Poetry and Poetic Thoughts


#86

i. I may never be as beautiful, but for all of your physical loveliness, you will never be art.

ii. Oh, how lucky you are.
My heart, my love
to never experience the longing of wanting you.

iii. I wanted to sort out all inconsistency in you,
I do.


#88

Did you think you heard what I said?
Playing telephone games,
discord runs down the line.

Wait,
I wasn’t finished
with the part you never hear,
and I’m not what it was you thought.

Sound waves oscillate,
resonating kinks in creation.

Young ladies should know better
than to screech with gulls
or whisper to earthworms.

She really was a beautiful child;
now she’s dull, but she fits in.

On her knees she tells the sky,
never noticing the clouds
moving
with her breath.

The universe keeps expanding
as we talk about our day
across the vast wooden table.

Meanings shift and drift
distorted translations in the mind;
never mind, I didn’t mean you.

But in these lulls between words,
between thoughts,

we eventually return
to silent oneness,

and realize it was all pretty silly.


#89

Breath of love
Breeze of sentimentality

Breath of love,

A real estate investment motivated ambition
to an abandoned home, broken,
needing love and attention.
Unlike the first home,
it was not for personal residence but to flip.
Structural repairs demanded immediate attention, reinforcements ensued,
shattering expectations,
producing personal fondness of its favourable results with sentimental value.
A Swaddled investment,
encased full of protections
in the midst of a starry night.

Breeze of sentimentality.

Visionary blueprints depicted additions and projects that demanded determined ambition.
The unforeseen infused certainties.
New expectations would fall,
thus jeopardizing its intended purpose

Breath of love

So when a man confronted progress,
after having invested everything into projects already under way,
crying out warnings with irrefutable conviction, hoping his message would encourage a personal decision to abandon the symbol of security with projections of tribulations,
it went unheeded.

Breeze of sentimentality

Compelled to carry out his intended result by any means necessary,
Persisted progress sentenced to have him hanged and displayed as a message personally reassuring my resolve earned a passing grade.
Nothing will threaten this sanctuary.

Breath of love

Home incubated warmth and protection.
As a temple of security,
I wore comfort proudly,
enjoying the moment allowing determined ambition to take a few days off.
Sitting on the porch thinking about the house,
a trouble started to stir in me.
Misdirect projections of self reflections clouded visions once clearly defined.

Breeze of sentimentality

Looking beyond the porch,
The hanged man demanded attention to acknowledge not only its accomplished purpose,
but as a reminder of his proclamations.
A troubling thirst indeed.

Breath of love

Looking down in the well in need to quench my thirst, I could not see the water in the bucket, but only my reflection.
the stench of the hanged man and death
overwhelms my senses, causing my projects half completed to collapse forcing an unavoidable truth.

Breeze of sentimentality

Despair whitewashed anguish,
creating circular arguments within,
reaching for solutions,
answers,
direction,
anything
to stand on,
Searching…
like a star gazer on a cloudy night
No where to go
staring at the house…
motionless…in a state of flux.

Breath of love

Coming into focus,
through the hanged man eyes,
A calmness swaddled,
a new perspective a familiarity.
A stargazer would not gouge his eyes preventing
sight of clouds masking a night of stars.
Altered investments if went ignored,
Without fire, cold of breath
would deny the greatest unknown want

Love

Where does,
what I’m going through,
leading me to?
Freedom gives the best bear hug

In that moment
time and space unbecome.
Im standing on the edge of the Betwixt.
As a man awakening,
I’m greeted by myself completely woke.
I’m conflicted.
That light spring warm breeze of sentimentality is felt on my back
yet I see my breath of love escaping within, only to surround the woke.
Incubated love lays the foundation to manifest the birth of self
to show how warm love can be.
As loves condensation surround this woken awe watching the heat slowly escaping,
Im affected by its cold touch but undeterred.
An unknown want rekindled it’s fiery source of ultimate possibilities set forth by projects and addition.


#90

Did you think you heard what I said?
Playing telephone games,
discord runs down the line.

Wait,
I wasn’t finished
with the part you never hear,
and I’m not what it was you thought.

Sound waves oscillate,
resonating kinks in creation.

Young ladies should know better
than to screech with gulls
or whisper to earthworms.

She really was a beautiful child;
now she’s dull, but she fits in.

On her knees she tells the sky,
never noticing the clouds
moving
with her breath.

The universe keeps expanding
as we talk about our day
across a vast wooden table.

Meanings shift and drift
distorted translations in the mind;
never mind, I didn’t mean you.

But in these lulls between words,
between thoughts,

we eventually return
to silent oneness,

and realize it was all pretty silly.


#91

Standing on toes
Messages
set in prose
For all those
Indisposed
By the words
here enclosed
They propose
to foreclose
To strip those
who oppose

The acts they seek
From their words
I bespeak
Less than weak
They complete-
Ly deplete
And excrete
Indiscreet-
Ly commits
the elite
to defeat

Rebuke, all the puke
And refute
to permute
Like Baruch
Subacute,
as we boot
Out de coup
Its unmuted
and brutal
It Drops like a nuke

So I beg you
Don’t give in to fear
Stand firm persevere
Big brother has tears
Our time to revolutionize
Its here

We are fire
Our fire desires
Only the inspired

After the bend,
it’s the end
We suspend
Make amends
And lend
them our hands
Unrefined,
then define
and defend
the love we have as friends


#92

Revolving Door

I never get published anymore
All of my submissions come back
and says return to address
So I did

So I took a cab
and returned to address
why my submissions keep coming back
Submit them online, he said

Why? I asked
I am here and you are here and
my submissions are here
What’s the difference?

Impartiality, he says
Was it shit?
I don’t know
Didn’t you read it?
No, he says

You have to submit them online, he says
you have to get with the times
If I was with the times I wouldn’t be
submitting this to you, now would I?

Being online destroys my process
I’m lazy and I’ve never surfed in my life
I’m a pervert and a gambler and obscene
The internet would distract me with these things

Your submission is entitled
Ill raise you my whore, he says
Me and impartiality was shown the revolving door.

by dk

strong text


#93

I Lilac moonlight

daisies springing into bloom
around the flower moon
rose exclaims, stop and smell the lilacs,
you’ll live longer
i asked, then why can’t lilacs live past june?
his lie lack any sense
pupils piercing baudelaire
wilts his unfeigned tune

dead limbs pruned a lifeless gardener
howbeit all the wood and labour put in
heavy doors couldn’t suppress
his consecrated voice
with barren fruitless vines
choking on potted cliches
that entangled each
flower that died in bed
rose pedals towards lily of the valley
in daisy dukes peddling redolences about
that thyme and rosemary pushing
daisies on a barren cold moonlight
with aloe in her hair

rose receives these hand picked daises
she loved us not that harvest moon
waning memories enshrined a
memorial preservation

in hindsight
she would have
loved to smell the lilacs
if that makes any sense at all

thoughts cast thirteen stones
skipping over receded unknowns
an old soul arrives piercing this
writhed heart au courant

anchored boat
a prof at sea
to see what luna sees

her terra eyes
upon decree
fulfilling prophesies

they terrorize
the shallow sees
straight through fallacies
conducting quavers
orchestrated hearts
from lunacy
*
terrorized to find it
lilacs smells like shining exposure
in mournings dew time
sunflowers magic receding the unknown
rose pedals paved towards
my time with rose married garden
when rose crossed the room
pink and blue daisy summer dress
and waxing smile crescent
wolf moon howls vacancy
to reseed the plot left open in the garden


#94

Asherah

Dawn treads
placid surf
in silver sandals.

Sea grass bends
on stubbled dunes.

Gulls squabble
over shards of bone.

I carve coastlines
like sand castles,
brew hurricanes
in breezy sighs,
and toss sailors aside
on whitecap whims,

but today,
I am tickling
the toes of
a brown-eyed boy,

so for now,
I will be

temperate.


#95

i write in spanish, but lets see if i can translate something in a decent way:

Tired of not seeing,
all the silhouettes merge in absence.
Life is obtained by looking,
but even disappearing is not enough.

I knot my ideas to the wind,
cross my fingers and keep quiet.

It seems like it’s already gone.

Masks on the face and back neck,
as all eyes rain on us!
There is no cloak without estructure,
Neither details that does not blur.
We hide the essence between smoke and laughter,
and i get tired of carrying the weight of all my clothes, of the masks and these eyes loaded on me.

I wait for the parade’s end.

I raise my arms in search for what is not forgotten


#96

The day after, I tried to buy happiness. The man who sold it to me said, “Encourage her.” I almost cried right then and there. Maybe because I knew whomever tried, would fail. The room was entirely made out of wood. And he watched me as I held what I thought would make me happy. Perhaps he knew.

Sometime during the following week, I died. To try and convey this feeling to you would be useless. And most likely meaningless. It was almost as if I was in a trance. No, there was no need to cry. I did not feel compelled to. Because I was dead, you see. Dead people don’t cry. All that lie waiting for dead people are bugs. Crunchy bugs. Nom-ing on the parts of you which once … were.

No matter if I get the things I want or not, I will always be broken from the journey. Always.


#97

This isn’t poetry strictly, but it’s kinda poetic, and more like mythology, in the tradition of “leaving the Mother [the soft, nurturing aspect of life, the feminine, protective etc] and coming to face the Father [the stern, powerful, masculine aspect of life]” sort of thing. Also it’s just some random brainfarts I had and I haven’t got around to writing the story or anything, but here goes:

In Maori creation myth there is the Sky Father and Earth Mother.

So the Earth Mother wants to cling on to everything and hold them close to her bosom (gravity). If you throw a rock it will eventually fall down, and stuff always tends towards the low, etc etc. All the natural world is subject to Her embrace - animals, plants, Man.

In contrast, Sky Papa looms out of reach - cold, austure, foreboding (storms, lightning and the wind; also the fact that there is nothing to sustain life in the sky), yet enticing Man with the promise of freedom (birds; an endless vista unhindered by mortal limbs).

Once there lived a boy who was obsessed with leaving the bosom of the Earth and soaring amongst the clouds, amongst the Sky Father. His name was Tekoro, The First Navigator. So the whole story is about him being enticed by the prospect of leaving Mother Earth and soaring amongst the birds in the sky, and devising various flying contraptions/wings. He tries three times, and on the third time he succeeds.

Yeah that’s pretty much that.


#98

From the Watchtower

I stand blazing by the shoreline
as raging screams of sky
come pouring down,

but you’ll only navigate
by supernova.
Blind to my frenzied semaphore,

you tack toward jagged shoals,
and I’m left stranded
amid sundry flotsam
with only the wind

in my arms.


#101

The moon’s light drains the water of its depth
In shimmering samite and silver, yet —
Something leaps out from beneath its tranquil plain
And scatters across the air like rain.
Droplets of light, a reflected moon beam
Affects me like a shattered frozen dream.
Sitting at my desk, I can only see
The splendor of the world outside of me,
And hope to meet it on some other day,
When I, from myself, have traveled far away,
Having bridged the interminable gap
That always hides beneath us like a trap,
And separates us from the solid glow.
It’s always there, but lurking just below
Our thoughts — the sword that cuts into my heart,
Which bleeds in torrents and then falls apart —
Which keeps me further from that sublime sight,
Of the moon out on the water bright.
And as I yearn to fall into its sway,
Thought takes me away — and ruins it.


#102

Thank you for your lovely words.


#103

There’s a still pond in a forgotten wood.
Inside its depths the only thing that I
Have ever wanted. I sit close by
And wonder how, and wonder if I could
Retrieve it from those depths. But as I stare,
It disappears into the mud, the glimmer
Retreats, obscured by dirt, diminished shimmer—
It calls to me, if only I could dare
To reach. The spotted hawk swoops by, and he
Tells me there is nothing in the world
And laughs. Up in the air, his shadow hurled
Across the sky, I see the whole of the
Universe. His outline: black-on-blue curse,
A devil-shaped hole in the universe.


#104

There’s a dead child
Wrapped in a red wheelbarrow.
We’re all full today.
Not one space left in the morgue.
Not even room for ashes.


#105

The trails wind northward
Into and out of my veins.
I breathe the river
And exhale blue butterflies
Who float on the edge of things.


#106

I love the whole of these five lines.


#107

The home beckons, but—
The world feels far more welcome.
I vacillate and—
The plums keep falling to earth,
Rotting one by one
By one.


#108

The rain whispers to me, as if it knew.
Propelled by air, it rises, falls, unfurls,
It wanders freely, meanders past my view,
And skirts along the street and cars; it twirls
And dances past the window frames, to earth
It falls, to nourish the ground we tread.
The grass which dies each day, so that the birth
Of something new can then proceed. Ahead
I walk against the slanted rain and hope
To freeze this moment now in memory,
The past, present and future, I elope
And put this rain upon the page to dry.
I know that weather goes and comes again
And all I’ll be, I have already been.