Best Pulses Poems
My flesh is flush with inadequacy each day
for no purpose pulses inspiration my way
No motivation shows to validate
that my energy even palpitates -
I am a daytime deficiency breathing.
All things seem possible before I sleep
then night’s energy sun fades into lethargy:
I rise to flounder, flail and fail to move so never do I see the
me that my prayers and hopes wish new days would promote.
Has karma woven my desires revoked
or am I now a bad aging type of joke?
I cannot grope life’s enthusiasm
nor can I fathom what has happened,
but I am sad that my self-esteem’s armor
has been pierced by darkness infused drama …
home clocks loud mock me
as moments find me unchanged
just aged within ticks
tocking my stopped impetus
in passion’s puddled blandness
a sanguine set of sun
descants the symphony
of ocean's pulse
within the confines
of my soul
i find serenity
in the depths
of its hold
as my heart
serenades
in quickened strums
beneath the rise
of misted breaths
within the serein
of smoother skies
as they break
cloudless
above the wake
i feel the quake
of tongued whispers
as sand surrenders
below the wave's
firm caress
hear the moans
in climatic gusts
as they thrush back
through the lure
of depths unknown
searching for something more
than this repetitive pressure
against its shores
my mind contours the same
through the grains of time
shattered in memories of fate
where soul escapes briefly
in salted stains
across folds
of ivory flesh
unseen
As I close the body of my Work
with both hands heavily,
the leather, eros bite etched,
stone studded, and latched
with a lock of hard love,
You say to Me wantonly,
Kiss me when the Sun sleeps...
My mouth of manly love fervor
pulls your longing lips open,
becoming a cistren securing
the warm pour of your ache
like a vault vouchsafing vulnerable virtue,
You quake, like a Queen
in bridal chamber unbridled,
After removing the silk of tears
from shoulders too familiar
with abuse and sorrow
I place the rough binding of my bold Book
inbetween your cleavage of careless yearn,
You pulse naturally through the pages,
for you have known love lost
from hope and hurt,
I grip You, from neck to breast,
You loosen like a bloom in dawn,
vessels of pearls venture unto Me,
not for auction but for affection
of life long ablution,
I rub you into a ruby on fire,
desire has never felt such pyre,
You exclaim,
Go harder into my truth for You!...
My Quill penetrates your core,
Tip inking soul essence,
You are no longer sore,
questing for more,
I am taking you into absolute ardor,
You have found your cornerstone of caress,
digging into the need I bleed
for Our legacy
your nails furrow into my faith,
encouraged by the rhythm of your romance
I thrust through the Past
and tempt the future,
We now pray via pulse
to hold one another through eternity -
J.A.B.
Moving as prescribed, holding bodies correct,
is life denied and confined within limits.
Our souls course divine life and truth through our blood -
we all thirst for spirit’s flood to seek a burst.
Even the first primitive man’s blood did flow
spirit overran with the want to let go.
Our souls crave dance, our blood pulses with a need
to relax our stance, let intellect recede,
so a freedom trance may then freely proceed.
Expressing soul’s need to overcome body
so perception is denied complete control
and spirit may spree, is a blood driven goal.
Every culture ever here, since time began,
found rhythm to explore for it attracted man.
All souls desire a chance to feel an expanse,
a joyous freedom expressed well when we dance.
This is what soars in my blood and others, too,
and why I often dance in my living room.
you came to me
again in a dream...
this rain tapping
against the windowsill
echoed like footsteps
down lonely streets
the thunder rolling
through the hills
mimicked my heart
beating in anticipation
as you reached for me
through the shadows
on dimly lit walls
i felt your hands
gently tracing
the edges
of my soul
your lips
softly pressing
against mine
silent whispers
of love spoken
without words
i reached for you
my hands slipping
through air
falling by my sides
empty again
the only thing
thrusting forward
in rhythmic pulses
is this clock
on the wall
the rain tapping
on the windowsill
echoes like footsteps
fading in the distance
as i lie awakened
alone again
your kiss
still lingering
on my lips
Prime pretty play,
Use unzips urge;
Laugh lovely lay,
Swift sensuous surge;
Etch ends empty.
Thrill touching think,
Oops opts only.
Indulge in ink,
Move much musings;
Pique piquant prime,
Unfurl upswing;
List luscious lime,
Sense subtle sketch;
Echo each etch.
Leon Enriquez
26 September 2015
Singapore
The window illuminates a cat-the snow falls,
the wedding white colored sky
is cut with the trees whose arms, fingers
gather the immaculate flakes.
On the chipped edge of the window,
the sleeping cat is curled into its body
like a ringworm, or the snake; if it rattles,
raises its head to stick its face
towards a sea of hesitation, the woman
cannot extend her hand to touch the snake,
nor comfort the cat. For when she touches,
her shadow is split and spread
as if it is sliced by the speed
of 1 billionth
of 1 billionth
of a second:
like the nanoparticles that rush
to penetrate rock. The stones
when crushed long ago
became the sands
of a time-worn shore
of a tranquil Mayan-like Sea,
that covered the entire Earth,
until the Spirits decided to have the ocean
recede and allow the Earth to birth lands
that will collect footprints,
no matter how fleeting. And the waters
reflect the light of the "Heart-of-Sky"
that released the quiet yearning snowfall,
on an anxious Mid-winter afternoon.
A graceful g l o w~
a belly-flicking thrill,
g the night blanket~
n
I
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f
i
l
with pulses of
g l i m m e r s
Contest: YOUR CHOICE h
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Contest Judged: May 17th, 2025 10:02:00 PM
Placement: Fifth
i can hear
the faint pulse
of my heart
keeping beat
with the branch
of the old oak
softly tapping
against my window
i see you
standing in the shadows
rocks in hand
tossing them
through the space
of open windows
as my young eyes
peer lost
in the darkness
sometimes i wonder
if you hit your target
killed what you birthed
would you feel better
about yourself
or me
would i haunt your mind
instead of you
haunting mine
would you
leave nothingness
at my grave
and curse my name
the same
Yeah that's kinda what this is about
Somehow bad impulses are accepted so quickly
even between beats
but back to it
i meant in pulses
all those time i was good
was just waiting for my time
to be bad
the devil holds head high with pride
God stares off in the distance
straining back a chuckle
as i try to convince him
hes not there
Under the dark sky of 2025, where the Genetic Basin pulses
like an overloaded server beneath the shadows of a Sulimi,
my thoughts flow like a faulty algorithm through 6G networks,
whistling beneath faces lit by screens, with AirPods in ears,
running through Amazon Go, crushing biodegradable packaging,
in a digital chaos colder than the melted ice of the Arctic.
Faces of extinguished moons, scrolling TikTok under artificial neon,
with quantum phones vibrating in pockets, lost AI messages,
in the metaverses of a world forgetting to breathe under the gray sky.
Baneasa Mall, now an NFT hub, with free tokens fluttering,
like false stars, bots from online marketplaces invading,
shouting "IT'S FREE!", grabbing synthetic meat, solar energy by the box.
The autonomous bus rattles like a faulty drone, shaken,
where the Suleni virtually trample each other to be the first to board in AR,
to be the first to descend, to sit, crawling slowly through VR, but dashing,
like panthers at the "drop" of a rare NFT—a grotesque dance under the sky,
gray with climate change, under lost AI rhythms.
The Church of the "Holy Sepulchre", a 4K live stream, with digital bags,
sprinting at bayonet, ready to overturn a sanctified NFT, shouting,
"Sirrr, we're in line too!"—a knowing but blind mob,
under pixelated vaults of forgetfulness, under the heavy sky of 2025.
On graphene slabs, between cleaning robots and 3D printers,
I ask: those who built Opera, Roman baths, divine statues,
would they have crawled on nanotube floors for virtual energy?
The master whispers: "These were brought, heating with biofuel,
on trodden floors, with straw under the gray sky!" Today, assistance,
robotic parking, digital muddle, quantum discord, discipline,
under AI sanctions, like Pavlov's algorithm—a metaverse of oblivion.
Under the dim light of a holographic screen, I see the Sulimea as a shadow,
hybrid, with neural implants, unsporty digital fauns, lost.
In quantified globalization, wings broken by AI, stars melted in carbon clouds,
a drained Genetic Basin under the rhythms of an AI mimicking
Inna's voice—my melancholy is a lost code, an eternal bug, a dream,
magic under silent slabs, where Chess Pieces no longer see, and I remain, blind,
under the sky of 2025, an echo of a millennium shattered into ashes.