"wordlessness" poems
never fall in love with a boy who
speaks in lavender soliloquy and
smells like cigarettes and melancholy;
whose kisses leave you in nirvana and
whose flesh lays in some lovely façade;
for he is a poet, a philosopher, and a believer
whose mind will disappear into breathless purgatory
when you're not even looking
and by the time you'll find out
you'll already have lost him somewhere,
between wandering verbosity,
and ashen wordlessness
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
There I stood
In a long hallway
Stretching thinly
To a lit point
Lined with doors
Opening as they closed
Its prisms transposing
Euphoria as it shone
Lifting my chest
It dragged me breathless
Down its stretches
As I was reflected
In my own projections
Of sentients
Until innocence
Was all there is
And that is
Where thoughtless
Narrative lives
Where languidly it gives
Wordlessness meaning
And that is
Where fraughtless
Intentions can win
Acting replacing thinking
Incentive in Zen
Awaking and thinking again
Was is and gonna be
Everything I believe
Even while deceived
In sets of themes
Numeric categories
And the tragic stories
Of grander things
Things of grandeurous dreams
That I wring out in the sink
While winking
The well wishes away
In splashes
Of graying
Paint
My hate
Is displayed
In the mourning
Of Mondays
And with relatable monotony
And some mundane
Everything goes back to the same
Or at least
That's the philosophy
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
I challenged him
burly ******* captain
stubbled beard as coarse as sandpaper
standing there in muggy dusk
arms akimbo,
mama san starched uniform stained with swagger and sweat
two silver captain's bars ******* any of my brilliance or bravado
all he had to do was speaketh the words
“need those maps, head out at 2230 hours”
and that was a death sentence
which was commuted to life
if four decades since has been life
there are not words for the black
of moonless jungle
except nothingness and paralytic fear
and through that lightless, lifeless, abyssness
I crawled, crouched and crept along
sometimes as slowly as the minute hand on my watch
the silence, the silence, the silence
became my splintered cross
to carry to my place of crucifixion
at my Calvary Hill behind barbed wire, blue lead barrels and
fearful eyes
silence, silence, silence, black wordlessness
black soundlessness
punctuated by shallow precious breaths
and imagined slant-eyed demons
waiting behind each berm
to turn the timeless night into timelessness
of more black
should I chamber a round?
and follow its solitary sound
into the silent holy night
and shatter my own fragile fright?
would that end this knowing without knowing?
and answer the question,
“is this fear worse than the answer?”
since questions have answers but answers have nothing
the nothing of which I was sure I would become a part
in the silence, the silence, the silence
of the black canopied jungle
in Tay Ninh Province
in 1967
where I was sentenced to death but allowed to live
in silent, black wordlessness
sentenced to live
to wonder, after all these years of shivering fright and flickering light
did the captain become a human?
And was I really allowed to live?
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 9:58 AM UTC
Never finding expectation to exist beyond the last known blip of the past, projected through my back, in tackled grounds, bound, in the banter of spectators, speculating the specifications of specialised weaponry, silencing the empathy, and seducing my enemies in the isolated idolatry of their stupidity that i sculpted from the scrutiny, that was wished to have eluded me but soothed my playful solidarity to my sickly game called reap and sow instead.
We are all dead, all dead inside, residing in thriving wounds.
Left unsaid in rhymes etched in tombs.
In the lies of old bafoons
I shall not fight, myself, as they do, nor shall i defy whats right just to eat tonight.
I will fight until I am mine and sleep.
Cradled in my shrine of thoughts amiss, in the frost of loss vs reward.
I am torn, between torture and a vultures wait of the prize to pedal the pestilent pettiness to the edges of my testaments, in the truth of youth-less suicide, slicing social structures into cylinders to swing in circles around the room.
Swooning, in my looming threat of self immolation to warm the heart with shopping carts of satire, killing the sad away.
Delaying the the decay of hope.
A stay of patience in my irrelevance,never hesitant in my clever projections of nothing.
I feed you nothing
But emptiness
Shuttering in the sultry shade of my suffering and loving every moment of it.
Saying nothing too much in things of such insignificance.
Spilling the mizpellings and settling for wordlessness after a good ***** of belligerent arrogance.
Im tempted to quit but my wick is lit and to submit now, would just put the fire out and i want to watch the burn.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
Heat waves in iced water.
Chilled moonshine on the scorching sun.
Blades of green earth on a long-lit fire.
Fresh-water creatures in the salty sea.
A glow, brighter than, and in the ocean of night.
A rock in the sky and birds that can't fly.
A whale on the beach with the sea out of reach. And Blossoms in a dark room.
An infant on his feet soon to fall into defeat.
Ever-greens in winter and ghosts in mid-day. Lungs underwater and gills in air. Like drugs in one's system that slowly pass through.
Owls at dawn, daylight birds in nocturnal song and eyes staring at the sun.
A snake on smooth surface and a worm on the rough.
Like a house cat in the wild mountains and rivers in suburban territory.
Like pillows stuffed with stones and a child with evil inside.
Free spirits in a cage and prisoners freed.
Like a stick in quick sand, a weighted mass floating on a light surface.
Like a dog, a cat and rat peacefully below one roof.
Like a beaten lion and a victorious antelope.
Like the colour of green against the shadow of black. Like hopping on concrete and civil wars. The hood in a college girl and a college girl in the hood.
Like curtains in the morning and yawning windows at dusk. Like an aged oak in the midst of a flood, like a water lily in the days of drought.
Like a forgotten pearl in a waste dump and fake gold on a woman's index.
Like a loud song muted by those who fear volume and a soft one forced to yell above its pitch.
Like a ladybug on a pesticide- poisoned crop.
Like a polar bear in the African Sahara.
Like a camel by the coast, ants with no work and busybodied sloths. A scarf in summer and crop tops in autumn. Plants dying in September and coming back to life in June.
Like a written-on page on a brand new day and wordlessness when that day is old and weary.
Like a torch at midnight. Like cellphones in a filled bath tub.
Like a fat man sprinting and the turtle losing the race. Like a homeless mother in a mansion.
Like a teenage girl with no tongue, and oppressors with no power.
Like David and Goliath, like a insane Albert Einstein. Like a flame on the ocean floor. Like me in this world, I shouldn't be, but I can be and I will be.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 4:29 AM UTC
**** you for making me
Open my eyes to the
Outterness.
And for making me smile in my
Sleep.
Hell, I don't even know if I
Could ever fall for someone as
Perfect as your first-to-fifth
Digital
Impressions have made you
Out to be.
I zen my shoulders back down
And breathe, embracing the
Adventure of having even so much
As whispered to your
Shadow. Tomorrow
Or a decade's time away
Or a swift aeon's,
You'll be gone from my life.
I'll still be grateful.
No flower disregards
Even a second of petal-stroking
Sunlight.
In a world as dumb
As this one, your very being
Is a drop of supernova in a very
Silent *** of cosmic wordlessness.
I hope you're not
Scared of
Poets.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
Cross the distance
Close the gap,
Make a stride traverse a
Infinite chasm.
Every pale replacement
Is a soft lie
Whispered inward
At a truth, a need
To accept that
The otherside has faded to myth;
Fallen to shadow.
Having recall
Of the way oasis feels
With certainty, the grass is greener
Back in the place
Filled with emerald eyes
White teeth smiles,
Skin like guilded earth.
These
Recollections
Made me certain I was touching eternity
When the waves brushed my skin.
There is wordlessness in this knowledge
A sublimity, a divine loneliness
Knowing the expanse that
Divides lands,
Stretching beyond sight, perception, and physicality
Feels like nothing
In the distance between us.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
The twisting and turning, grumbling, churning, elation, desperation and more.
Reflexive minds compacting semiotics until an inevitable meaninglessness rears up in smugness.
*"There is Nothing here.
Nothing for you
Nothing Of you.
Nothing."*
The mind begins again, fumbling, stumbling, eureka-ing, ambling, grasping and more.
Reflexive minds compacting semiotics until an inevitable meaninglessness rears up in smugness.
*"There is Nothing here.
Nothing for you,
Nothing Of you,
Nothing."*
The mind will not accept, that it, in it's biological supremacy, is simultaneously, Nothing.
A joke.
Some vapid expression of consciousness.
The mind will only protect, that which it most values; Esteem.
Reverence of it's own structure.
The Marvel.
A human, student, sales-assistant, a sister...
...Something? ...Anything?...
*"There is Nothing here.
Nothing for you,
Nothing Of you,
Nothing."*
The mind is a tool, one of the most primitive.
Natural selection adding accessories like some distasteful outfit.
The mind means well.
Aching to Justify, with inelegant adjectives, it's fondness of itself.
Petrified of it's "Nothingness";
The wordlessness that conveys meaning no mind can ascribe to language.
*"There is Nothing here.
Nothing for you,
Nothing Of you,
Nothing."*
please Stop mind.
The thrashing and the squirming,
stop flexing your Precocious Verbiage.
just stop.
.
.
allow Me to quell your convolution, using your own Pig English;
you are unequivocally a Thing.
And, there IS Nothing here.
And it is NOT For you.
And it is not OF you.
//It//Is//Nothing//
you, Are a possession,
I, the possessor.
Therefore you,
My most precious of things,
Will never fathom Me.
.
*Because you are Something,
and so, you are not.*
But I am Nothing.
For, I - am.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
It was raining and it was morning.
They sat in the car underneath a tree, upon a hill, overlooking the vast cemetery below. Clichès still have the potential to be beautiful, they know. Intellectual awareness allows for understood symbolism, the death of that which dies at a cemetery, the emotional downpour demarcated by rain, the interstitial distance of looking forward and down.
Silence and language working symbiotically as a stratagem to both hide and reveal vulnerability. The clichè of their location works with the conversation.
He is sad. She knows.
She knows the emotional location he lives within, she purposefully disregarded his eyes, those eyes that have always stared at her from the mirror, her eyes. The eyes of those with hollow love for themselves. The selfishness of selflessness, the facticity of unfortunate neurological tendencies, the self-imposed limitations.
They speak. He speaks.
She hears him speak, she who is devoid of empathy, she reaches empathy through his words, she hears the thesis of her own thoughts, she cries. She cries because he narrates her perception of herself, through narrating his perception of himself, and she knows the meaning of it.
He cries because it is his.
He looks away.
He says I don't want you to know the things about me. The things that are disgusting.
She loves those things. It's not enough. She knows.
She talks to herself, she talks to him.
She takes his hand, they cling to the ephemeral union.
It stops raining.
They walk into the chapel, the ashes of those who lived resting upon glass bookshelves, behind glass cases. They sit upon a couch in silence. They collapse, against each other.
Two women observe the marble of the mausoleum.
They arise. The women are startled. The women didn't see them sitting; they were three feet away.
He takes her home. They fade into wordlessness during the drive. They look at each other with desperation at a stop sign.
She says goodbye. She walks away.
They walk away.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
what kind of movement was it?
that brought the head to the knees
a curled spiraling whimper
unhitched to the winds round the room?
what kind of act,
blue through and through
could topple such bonds that were deeper?
what were the thoughts
that built up like bricks
due each meiotic mutation?
what brute could so brash
dried out heavy headed
to full careless crush
the gentlest swath
her two hands ?
where went the time
day by day through each slot
like coins I collected
each morning each night,
pearl afternoons
the glint off your brow,
the stoop of your chest the
scoop of your back-blades,
more leaves of memory
now slipped out by the breeze through my mind with a cry,
theived hollow,
out the window and gone
where now is the murmur of glow
with thunder softened out through the trees
electrons spinning the push of your atoms to mine
where now the wordlessness,
you with me?
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
real is the form.
here now is a colony of words,
or an empire of assault from the
many truths that smite us.
our hearts gallop altogether
past the prairie of imaginations:
this movement, this locutionary,
this waltz adagios its way
to a pace that knows no sojourn.
let us raise our clenched fists
always angelward.
we are young in this agronomy.
our hands remind us of their increasing responsibilities.
our inner light realizes the throng of our shadows - away from the dark
we go pursuant to all effulgence.
let us unpin our juvenile wings
from the clasp of what startles
us back to our flawed origins.
a flumine of flawlessness awaits
the steep end of our possibilities.
let us not neglect this.
let us, hand in hand, straightforwardly, break from our nascent states and unfurl in a craze of the so many things that capture our potentials.
outside my home, the streets are vacuous, famished from the twirling laughter of children.
once, the grass is giddy from the lightsome meanderings of our superfluous feet! where did all the days crawl to? these limbless serpents that pillage the fruits of our sageness.
i look outside and the mellow moon
enters with its lithe figure
through the hollow spaces of doors
to lairs where the youth are sleeping, unmindful of what dreams log onto the papers of their souls.
heed the call and do not let
it go, running off into another hapless length of waiting.
real is the form.
there is no lie in our rawness.
the voice inside us is tender
with message, purging our poisons
into detox and preparing with
new energies, our
flesh for our consigned ventures.
the voluminous pages are still
white and new, words besmirched still yearn to be written - there is no getting realer than the realization of our clarion call:
real is the form
and in the blank veranda of green
we sift through wordlessness,
gaping our mouths now,
contributing a verse,
or a song!
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
let's sit across from each other
lay down our weapons and shields consisting of words and see what the silence makes of us
see what truths surface
maybe we'll stifle a laugh at first-
a natural awkward reaction to the taboo act of staring at someone without reason or explanation
to look directly into someones eyes to (if nothing else) reassure them of their own existence
to remind them that they are seen
and so pass the first thirty seconds
two hundred and ten more beautiful horrible seconds that unfold themselves between us
and once they past we are again allowed access to the gift that is expression
to communicate, talk, listen, laugh, cry, ask, answer
but what if when the silence ended
when the honesty presented itself?
when we were stripped bare; made simple?
what if after all the wordlessness and contemplation there was nothing left to say?
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
from the doctor's lightsome bed
after being examined in the bone
to my side of the lenient road
we are in the heat
of assault.
no dead lampposts
no macabre of alleys
harbinger dampened silence.
only this thing of us now
deconstructed to you
and i with no relevance
believing nothing but the
instantaneous rupture
of any thrown word
in the neighborhood of parks.
slam on the dashboard
and the groan of the engine:
hurtling at speeds faster
than any ******
across the knobby knee tawny
slivered burgeoning words
escape compartments ajar
objects unkempt
dissipating on the svelte ragamuffin
linen, faded masquerades of feeling
trying to destroy the riddle
lunging with uproarious wordlessness
like a den of lions set loose
here speeding 110 kilometers
in arbitrary roads finding each other
again, this time
making furious love.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 2:41 AM UTC
Necessities
BY RUSTY MORRISON
In through our bedroom window, the full dawn-scape concusses.
Difficult to sustain sleep's equilibrium of wordlessness.
Naming anything, like stepping barefoot in wet sand up to my ankles. . . .
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
Two photographs merged into one vague composition -
A world of wordlessness;
A two-dimensional space made of faded lights and shadows.
As my pulse dances into the rhythm of clockworks,
With eyes wide open, I continue to fall stead fast on solid grounds.
I fear that time will mercilessly refuse to stop when it should.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 4:55 AM UTC
how i wish to hurry
back to arms, hurtling
bearing me into the hollow
of hand full of hours rearing me prolongations of wordlessness —
bell-jar, your lip,
smashed into concrete, my lip.
bleeding, your lip,
quenching the tractable beast, my lip.
silence annuls, your lip
leaving the noise in me borderless, my lip,
wanting it more than
how dead trees desire autumn
light, your lip
left nocturnal, pulse dare drunkenly away, slovenly from the ground, my lip
i cannot have it
anymore.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
The residual feeling of
politest departure with
the loving manner,
sings out its heart to you.
This systematic means of the
language entreats its unquietly
wordlessness to give an
affectionate embrace to
your benignity.
The lover of this epic love
seems to be astounded by the
expounding intervention of your
tender verses.
-Restoring overtures of a trouveur endures an unnecessarily
worrying heart.
Shivpriya
#beautifulthingsandemotions
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 3:29 PM UTC
The siren isn't just a warning,
as its white Icicles fall to the ground.
My conscience has a clarity
We swim to the brink of the river,
where I fear the swirls of an whirlpool,
holding myself up from drowning,
breathing and fastening the wordlessness
of heavenwards
May 29, 2022
May 29, 2022 at 9:51 AM UTC
No words follow your visage.
I think of you
And my mind materializes your face,
Your shoulders,
Your hands.
I see your blue eyes
Clear as a stream,
Your wispy blonde hair
Balled up in my fist,
Your jagged nose bumping mine.
My heart jumps,
I hear your slow laugh.
I smirk,
Watching you turn away,
Looking up to the side,
Your hands deep in your pockets.
You are every sensation
As stark as memory allows,
With no definition,
No rhetorical root,
So I struggle to write about you.
You don’t say much
So it follows
That my mind has not assigned a vocabulary
For mourning you,
Though I continue to.
The regret resounds
And I’m at no loss
For names to call myself,
Knowing that I held you
And let misguided indecision
Let you go.
If I could take it all back,
Un-drink all that wine,
Un-cry all your tears,
Go back in time and tell you I love you
The second I thought to,
Maybe you might still love me too.
But the damage is done,
Our bodies untangled,
The pills have all been swallowed,
And you’d rather
I just give up.
So I will lie in the mess I’ve made,
Drenching myself in the blood,
The drinks I have spilled.
Soaking up the guilt,
Absorbing the hurt I let spew.
I will grapple with wordlessness,
Yearning to poeticize my longing.
But I will get what I deserve,
Silence and prosaic grief.
Only images remain,
Flashes of your face.
Tactile memories come in pieces
And I hear your exasperation
In short breaths.
This is what I have left of you
And with this
I must make do.
Mar 13, 2024
Mar 13, 2024 at 5:55 PM UTC
I sit down with a pen in my hand
after months of wordlessness
to tell you where I’ve been.
I have not written about you in awhile
or had any dreams where you’re there
you haven’t vanished from my life,
I still think about you everyday.
but I’ve found other things to occupy my mind.
The last letter you received was after you
were confronted.
Since then I have been a mess of emotions and
confusion.
I am back on medications for my episodes
but i have not experienced one in 4 days.
It’s funny… i used to believe i was unloved-
because that’s how you made me feel
but last month i looked up and found myself
surrounded by people that love me.
I was crippled with fear last summer
where everything was difficult to do-
I couldn’t live with it.
Now, it’s like there's every opportunity, choice,
decision in front of me.
it’s a lot to handle sometimes.
I’ve told you how I wanted to end my life
that i’ve been planning for years.
I couldn’t see a few months ahead of me,
I knew I would be dead before Christmas.
I don’t know what’s going to come next,
or what will happen to me.
but I’m planning to be there for it.
You sent a lawyer after me.
Which i expected, but it still surprised me that you would.
I hope your lawyer shares pictures of me living
and being happy. Free.
How does it make you feel?
I write letters about the hard times,
not many about the good.
I’m trying to change that.
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 6:25 PM UTC