Deciphered Poems | Examples

TO BASKING ON THE SHORES OF MY POETIC SEABED

TO BASKING ON THE SHORES OF MY POETIC SEABED

Lying here on the shores of the seabed of poetic creation,
May this flow of waving words stream joy, worthiness, and
Inspiration to the thirsty eyes they froth upon; hydrating them,
And energizing sad, weary souls with peace, love, and hope.

May such allegorical words overflow into waiting cups, 
To later be sipped by a deciphered understanding of minds
Hungry for awareness, truth, and guidance towards liberation:-
Indeed, may God pour out of my poetic cistern, his divine wisdom.

And for these frothing waves of words of peace and love,
I would be in dehydrating remission if I did not give praise
And thanks to my fellow blessed scribes who likewise
Continue to water my poetic seabed with nourishing grace:-

In the depths of the evening, where thoughts flow like rivers of trembling light

In the depths of the evening, where thoughts flow like rivers of trembling light,
the sky stretches its amber arms, embracing silence in cloaks of dreams,
and my steps are echoes of falling stars, dancing on carpets of time,
for to be deciphered means to scatter your essence into unknown winds.
I prefer to be a floating illusion on the ocean of misunderstood shadows,
where each moment is an unpolished diamond, hidden in the night of eternity,
and my mystery is a symphony of whispers waltzing under the moonlight,
keeping my soul a sanctuary untouched by the curious eyes of the world.
In the secret garden of my heart, dreams bloom with sapphire petals,
their fragrance is a silent song, an unfulfilled longing floating in the night's air,
where each silence is a verse written on the fragile parchment of destiny,
for I prefer to remain a shadow gliding through the tapestry of silent stars,
where my echoes are silver threads woven into the tapestry of time,
and the cloak of anonymity is a veil of mystery that gently envelops me,
allowing me to be an unseen traveler on the paths of endless dreams,
tasting the sweetness of the freedom to be just a thought floating free.

DECIPHERING IT ALL

DECIPHERING IT ALL   

Spell evolution;
delete the last 5 letters;
spell backwards…those left:-

Getting back to love,
will fuel our evolution
in overcoming:-

Turned around by love,
we evolve into being
it’s liberators:-

With deciphered love,
let’s get to what must be done
in labors of it:-

With this gift of God,
let us rebound our failures
and make achievements:-

Church Bells

The church bells echoed 
     chimes across the field
          and filled the air with
wonders of their cause.

At first my ears 
     deciphered peace and joy-
          yet too, those echoes 
shed a solemn tone.

The church bells echoed
     chimes across the field;
          their mournfulness now
bellowed through the sky.

Those echoes touched
     my heart- as if I knew
          they tolled in tribute
to a rising soul.

APROPOS OF POETIC SOUPING

APROPOS OF POETIC SOUPING…

Sitting here
On the riverbank 
Of the riverbed
Of poetic creation
May the flow
Of my words
Stream joy
To the thirsty eyes
Drinking them
Hydrating weary souls
And may these leaking
Allegorical words
Drip into the saucers
Of minds 
To be sipped
With deciphered awareness
In becoming liberating beings
Oh may God of creation
Fill my poetic cistern with 
With words of divine wisdom
And guidance
To be poured out
To those in search thereof
As I likewise
In love and gratitude 
Give thanks to you 
My fellow blessed scribes
Who continue 
To do likewise
For my own
Mind and spirit
As we collectively
Sip God given
Poetry Soup:-

PrEdIcAtEd on PeRcOcEt

PrEdIcAtEd on PeRcOcEt

predicated on percocet, or jacked up.
that man that appears, familiar in
a painting, when i land chin up.
i see, clearly, a countenance of sin,
with his back of head positioned on neck.
hallucinating, dreaming, it’s horrible,
i’m leaning, overmedicated, on paper
that i can’t read, i’m a wreck. spanish is
adorable, if it can be deciphered. why
won’t the horror movie die. i dial
the man downstairs. he lays next to me
but my pulse is still racing, chasing us
into the living room, where i file
the deplorable information leaflet under trash,
after i dispose of the menacing meds.

i tremble as i see the same guy on canvas.
how? why? am i still in a state of confusion?
a fusion of reality and surreality. i don’t buy it.

I’ve Become My Father

I look in a mirror and see the old man,
I was told was there from fourteen years old.

I’ve become my father,
eyeglasses in every room so as not to waste
precious time searching for them.
Newspaper and magazine articles stored in boxes
never to be looked at again.

Poetry thoughts, written on the backs of books, 
scraps of paper, most times.
Unable to be deciphered even by me
once I get around to it. 

I’ve become my father,
six pills a day, caffeine-free coffee,
egg substitute, unable to work, new gadgets,
rambling on, and on, and on.

Quietly waiting for death, of which
I’m not afraid of anymore.

At night, when I remember our love once more

At night, when I remember our love once more,
Us, stained by the shadow that glides in, trembling beneath the gentle star,
Held tight in embrace, like two nomads under the infinite vault of pigments,
Eternally swayed by the time's carousel, in the deep of the shadow we catch.
Asleep in the heavy veil of sleep, secret and profound,
We travel in spirit on primordial paths of lava,
Whispering eternally about the calm echo that gives peace to the heart,
In dreams, we sail on an azure sea that swallows us into the vast.
And there, on the thaumaturgic beach of uncertain dreams,
In the ignorance of tomorrow, of our bifurcated presence,
We wait for love to be the alchemist, spinning lead into gold,
Yet still together, still eternal, with the end always a step away.
Our love, a painting in the shadows of Caravaggio of souls,
Does not ask to be deciphered but dreams to fly without bounds,
And if we shall wander among the days, the love that bound us,
Will perish, not beneath the starry canvases, not under the celestial spark,
But will fade in our mistake of putting it to the test.

If I Do It Right

I know it is tradition
But this year I have chosen a theme for Thanksgiving
We will not include turkey, ham, or beef of any kind
The theme is vibrant veggie
These instructions were given to my cousin Sue
From her brand-spanking-new-daughter-in-law Midge

So, you will be hosting? Deciphered Sue.
No, Midge told her. You may clean.
But I will be bringing the decorations.
We do not want Pilgrims or Indians or any of that rot.
Sue asked, “Can I still bake the traditional cinnamon cake?”
“Sorry,” Midge said. “Too much sugar.”

I am listening to my cousin and I have no comment.
She only has one grandchild.
All of her eggs in one basket.
She does not want to alienate that egg's mother.
“So, she is letting you clean!” I say cheerfully.
“If I do it right,” Sue says.
I have no other words.

Rimbaud

The roads leading away
circle the distances
and seem to go nowhere. 
They seed the horizon 
with promises, disorganising
the senses and reason
until there is only a hole, 
a dark cave into
the interior.

Effigies stare out of the dark 
cloaked in symbols that can
only be deciphered by the soul.
This is the language
of the visionary, gifted seer 
of the modern. For this traveler
in the shadowlands
of the psyche, there is either 
transcendence or death,
mattering little if counted
as one more in history's legion
of the forgotten,
or a dazzling occupant 
of another realm. 

His words haunt,
coming agonizingly close 
to revelation, enchanting
the soul with the stolen
melodies of the sublime 
before falling silent
as homeless angels 
must do, a casualty 
of flesh and blood.

Freeflowing An Open Verse

FREEFLOWING
 sprawling
 unsentimental
yet compassionate
 the mystery
of consciousness


the  pictorial
 deciphered
in
the
 discovery
by
 the thrill
of a
 lost world

 more perfect
in  season
 heartwarming
with
chaotic energy
of
 free-flowing
 fantasies
alight
 to
 bring
 alive
the
 impossible

to imagine
the hysterical
in
 the historical

The Curious Case of Sane Mad Men

Their minds are a paradox,
A riddle too complex to solve.
Their thoughts like a labyrinth,
A maze of madness that evolves.

They walk among us, hidden in plain sight,
A puzzle to be deciphered, a mystery to unfold.
For they are the sane mad men,
Whose stories are waiting to be told.

Their creativity knows no bounds,
As their minds dance to a different tune.
For in their madness, they have found
A world that lies beyond the moon.

They see beauty in chaos,
A different kind of truth they find.
Their imagination runs wild,
For they have a different kind of mind.

Some call them crazy, some call them mad,
But they see the world with different eyes.
They are the ones who never conform,
For they are the ones who dare to rise.

Their minds a canvas, their thoughts a brush,
They paint a picture that's uniquely theirs.
For in their madness, they have found a rush,
A feeling that only a few ever dares.

So, let us embrace these sane mad men,
For they are the ones who make life a bit more fun.
For in their madness, they have a gift to share,
A new perspective, a different kind of sun.

Phosphenes

A sky denuded of stars 
Is just like a garden devoid of blossoms.
Even when the night sky goes aloof too,
I close my eyes
And enter into a profound colloquy 
With the phosphenes of my eyes.
These flickering phosphenes spring up at once 
Presenting a phantasmagoria of various hues of blues.
How well have these phosphenes deciphered
That I possess a weakness for tranquility!
They pirouette incessantly 
Displaying a multitude of shapes and forms,
As if essaying their utmost 
To impart their solicitude to me,
To attend to my unvoiced revelations,
Scouring away the feeling of loneliness.

Rush Hour

The morning has no narrative
to be deciphered.
The grey sky is simply grey
and the sounds reaching the ear
carry no meaning, just 
the noise of machines
and motor cars. Even nature
gives no eloquent speech
but allows each utterance to fight 
for space or privilege with cries
and discordant howls.

Clumps of people spill
from carriages and clog
bus stops with minds 
wired to worlds
squeezed through the window
of a tiny screen. 
The morning tightens 
and presses something
deeper into itself,
becoming smaller,
more difficult to reach.
Mouthfuls of panic hurry past,
unnoticed,
before being swallowed 
by automatic doors.

Who Heaven Dwell

Who Heaven Dwell
David J Walker

Those of us
	Who heaven dwell
Upon the earth 
	A living hell
And hear the voices
	From afar
Huddle beneath 	
	The evening star
Await the fate
	A Bleating moan
Interpret late 
	The words unknown
And call it all
	Deciphered mail 
For those of us 
	Within its spell
Those of us
	Who heaven dwell

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