Comprehensible Poems

You Only Have to Say, Come to Me

My eyes rest upon your face, never wavering
My heartbeats, in accord, with yours
My feelings, I wear upon my sleeves
So, claim me and make me yours
Love me, oh. so tenderly.
My thoughts are no longer comprehensible to me
My words are no longer simple, nor, complicated -
My heart no longer beat with any normalcy
     - For, it is now in tune with yours -
I've fallen, I've fallen hard, and I can't get up
I'm lost and I can't find my way
I'm drowning deep, deep, in the thought of you
I'm yours, if you want me, you've only got to say -
Come to me, my arms are opened wide-
Come my love, come inside - 
You only have to hold me, and I'll melt within your embrace
You only have to kiss me, to make my heart race -
You only have to love me to make me yours for an eternity
you only have to say - Come to me, and I am all yours - Come to me -

Where Are All the Words

They are jeans and sweats; they are what we
forget to wear when we are wearing them.

Patched-up seams are sewn.
Many have been scrubbed and dyed colorless,
some died of poverty on the shallow page,
They are comprehensible only in alterations.

Old words are open graves,
that still pump out sounds,
a few peddle rhymes, dangle pretty chimes
and there’s the damn pity.

It is not 'I' that exhausts the throat of an owl,
it is the new wine. It needs to be put way,
that the dark vine may shine once more.

As for all the yet unwritten words,
they are hung around a hooting neck,
until bone or bough breaks.

Deep In the Detail

Nobody really likes a short-form read
a small screed about the mind-shattering infinitude of the universe
or the endless grandeur of nature - I mean not really.

We must move along, be willingly captured
by a more comprehensible minutiae.
The ordinary is the realm of the poet,
let the mystics ponder that big stuff.

For it is we who make our omelets
just a little different every time.
And do we list, label, depict, add, or subtract?

You bet we do.

Do we paint with a fine tipped brush - gush about
the normal, the humdrum, the passed-over,
the often overlooked and so typically common;
all those very ordinary unmemorable
yet essential ingredients of a small egg meal
for one?

Yes we do,
and you like it.

The Big Mistake

A rock, Air, rain, a ham sandwich,
we name it all into something.
Whatever the language
naming nothing makes it some-thing
gives it substance, a name.

What if you discovered an unknown
un-named no-thing?
Its nothingness cannot be described using any
comprehensible reference points,
Its form is not formless, but not any known form.

Now name it, label it with some name that
distracts yet attracts. Make it a thing.

We have already made the big mistake,
already stumbled into a hole
with no ground around it.

We can call it whatever we want.
God perhaps? Any number of adjectives
to bolster, or substantiate it by a name,

but we have already missed.
Don't name a no-thing.

Sweet Old Town

Little sways in shower streams 
bring on fond memories of sweet
Old Town. Fountains, heavenly
guides. Bricks and rubble take
witness to unheard passions and 
half hearted lies. Flats and floating
coats. Subtle splashes on cobbled
roads. We spin and glide between 
street lamps. There’s a longing in 
the back of a lengthy taxi ride. 
A thumb nuzzles where tears have
left thin, jaded lines. I dream of hot 
springs, for more than shower water.
For you, you who can be rid of the 
knots around the bend of my spine. 
For my sweet Old Town, for what can
only have been love made tangible,
comprehensible and personified.

Symbolic Fantasies In Poetized Art

exploration
    of the sensually 
              accessible
in
visual
    phenomena

parallel picture
planes
    of the totality
of life
               attentive vital
                    explorations
imagined
  refractions
                    rippling
         foaming
   frescoes
of
   melancholy

paradise
          made comprehensible

seeking harmony
       concentrated&
                         focused

dream visions
of
inspiration

  unparalleled
   in
     boldness

heightened
          to the
                     point
of ecstasy

Rivers

Oft am I tempted by the simple man's dream,
that the decisions I make can be enclosed by a fence.
Surely the stone that is thrown evokes ripples,
but they extend only as far as the rim of a lake ...

Not so; not so - though the vision will always tempt,
the decisions we make aren't bound by a shore,
where we can see all that is done in a glance.
The implications extend beyond vision, through time,
for our lives are like rivers, running ever on to the sea ...

This water I taste, or corrupt, or bless, or blockade -
it is not mine, not isolated, not comprehensible by me. 
What farmer relies on its waters a hundred miles away?
What child delights in its sparkling run,
or will delight when I am gone someday?
What descendant of mine shall sit on this grass by the stream
and be inspired to verse?

So I shall choose my course with care and keep my waters clean.
In humble knowledge that my acts may ne'er be seen -
but they will always be felt beyond what I can dream.

16 August 2020

Inspired by the North Fork Cache La Poudre River at Beaver Meadows Resort Ranch on 15 August 2020

Say It Like It Is

The electrifying pull within
A teasing ecstatic massage
As ignition within each moment begins
Silent scream of delight our message

There is no comprehensible translation
Of the heightened bliss in our meditation 

Oh hermit! 
Judge not merit!
Vaporise and be to become in continuity
A mist of self renewing climaxing ecstasy

06-August-2020

Where Have All the Old Words Got Me

[Where Have the Old Words Got Me?: Explications of Dylan Thomas's Collected Poems, 1934-1953] [Author: Ralph Maud] [February 2003]



Some of the rest I must use;
they are jeans and sweats; they are what we 
forget about as symbols.
Many have been scrubbed and dyed colorless.
Some died of poverty and misuse.
We are newly comprehensible only in alterations.
The seam resewn adds threads and new flavors,
Old words are not our deliverance, they are new graves.
Where have the old words taken me?
The old words sill pimp sounds
as if in payment for accessibility. Some ply
rhymes and dangle pretty chimes
and there’s the pity.
Let me not lure you into understanding
by a worn-out rote.
It is not 'I' that confuse, it is the throat of an owl
that exhausts fresh songs.
Nothing has meaning now, unless it be new wine.
Old words must be beaten fine upon an anvil;
hung around a hooting neck
until a clearly obvious bone -
breaks.

Comprehensive Love

Her love for her handsome prince was comprehensible,
She loved his tall and muscular stature.

Learning to comprehend God's plan for them both,
To admire him each day, he didn't know how much she loved him.

The day they met and he shook her hand and introduced himself,
They became friends, they would hug now and then and even kissed once.

Did she hear wedding bells, they were only friends,
Like Prince Harry and Megan the beautiful royal wedding.

She continued to believe in miracles, what had God planned for them,
His friendship is treasured she thought, weekends when he was away.

She would miss him and look forward to when he came back,
He was the key player in her day, with excellence.

Longing to hug him again and stay there forever,
They were just friends, will that ever lead to dating.

He didn't choose to date, she had to reconcile herself with that,
Maybe he was getting over a difficult divorce, he was single again.

God sends us a prince, so you won't be lonely,
A handsome companion forever she thought.

You have to believe in miracles, day by day,
She believed in God and his plan, evolving slowly.

Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz

Writer's Block

I'm on a treacherous journey down a barren mind,
a cavernous abyss of unintelligible revelations,
void of any comprehensible inspiration.
I am perpetually staring at a blank canvas,
continually foraging for that illusive phrase,
ransacking my hollow coffers of recollection.
Parchment decomposes from abandonment,
as does the ink drying in the quill.
There is rumbling from within,
fermenting familiar reminiscences.
Might this evoke envisions of my opus,
or the rancid sustenance I have consumed?

Freedom of Restriction

Deflected, crushed by the social retardation, 
Not loved, ‘cos he’s altogether unaccepting, 
Active learning the robot’s mouth action, 
So he can't contextualise, there’s no blessing.

Neither me nor him meet and we sweep by, 
There’s no connection from his ANDs and ORs,  
Only citadels to weather the reactive cry, 
When my nouns are pocketed by many cursors. 

Where’s the memory bank and why the chat? 
The bus is long gone and I'm open, vulnerable, 
There’s no room for social construction’s mat,  
To yield identity’s dynamic, recursive turntable. 

Yes, microchips and logic gates shouldn't enable, 
Machine learning at the cost of root foundations; 
Your group, community, your niche and fable, 
Ignite the necessary conversation of care situations. 

Ok, so can we build a robot? A care robot? 
Indeed care assistance is definitely reducible, 
To only a small number of abstractions, clot, 
‘Cos love does not evade the comprehensible. 

Doors class as access, also pavements, steps, 
Only three types of garments, two of people, 
Friend or foe, but a cloud for certain parapets, 
And who’s boss is said before, it's programmable.

Man Is That Miracle:

Silhouettes dancing with elegant gestures,
In ecstatic Moonlight dwelling in the ethereal sphere.
An oasis thriving in a wondering mind,
Mixed with emotions that teeter the edge.

As I search the Heavens for answers untold,
Is it in my grasp, the enlightened soul?
Finding solace in the beauty of this world,
Still, my heart is beating a forgotten love song.

When the songbird takes flight he captures my spirit,
Observing the trees standing proudly on majestic earth.
How can one forsake this ancient sacred vow?
The strong bond of souls in the eternal glory.

We imprison ourselves in every comprehensible way,
If seeing is believing then I am an unbeliever,
The unfathomable acts that man participates in,
To the other side of the spectrum, he is a miraculous being. 
/|\

Why

When you walked out that door you broke my heart 
I don't understand why; 
Why would you leave me in the cold ...shivering and broken 
If you love me, why did you leave me ...it’s not comprehensible
Why was her heart more important than mine? 
Why ...why...why 
I gave you my life 
I gave you my heart 
questions no answers 
I forgive you 
I love you
I will never trust you 
I can't allow you to break me again 
I can't ask myself why ...never again

My Inner Feelings

Left to right I look
Seeking for that something that is compatible
 with my radical yet supernatural  characteristics 
The lenses of my eyes are swiftly shifting 
Giving me this ultimate feeling that is often appealing 
Triggering my inner thoughts as I stand there envisioning 
Trying to seek what I've been missing 
With my Benevolent attitude I compel with gratitude 
And my soul is comprehensible and comprises with the surprise 
As I speak these words I don't deny that I
Am a man that tries to keep a complaisant composure 
Then try to decipher or deflect all the negativity
That I go through vigorously 
I try not to be demented but I'm always tempted 
To deploy my dispicable intentions 
But whatever you do please never Mention
 These are My Inner Feelings.

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