"wizen" poems
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, sunset west moon flies east? ;]
air planes soar
beyond the limits they roar
in a longing stare they long
disappearing through the clouds and gone
arise arose arisen
and in my place still frozen wizen
they venture the winds purple skied time
to blend and wing the moon menaces racing in line
glistening afar
from the back of a wounded scar
archer to the future
claiming a bleach
where does it go?
where does it reach?
maybe Saturn not here
but the return is there
to the node of the belong flying up no fear
seems my flight gonna wait for years
the waxing gibbous flies
and I hope for dreams in the close of eyes
------ravenfeels
Jun 23, 2021
Jun 23, 2021 at 12:05 PM UTC
i live in a ******** so boring tractors roam the streets in the usual
traffic,
but i found that you can wizen up to a title of wizard
by finding inanimate things entertaining and thought provoking,
because the internet will not become
the next scapegoat of goldfish memory - not the next
box of entertainment - it will be what god’s green earth indented.
out here, where you’re far from trafalgar sq. you
get crows circling back to the origin of the woods with odin on the lyre
venting out against too much pigeon **** coo coo of the attired men and women marking karma with the no. 13 and being ******* on from on high,
you get seagulls, even, seagulls so far into dry land... imagine!
and you get the autistic zoning in of the cat’s eye,
those cats are very autistic, their eyes tell the sad sad story
of encapsulated solipsism - snap your fingers or meow
and they look at you passing you looking at some randomised
point of entering their sleeping pattern - very autistic those cats,
they look at you almost cross-eyed when you try to snap them out of it -
out of it being: ****** off at being awake.
very autistic those cats, those cats are very autistic, they look
at you looking past you, looking almost cross-eyed -
don’t blame me for the zigzag or the w!
so as i said, it’s so boring where i live you see tractors and crows,
and the only solidification of your presence is either provided for
by an addiction to television eager for the flicker -
or drinking... watching bricks, thinking bits and bobs out
for the torrent of slavic plumbers building the great ****** of london.
lo... upon the yonder... there it blooms *******
i like places where trees tower over man's handing man brick on brick -
makes the sky a bit bigger and less asthmatic.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
What you don’t know is
that I don’t know either.
What makes you stay inside on sunny days
has pestered me as well my whole life.
Shadows of things that would never happen
grew ominous, loomed over my cowering heart
so being a defensive, obsessive ruminator
my hope to make the leaves in my yard
stand still against gusts of wind –
become a psychotherapist
a posturing senex
trailing his wounded child behind
all made OK
with a license to insult you
pretending I know something
you don’t.
Will global warming disappear (?)
just because I know thousands of facts
about worms after rain
about how so many weeds pop up
in freshly-rained soil
underneath even dominating magnolias
and you pay me
to wizen you.
You stare like a mesmerized gazelle
counting the lions
a whole dozen of them
drawing a circle around your life in tall grass.
I want to tell you
run from the need for a resting place
from the pointless mobius strip
of therapy’s semantic banter.
I wish you would tell me
to just be quiet for once
invite me to hike a trail
protected by angels
with just so much sun
enough rain to nurture
and the lions yes
the lions like Fu Dogs
guard the entry to the hills.
I always forget
it isn’t my frustrated reverie
my angst about knowing
how important it is
not to need to know anything
this constant inability
not to daydream
that brought you here
to a leather throne
with an Olympus digital recorder
so you can capture every
single
word.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
The wizen winds whispered
Let him go
So you can grow
Let your roots settle as they may
Or tare up the earth so
You can stray to find a new way
So slowly she seized upon the pain
Clawed at the ground
Hands bloodied and bruised
Nails push backed to the point
Of unbearable pain
She ripped her roots
Out of the earth
Ready to move on
And he came back
With just a glimmer up hope
She replanted her seed
Bent down on her knees
Begging him please
Promising she would change
Contorting herself to his demands
While he stayed the same
What a shame
She was a lovely tree
Free as the wind
And ready to be
Something better
A new butterfly
Now the butterfly dies
If she reads this
She will despise me
Say, I do not understand
I’d say that the person
Woven in to the pattern
Cannot see the design
Cannot cut fates golden line
When they do not know
How the story goes
Oh, well it’s not my hell to bare
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
The ship had left the port two hours before Geraldine
Said, ‘’I feel that I'll never turn back here again! ’’
She passed through the waiting line formed to use the latrine.
Suddenly, she heard a thunder in that rush of rain.
They had insufficient fuel, but enough food to last
Until they arrive in Çanakkale; the kitchen
Was quite large and Maya started to cook very fast.
''Maya, what smells so good? '' She said, '' the last fried chicken.''
Ibrahim was seventeen years old, and he helped them
Prepare the breakfast for the passengers; he entered
To bring a basket of coal and jet. ‘’It looks like gem.''
He took a coal into his hand to see if it was splintered.
''It is increasingly difficult to sleep at night, ''
Geraldine said; the ship was sailing forward slowly.
The waves were small, and a galleon came into sight.
It had the color of those waters being shoaly.
'Twas a commercial one sailing in the same direction.
A gust of wind ruffled her hair and snatched her blue bow.
The splashing waves with the rain drops were in connection.
That ship was sailing fast, but none of their sailors knew how.
Maya took the kettle of water coming to a boil;
Prepared bread with butter and cheese for the coming people:
Twenty passengers and fifteen sailors freed from toil.
The bells that rang were like those being in a steeple.
Suddenly, there was a bang as the ship might have hit a reef.
Frederick and Sam looked up seeing that the square sail
Deteriorated slightly in the wind, and the chief
Asked Sam to repair it.''There're two techniques that never fail.''
''Do you see that ship in the distance, on the horizon? ''
''It must be a Spanish galleon bringing *******
Laced with wine, ''said Brisbon whose face was wrinkled and wizen.
''They sail across the Pacific Ocean from New Spain.''
''They're longer, lower and narrower, with a square tuck stern
And have snouts projecting forward from the bows below
The forecastle level.'' They forced their eyes to discern.
The sun rose making the water have a golden glow.
'' These galleons are fast and very maneuverable.
They enable the ****** to sail closer to the wind, ''
Said Fargo.''Old ship's problems are innumerable.''
Freddy said, '' a thought to buy a new ship is in my mind.''
( to be continued...)
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
How can one even think to gaze skyward
When it is you upon the horizon?
Why bother with the dull words of songbirds
When your laugh causes their songs to wizen?
Why! A solar flare could only hope to
Compare to a small upturn of your lips;
I should be so lucky to lift the blue
From your warm heart with my fatuous quips.
You’re an ocean’s breath - salty and wild,
And I am nothing more than Springtime air;
How is it you make me feel less mild
With nothing more than a brush of your hair?
I would count my lucky stars for your light,
Instead I count your freckles in my sight.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
The young who wizen
Leave me grieving until my breathing stops.
For many years I wallowed
With old photos.
One of Jim sporting a cast,
Holding court with a circle of friends
In the damp cement cellar.
No more lines to flip,
No visages to make us laugh.
I used to hear his favourite tunes
Coming from his room.
Your's is a great loss,
A terrible trouble.
At sixteen we knew he was
A young Methuselah:
Green on the vine,
Unaged wine, a bitter pill.
Dying, dying, dying.
To love him was to leave him
In his last dark hours.
No brother could do more.
I feel the soft parting touch of his warm hand
After so many years.
And you, bold , and shy of seventeen,
You wrote, and I saved it, unexpectedly:
“Peacocks dabbling through the wind
Were the spectrum of her eyes.”
I knew I'd use it someday.
Today.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
I had my day
Time now to part our way,
I step from here to a mess
Where I won’t have your loveliness
Your soft hug warm caress
Your assuring presence in loneliness,
I have to seek the you now in flesh
Search for one with your likeness
Fail and grieve for the times that flew
Coming to know there can’t be another you,
This body would wizen and shrink with age
This youthful frame would turn to yellow page
But you ageless will just change hands
Plant in new eyes dreams of fairylands
Remaining forever cute in hands soft and small
Childhood’s buddy my playtime’s doll.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 12:18 PM UTC
Blind in pursuit.
Lost among the world.
All reason seemingly mute.
Within turmoil, thoughtlessly hurled.
Silence to chaos.
Tangled knots strangle.
Gain to loss.
Meaningless at each angle.
Peace in the quiet.
The day is still.
In the mind, a thoughtful riot.
Fight for reason, such thoughts will.
Love to support.
Growth in logic.
Protective to visionary distort.
Complexities made basic.
Few shall know, few will see.
Two equates one.
Listen, become free.
Vision must precede action to wizen.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 6:24 PM UTC
Meet me one day in the inky black shadow
when the ground is speckled with the sprinkling of the glaring flow
to bathe ourselves into warmth with the sacred, shining, golden ichor.
The sky burst its vein on the jagged peaks on the horizon,
so let us cherish its blood
and lay on our backs among the buds
until we wizen
in the flood.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC
Sated by remorse
An evil eye, a salient gift
Silent to you, is the first of many worse?
Speeds of compliment, to understate an eye to lift...
Roads of paradise?
And the heat of a romance's kindness
Swear by the austere, a callous force to wizen?
In the mind of decency, is the sanity of guidance to attest...
A kiss of harmony...
And the children of sincerity, with no moment of goals
Sovereign tools of seldom seemed, alive in the sky's intimacy
Pick your poison or your letter, a challenge of dismay is here to fulfil
Likened to stillness of a metal that has the time...
Stir your future in a clashing spoil, of what was our hope
Saved by stone, and the still eternity of steel, is God after your life?
Notice the momentum of love, sanity is a relationship in hatreds cope
Blue of the sky...
Seldom with a kissed order, to heart and the thirst...
Of ventures and seem, ready to give you an able why
Just for the canniness of promises, the sky has burst...
Aug 2, 2024
Aug 2, 2024 at 12:08 AM UTC
Waited women
Sojourning men
Accuracy, for a doling wind
Sophistication, and their children...
Purpose ought a promise...
Sans a wishful eye, we knew you...
Truer by a salt; a fault to wizen...
Collapse and see, the honor you are due...
Adding hours, with their causes
Risque, is the name of sinister works?
But with reality to invest, the cares are odd...
Of a reason in love with bests, the smile of worsts?
Callous
Actual liberty, to worth in the limelight...?
A voice so simple, that it is the speed of us
Viewing the mercy in a lived seem, are we forever, right?
Lies to the patience, the turn of solace into deems weal, real...
Have the excuse of decisions few, but forces of a secret's wish
Has become the only way to pardon life, a heart to steal?
Hatred is cheap, when your mind swims with a fish...
God's heaven
Smiles of decency, for a frightening halt to it
Timid futures, with a place for love, even given
Only lead by the truth of us, sincerity and wit...
Sleep of the, ages...
Sent to went, the tilling eye of loves sate...
Merit in one more kindness, above which is life's wages...
Time with no proof, of what is a lovers fate...
Sep 21, 2024
Sep 21, 2024 at 12:11 AM UTC
~o~o~o~
Skin is the one that gets wrinkled,
it deals with the heat and the cold
of one's existence...not the mind,
the heart, or feelings...character
and determination mellow with the
passing years...brain is hidden,
but has always been gray...hair
gets visibly gray with age.
~o~o~o~
Seasons, and life's lessons
help broaden and wizen
narrow minds...a much awaited
solitude, that silent dialogue with
the soul, gives light and sense to
questions...it pays to be in touch.
~o~o~o~
Late summers have come...a face
that once youthfully beamed
with smiles...still smiles,
the grayed crown sparkles under
the sun...making it known that,
lightning still flashes in the mind,
thunder still roars through the veins.
~o~o~o~
Underneath wrinkled skin and gray,
thinning hair, there still breathes
within, a little girl or a boy...a once
young lady, or young man, now
aging men and women...more
introspective and ruminative...but,
it's still you, him, her, me...it's still US!
~o~o~o~
Not much changes, just numbers, gray
hair...lined skin, and plenty of wisdom.
~o~o~o~
sally b
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
February 6, 2022
Feb 8, 2022
Feb 8, 2022 at 6:10 AM UTC
Standards I set aloft
In winds, I see me waft,
Billowing up to drift apart
Yet perceptibly intact!
Always I aim high
which makes people sigh
and also taunt me wry.
But never do they ask why?
Trying to reach horizon
may make one wizen,
While yielding to mediocrity
fazes out one’s alacrity!
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
The Hummock
There is a hill behind the houses rounded and soft
I call it a -mother hill- and it welcome you and softly
Murmur, how do you do and leave you alone to sit
On a boulder and think how incredible life is.
If you sit there too long enjoying your sentimentality
It wakes you up the rock get cold and the northerly
Blow that has a fragrance of Siberia, reindeer and *****
So you walk about to keep warm and see wildflowers
Hiding behind stones, but pick them you cannot they
Are not yours will wizen in your hands and bring rain
Walk softly now the aroma of spring is in the grass.
Just behind the hill a hillock grey as October fall, but
Out of sight and no trees grow on it scrawny side it
The mother hill's burden which it bears with fortitude
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC