's jealous lover
as heaven's golden eye creeps past the mountain,
dips into the ocean
leaves this sky
a sweet, light wine; leaves me tipsy-turvy
while one can't help but believe:
loveliness is a vine mapped out within each
arms can hold, arms can drown
...I await yours.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
Damp, dead.
Springing to life under muddy soil,
The flowers will be here soon.
Skeletal branches claw the milky blue-purple sky,
Green mist beginning to coat their splitting fingers.
Biting cold and wisping wind,
The smell of wet earth and greening grass
More welcome than a smoking, fiery hearth.
Spring is coming, spring at last;
I had almost forgotten the taste of rain in the air.
Stone beneath my fingers, rough and smooth,
A rock in a field to rest against with a beautiful view.
The wind whispers the calling of birds
And the echoing cries of their mates,
The aviation coming north for a long stay.
My hair is whipped by the wind,
And flies from my face;
Fly away far,
Find your own flowing, rippling, grace.
Ice is cracking and rivers rushing,
Freed from their frozen imprisonment;
Fish are swimming and fishermen soon to be rowing
Across still waters clear and cold.
April has come to Michigan once more,
Breaking dawn in morning's cool air.
April returned to drive back the snow,
And Spring Break rides on its dove grey wings.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC