The ocean is home to a curation of shells,
The type you admire, the kind you call into,
The ones that whisper stories the sea never tells.
The peach and the pink, the pastels and the white —
All of them bring such a sense of delight.
I trace my finger over each and every grove and indent,
Each fracture and dent,
Wondering what they have seen, and what places they went.
I wonder if they are signs — heaven-sent.
This poet wonders — does she know the truth that is grand?
The shell that is pretty mesmerizes those little eyes
While the sea calls out her name for help.
Sand between her toes and wind through her hairs,
She felt every emotion one feels at a shore.
The next scene was haunting — it took away her innocence.
Fishes started to wash up on the shore,
The water began to form bubbles.
As she looked at her mother, who
Whispered with her eyes-
“Sorry, my precious little baby,
Forgive the humankind,
For the future we will leave behind.”
Lay siege to my vulnerability,
D i s a r m my chastity,
Indent my innocence
with your capability,
Pierce my supple skin and.......
drink my bittersweet
vermilion essence
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Flowers; a painless, healing, prescription of treatment
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
Happiness; gives sharp antithesis of lifes oblivion
Tectonic; the plate layer produces a fiery quill of lament
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Waving; a molten brush of colors, results cascadian
A surgeons gift; to be given, a unique scalpel of torment
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
Emotional eruptions; give way to a physical custodian
Islands of hope; from a mind, of seas with dubious intent
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Feelings so igneous; venting becomes it's guardian
A healing phase; melting purposely cooled stone indent
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
A cinder cone; written to perform acts so tragedian
Dormant, till; the next event of this calderas' fulfillment
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
It is always there,
never quite within range
where the mind can snare
some shadowy form, or shape
an outline and hold it long enough
to name.
It waits for the sun to go down
and the evening to draw in
like a taken breath when it comes
closer and nestles into what warmth
lingers there under the folds
of a gathered dark.
Sometimes when I am off
elsewhere and far away in thought,
I am sure it slips inside my head
and enters where memories are,
trying on a face, posing
in some familiar scene,
rummaging through what a child
left there long ago as if
it was searching for itself.
And there are mornings
when waking I sense its presence
in the dissolving residue of a dream,
a small footprint left on that
shore between awareness and sleep,
an indent, a scooped out hole
where something broken
took refuge and sought comfort
in being near.
There are dark times
when it almost becomes
a plumbed in part of me,
each bunkered in our own
adjoining rooms, held apart
by a wall neither of us
want to breach. We have spent
a good part of our lives here,
holding onto what should be set free,
fearing that if we did, one of us
would cease to be.
Suppose I came home after a long drive,
suppose I see a car in our overstuffed garage
- it's not mine.
Suppose when I enter our apartment
I discover myself in bed with you doing adulterous things.
What would I do?
Imagine if we went away.
then when we arrived home
- while we were unpacking,
all evidence of our trip evaporated,
Imagine we both remained jet-lagged for days
yet dared not speak of it.
What then?
Suppose I died last night
suppose the battery of my life failed
leaving only the shape of my ass
in the easy chair;
though to your sleepy eyes this morning
the indent of my shape
has created an illusion of me
and that's what you think you see?
As I sit here fretting about all this you hand me a cup of tea
- say over your shoulder:
“Write it out kid, write it out.”
Frozen in my memory like the last frost of winter
I find out sadly how a red rose can give a splinter
When the chapped lips of love lose their honey,
there is no one there to make December sunny
Dozens of red roses appearing in loom, hindsight
from the one who has grown them without lament
From a woman ignited by passion, claiming right
To an existent gasp of daylight, his love's indent
Woven in golden threads, it was a life well spent
my heart blooms every day with sweet roses red
life was good as a garden grew beneath our tent
until winter arrived, then everything went dead
Thawing in my memory is a rose that didn't die
it harbors still the kiss, of a virgin's piercing cry
Blistering winds arrive, when a gardener desists,
A once pure red rose without Him, cannot exist .
Dec 12, 2021
Born Again
Written: by Miracle Man
September 9, 2021
Soft patterns of sandals indent the sand,
at a point they deepened where all could see.
I was like a lost ship without command,
until Jesus reached down his hand for me.
As the moments gravity settled on me,
I could feel inside a change emitting.
From Satan’s grip he had pried me free,
I was now a vessel, cleansed and befitting.
The thoughts of ill will that I once owned,
became silenced at that moment in time.
I’d accepted Jesus, who for my sin had atoned,
now my heart is filled with feelings sublime.
August 27, 1968
The surface is covered
Guilt and string from another
And just like when you sleep to hard
You've got surface marks
And these are selfish scars
But They don't fade over the time of the day
From the morning to the night of shade
These scars are an indent forever
Stupid remarks people thinking their clever
They don't leave us
Never
She said I make her want to slit her throat
I nearly chocked, these words are notes
Jotted down in my head
When insecurity comes its food to be fed
No more tears can be shed
you to that voice in my head
Over and over I read
The word id written onto my leg
With that blood so red
There's been genuine times I've wanted to be dead
My whole brain went silent
Feet were failing me
Heart was beating mad
It ended with a and e
And on my life
Right next to me
was an old man
And he was fighting to be
Gasping to life
Fighting for his breath
And I'm in my cubicle
Mums crying as I rest
So I stand here now
I'll say it with my chest
I ing hate life
But I can't choose my ing death
Listless images swirl up from tangled seaweed.
Instead of going home to study
a youth stayed on at a topless bar.
This reoccurring nightmare is a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting, pants down moment.
Unschooled for future-shock, ill-equipped
for long forgotten questions;
scruffy owls hoot in an empty lecture hall
as a mind reacts with a jittery dread.
A lost post-graduate thesis rides on a city bus,
passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the manuscript is deeply buckled
with butt cheeks.
No time to revise the unprepared.
Dimples of anxiety indent a head trip.
Despondency envelopes.
At any moment,
eyes will open above a pool of sweat,
then blink stupidly
as they have done - often and repeatedly
for the last 45 years.
Listless images swirl up from tangled seaweed.
Instead of going home to study
a youth stayed on at a topless bar.
This reoccurring nightmare is a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting, pants down moment.
Unschooled for future-shock, ill-equipped
for long forgotten questions;
scruffy owls hoot in an empty lecture hall
as a mind reacts with a jittery dread.
A lost post-graduate thesis rides on a city bus,
passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the manuscript is deeply buckled
with butt cheeks.
No time to revise the unprepared.
Dimples of anxiety indent a head trip.
Despondency envelopes.
At any moment,
eyes will open above a pool of sweat,
then blink stupidly
as they have done - often and repeatedly
for the last 45 years.
With sweet incline her ear is on dawn's arrival
even if night reigns by day, she has no rival
only the morning contains her birthing vine
Her ear is on dawn's arrival with sweet incline'
Dolce Amor upon the curve of her pillow rest
is the indent of the dreams that loved her best
only the dawn holds the whispers of her core
The curve of her pillow rest upon Dolce Amor
She is the scented violet of his early fantasies
more deep then the indigo of deep blue seas
a muslin touch of running silk with eyelets
Of his early fantasies she is the scented violets'
Dolce Amor a rose and a bouquet of baby breath
he knows that she will love him even until death
she is pepper on his heart and scented tuberose
A bouquet of baby breath and Dolce Amor his rose
June 25, 2020
God I wanna touch you
I wanna feel your skin
Meld our bodies to the point
Don't know where mine begins
Wanna put my hands all over you
Trace the indent of your spine
Dig my fingers in your flesh
I wanna make you mine
I really wanna kiss you
Probe inside your mouth
Taste the slickness of your tongue
Nibble on your pout
What I really wanna know
Is do you wanna too?
Does your body ache for me
The way mine aches for you?
Do you lie awake at night
Burning with desire
Do I make you sweat, soak your sheets
Say that you're on fire
I can't take this pain much longer
You gotta let me know
I need to hear you want me
I just wanna know
If i exist
I would write of tears
that pulled down walls
Of love in seconds glance
Of new born parents
with matching gloop stains
Of darkness that swims between
the blood and skin
Of strutted sex
that smoulders ember ambers
Of blades of grass
that twirl balletic
in moistening summer wind
______________I
Between Good aNd Evil
on the n
I stand
If i exist
i lie wi in th the space
where ink touches paper
Where key finger indent begs fullfilment
in bluened night
I look to the couch where he used to sit
There is an empty place there
No one else would fill it
There was his lair
His indent
Prayer
Prayer is the answer
Prayer
Frees me
When I let it all go
Tell God whatever my plea
How much I have to give and grow
I know that He will answer me and agree
Solarium songs of unsung heroes rooted to the ground
Matchable shades red roses of silk bereft of true life
Evergreen dreams on eyelet vistas desired not found
Fantasies throng showmanship beauties containing no strife
Wicker chair creaks the solvent moments of temporal eyes
Memories gather and life proceeds without need
Forever thoughts clinging to the vine whispering goodbye
Family loss, his portrait watches she lives on the edge
Everything morphs even the heroes just like the seasons
Devotions live inside hearts chamber, easy to indent
Palpable touch so easily frayed tears without reason
Malleable forces its a single rose, in a soulmates tent
A beautiful sadness takes over the solarium alights
she misses him dearly , recalling the fights.
January 9, 2019
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