Immaterial Poems | Examples

Incipience

The blank field is a whitewashed wall
between
eyes and incipient thought.

A neatly printed line
emerges out of nothing,
fingers sleep
as they plant words in inky rows.

Meaning searches for meaning,
each symbol is a cracked seed
shed from a blacked-out window -
brain particles blindly seeking.

There is meaning here,
but it is as yet formless,
what is seen is slough and spillage,
mind-molt
struggling into an appearance
of notion and idea.

Now the word is flesh, a glossolalia,
a mute speaking in tongues, yet
breathless of any spirit.

At once the painted parody of self
is free to wriggle forth,
to sew and bind together
discernable images,
it must surface above the silent page,
lift up the emblematic
as the hammer-arm
of the insubstantial, until deciphered
by other necromancers
who then speak
for the dead-voiced word.

This then is the tipping point:
the space between sight and seen,
a place to speak into existence
the once immaterial
or surrender all coherence
to the un-lettered reticence of God.

The Most Important Thing in Life

What is the most important Thing in Life?
Some say Love, Some say Sex, Some say Money and or riches.
Some say all manner of material things.
What is your most important Posession? 
When I ask my friends this question
One said-  a good legacy.
Some said their bank account.
Some said their faith in God.
Some said my house, Some said my car, some said my wife/marriage/woman.
One said my girls/women. One said my children/daughters.
I say the most important thing in life, indeed one's most important psossession, 
Is ones passion to help others, one's ability and or tenacity or will or determination or capacity or capability or or proclivity or consistency or inclination or freedom to be kind. 
Kind to yourself and to others.
As a matter of argument, I would rate such immaterial or immaterialistic things/values as Peace, Peacefulness, Love, Honesty, Justice close behind.


Premium Member utmost

I have a confession to make. I’m a trust fund baby
and a member of the educated Elite.

In my defense, I'm a newcomer in both categories.
I got my trust fund at 18 and graduated Yale University this year.

I was a double major, at university, in biochemistry and celibacy,
until as a sophomore, I met this tall, handsome, awkward, disheveled, physicist in a coffee shop and knavishly schemed my way into his life.
(He insists that he knavishly schemed his way into my life.)

Let’s get poetic-ish..

I said,
“Let’s start a flirtationship
abstract, immaterial and fun.
We have a little chemistry - an interesting.. tension.
Could we just have an involvement and not read into it?
Something friction free, hands free, germ free, and guilt free?
Let's get a pizza, don't worry, I'm paying.”

Of course, that was a lie.
I had designs, I wanted him in the utmost
and honestly, when do I not get what I want?

"I was by far the knavishist." I admitted.
"Then you don't know knavishEST.," he responded, shaking his head 'no'.
.
.
songs for this:
Honeypie by JAWNY
Really Saying Something by Bananarama & Fun Boy Three

Jaywalking

This is when the old and the young,
beasts and confraternal drunks
damn the consequences of death
lying porous on crossroads upon
bifurcated paths, fractured junctions
and ceremonial cul-de-sacs...

The time is immaterial,
so long as the traffic lights — the veggie-green,
the claret, and the urine-amber —choose their slow
blinking and rapid-eyelid movement carefully.
And moon might decide not to power its own light.
Tenebrous tracks then fill our eyes with the age of
sea monsters blinded by charcoal waves.
Need I hail the neon signs of bordellos!
And the city’s restless constellations!
They sparkle with rage and with the brio of rioting stars,
thus adding celestial films to our already overloaded eyes....
But that’s another story.

C’mon... we are no Deer or Asahel descendants!
Closely related to sloths, millipedes and snails,
we drag our feet, which in turn drag the volumes of
stupidity in us, aggravated by drams and midnight parties
held between a flowing weekend and a stagnant Thursday.

a bus ride

A Bus Ride

I had bought a
newspaper in town and was taking the bus home
an hours ride
up to my village. I looked at the
headlines
noticed the paper had no date
 was I reading yesterday’s
today`s news or tomorrow`s
The bus was empty this afternoon
it struck me how silent it ran could only hear the swishing
sound of
rubber against the
asphalted road.
Then the bus stopped on this journey outside my house
so many flowers now in November, my dog sat on
the steps waiting
just for me.
The bus door opened with a sigh,
but the dog didn`t run to me
I hesitated; was it the same house
 yet not the same this one looked immaterial
the flowers were pale, a copy of a painting
forgotten  rural art
exhibition arranged by a local culturally interested GP
Not my village
I said to the driver and sat down
“Are you sure?” the driver asked, I didn’t answer
the bus rolled on.
Opened the newspaper
It was Monday.


Premium Member The Best Of Changes

To live in a dream of you
Is the only worth way to be
I have to admit, it feels new
Its too much of myself in me
When you were around, I was
In the right proportion you set
It’s a radical change of source
A dream of living, that we once had
Is a realm of spirits and angels
All of the immaterial kind 
You knew I’d go through these changes
That you left for me to find.

Premium Member I Could

I could write of stellar 
skies -- Really I could!
Could write of lozenge
moons~ of over-saturated 
beams, arriving and departing,
concentrates of extra sweetened, 
totally addicting, poetically
whipped creams: 

(unfold, eerie immaterial, cobwebby 
tightly creased seams, of long 
seeming ever taboo gleams -- )

I could write...really I could!
compose glitter, like diamonds,
a huge, full jar -- Aladdin Stories,
fantastical adventures from romantic
afar -- I could strum a string strung
between, distant star and my near,
dear, sparkly guitar -- 

rather savor your toffee lips
chocolate licks like a Mar's Bar....

The Lingering

follow the poolside shadows
Venus of Delphi
daughter of bitter waves
peek through the peephole
of my glaucous thorax
open your byzantine eyes and
spurn your locomotor ataxia

one glance at our vitreous hands
– a sight for blind sore eyes 
one brush of our riveted lips
– gone astray in malformations
one ponderous confession later
– immaterial as a shadow of the lash

let the weeping corpuscles lie
swarm and jostle in the grotto
rattle and blather away our days
I’ll wait for your recriminations
fall asunder under your touch
fastidious in my entomology

let the bouquet glide downstream
the scytheman is still in his kingdom
then we rejoice in endless daze
the lingering beaten with bravura

Scripture

Your ‘calling’ strings you out
into a gospel
of all that you were and are.

A written scripture scrolls on.
You are a witness. The poet that watches,
the one who shows up late in your own story,
diverse scribes feed you shape-shifting words
from the collective works of
other visionaries.

Every image has its alter-image.
This gospel of ‘you’
can gossip over a trivial landscape,
yet all is elemental and intrinsic
to an all-inclusive manifesto.

These secret teachings are parables,
allegory and metaphor,
revelations discovered by few or many.

Word of mouth becomes a testament
one woven by a history
of observers and spectators,

they scribble down both the immaterial
and the substance of reflections,
then hammer them into flowing water
where all poetry is enshrined.

Premium Member STREETS OF SOLITUDE


unsettling
disquieting
   prompts

fevered
  dreams
close to
dance across
  almost nothing

intangible
  immaterial
yet
extensive
 varied

a sense
    of darkness
the
   eternal
feel

of the
 sporadic

    
yet
peace of mind


     talks

walks


alone
with
               my
               thoughts
in quietness

Premium Member soiled messy heart

soiled messy heart
One step in a soul's journey through the universe"
Inspiration feelings emotion passion darts
soiled messy heart
Filled up in animation intensity fervor
Ardor mine soul so dirty
soiled messy heart

Enthusiasm eagerness warmth fires energies
 My spirit vitality vivacity
soiled messy heart
Spiritedness commitment
Fervency ardency intellectual energy or intensity
The spiritual or immaterial part of a human being
Elohim Father has now cleanse me
I am clean of mine once…
Soiled messy heart



1/19/2024
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©

Premium Member The cardiac dance, a waltz of hidden passions

The cardiac dance, a waltz of hidden passions,
has made our feeling a vibrant creature in a fraction of time,
O, celestial flyer, from the vault sprinkled with pure light,
You have settled like a meditation on my temple, gently swayed by a soft breath.
Our love has bloomed in the guise of a budding smile,
In the blaze that consumes us, and the breath that tangles in gusts,
Desire, that worn talisman of dream, perched in a bent soul,
With the breathing of a world that pulses in unison with the year coming to life.
We have concluded a dream, an immaterial pact, sealed with the gold of life,
You and I, in a second and a mute line, remaining at the horizon of our lips at dawn,
From the aftermath of the kiss that transfigured us, in a psalm of liberated love.
Our love has transformed into shooting stars over the serene abyss of eternity,
But where have these stars lain, and in what realms have they dissipated,
Which path did the time take that we tenderly weaved shoulder to shoulder,
While the heart sings, with sweet arrhythmias, a longing forever shared.

Nesting

Few people there were,
the day was slipping gently
into rising pools of twilight.
Passing city lights
winked
behand stands of trees.

Here is a family of walkers,
how like birds they appear?
Their young, sleepily following,
tethered by feathers of light
in the silent dark.

Over there, a little apart,
birdlike,
a man and his spouse talk in low tones
their words peck unheard.
We are all here,
speaking between the light and its shadows.

Aware of each other we are,
like the sky is aware of the earth
when evening roosts
among all the nesting thoughts
collected that day.

The immaterial has been gathered in,
arranged,
we now settle as one,
only to fly away into another day.

True Love

TRUE LOVE

People often ask, what is true love
It’s many things, simple and complex
No definition can adequately serve
At whatever age, it generates verve
A journey not straight, but a curve
And in its ideal form, always duplex
Even illogical when seen from above

True love may appear simple at first
But defies all reasonable explanation
Matters of the heart shun the brain
Some think one can go quite insane
As it swoops down to conquer again
It happens, and there’s no preparation
And somehow always slakes that thirst

Those believing that their love is true
Would say never to try and understand
It exists in a kind of void, even ethereal
And even finding its secret is immaterial
Building loyalty like a long running serial
Its form is not generic, but has no brand
Yet asked why one loves, say, I just do

Premium Member A Soul Is Divine-

Such is a soul that is divine
Great inspiration the spiritual immaterial part
Immortal soul's journey through unversed starts
Such is a soul that is divine/ I AM A SOUL I AM DIVINE
~
Regarded believed death is just 
One step in a sensational holy empyrean
Such is a soul that is divine
Holiness breathe aloud/ I AM A SOUL I AM DIVINE
~
My vessel’s filled with sublime ecclesiastic reverence
Feeling emotion passion enthusiasm, celestial seraphic
Such is a soul so divine confessing's/ I AM A SOUL I AM DIVINE
~
Angelic fervor ardor vivacity
Spiritual heavenly celestial deiform capacity
Such is a soul that is divine
~
Grandeur pageantry at naught, 
this universe hasn’t seen the last of me
I am truest self-contained energy…
Such is mine soul that is divine/ I AM A SOUL I AM DIVINE



For “A Soul is Divine “Poetry Contest
Free verse poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Mohan Chutani 

6/26/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2023
Placed 6th place in contest

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