Inhabits Poems | Examples

Etched in Stone

A sunny day, fine and fair,
a gentle breeze blows wisps of hair - 
I wonder, as you're sitting there,
what are your thoughts, unknown,
as you're there all alone.

Once we both walked beside the lake.
We dreamed though we were still awake.
Are you thinking it was a mistake, 
stones on the water thrown?
Yet, we were barely grown.

You always burned and dazzled bright,
blazing hot, radiating light.
You made my day, lit up the night.
Oh, how your spirit shone,
the best thing that I've known.

We united and made a life, 
saw troubled times and times of strife,
but were you not a happy wife?
From the seeds we had sown,
we grew something of our own.

So many things, to me, you gave, 
and once, it was my life, you saved.
One day, I'd take it to my grave.
Everything you have shown
inhabits all my bones.

A sunny day, so fine and fair,
a gentle breeze blows wisps of hair - 
I wonder, as you're sitting there,
though my spirit's flown,
are you happy that you own
the name etched on that stone?

An Evening in The Tones of Rothko

The last embers of a sunset
sink below a dark horizon
almost mirroring a Rothko
painting in its somber
and weighted tones.
A sadness has found
a place to settle 
for the evening

and is absorbed 
by the water and sky.
It seems weary, unable
to take form in a thought
and be given a name, 
but is more a shade 
as that which inhabits
the internal landscape

of a haiku when something
fragile and exquisitely beautiful 
is caught briefly in its passing
and let go.
It is a sadness that feels
soul deep, reverberates
in the ear beyond
any audible note

from a place that echoes 
an emptiness, 
the absence of what perhaps 
first gave it breath 
and let its fragile existence
float free and alone
to wash up on the shores
of this gentle evening
and utter a sigh.

Clementine through the Clouds

clementine through the clouds
a gentle shower of shine

not blinding, but binding
droplets of a restraining eye

so like a passing surname
a sign inhabits the Summer day

hour upon hour of aimless thought
of a most gracious heavenly soul

she had peace as I struggled
my mom dying from same ill

clementine through the clouds
melting like orange sherbert

my eyes taste its pleasant hue
my head in the cotton puffs, soothed

What Is It Part Ii

What Is It, Part II

The mind, a cloud of neurons
Packed snug within the deep grooves of the skull
Tiny worlds reaching out to all their neighbors 
Across great gulfs of the brain
Communicates ceaselessly via little bolts of lightning
Adding to a sum far exceeding the whole;
The miracle of consciousness reborn every millisecond
Within the storm.

It knows what it is,
Has named itself,
Taken note there are other like storms roaming about.
Has contacted them and joined with them 
Building knowledge, history, civilizations
Searching for more, evermore like itself
To find meaning in the fearful Vastness
It knows it is suspended in.

All this it does 
Managing its frail,complicated Self.


It knows the body it inhabits dies,
Beyond which, it knows not.

But it speculates.

Outlooks a Freed Verse

OUTLOOKS
 A shifting
   play of angles
multilayered
that morph
into
 landscaped
abstractions
 already
 enmeshed
 about to
embark
the density
 dissipates time
with
 lights
&sounds
flickering
thr awake
 hushed
&enshrined
by the  curious

white seeps
 through
from underneath
 a blossoming
 light from memory
that glimpse
of nature
blurs
 the boundary
between
temporarlilty
& the transient
 becomes
the frame
to inhabits it
 to savour
every
fleeting
element

Gentle People

No-one notices,
just like those passing shapes
sunk mind deep in worlds
whose gravity pulls life
inwards towards a nowhere
no larger than a screen.

The real is detached.
Thoughts, feelings, you,
all wired to what inhabits
a dimension midway between
make believe and a hard place -
lives and nations wait 
suspended in a state whose
future sits on the end of a finger.

Horror is always "over there", 
quarantined from view,
dissolving into constructs 
manufactured in the silicon
lobes of an artificial brain.
Then, grinding away
at the bottom of a wordless pit,
an inescapable sense
that someone or something
is watching you.

And in this rising din
of bangs, beating drums
and bottled screams 
in double glazed rooms,
where are the voices 
of the gentle people,
the good people who softly walk 
the earth still carrying 
a reverential wonder for creation
and a book of poems 
by that patron saint
of the human soul,
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson.

Across Realms

Across the realms of existence now known
dwell some dimensions of which we're not part.
Though sharing our space, diverse life is shown-
some worlds within worlds, alone from the start-
know not of us- yet are able and smart.

Earth's anthills survive in worlds quite diverse;
no knowledge that giants exist in their midst.
In their unique space, they govern and nurse.
Too, bees in their hives cannot be dismissed;
they thrive in their world, and ours is not missed.

And our vast earthly oceans overwhelm
with life that inhabits dark, liquid space-
without knowing that above there's a realm,
most never will see, that's named human race-
we masters of earth- that rule and embrace.

Across the realms of existence NOT known
dwell huge dimensions of which we're not part.
Though sharing our space- diverse realms are shown;
some worlds among worlds- ahead from the start?
We know not of them- more able and smart?

Caved Walls

A sparkle in darkness,
    where my terror and pain
       resonates on cave walls.
            My death forced;
      as I touch the moon, it    
                draws me.
   When clutching reality     
          now diminished.

    Falling and suffering as
   my past memories falter,
   Violently forced into a 
           realm of dread.
Forging multiple forms of         
            violent deaths, a
            thirst to cause.
    Tremendous turmoil;
    this crucible of terror,
  who inhabits one's mind, 
   thoughts, and nightmares.

                 So vicious,
 this putrid winged beast of
compulsion of vengeance       
           and of torture.
My mentality impulses and 
      thoughts withdrawn.
       This reality of my
    fighting failure's endure
        It's agonizing doom,
   my happiness,my being
       now occupied with    
                sadness.

What Separates Us

What Separates Us
Miracle Man
3/21/2023

Life is a congested walkway
where each inhabits their God given space.
The barrier that separates us is great.

Sometimes its opinions, religion, or means,
But many times its something as simple as
 the way one looks, speaks, or skin tone.

We say/do things that cut like shards of glass,
and later feel remorseful
for having brought pain to another.


Matthew 25:40
“And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

Divinity

Since time began, most humans had the sense-
inside each soul lives God's Divinity;
a force that elevates us to dispense
we all are joined through this affinity.

Divinity inhabits every soul-
for God has fashioned us from His own will;
to live a life with blessedness our goal- 
and inborn wish to spread gifts of goodwill.

No matter what the culture on this Earth-
awareness of Divinity is sound.
Our stream of consciousness exists from birth-
connection with our God remains profound.

Deep prayer and acts of kindness foster goals-
share that Divinity within our souls.

February 9, 2023

Contest: Writing Challenge - D Word
Sponsor: Constance La France
Word Chosen 5 - Divinity

Broken Time In Pieces

Time passed away in the dark,
the bedside clock fell silent
it was never much of a talker.

Below the curtained window
snow had numbed the night,
ill at ease my body stretched
as if seeking a way out of its mind
a place it inhabits
when there is only one room,
to turn around in.

Did the clock
die on the tic or the toc?
These are the sort of questions
to struggle with when it's too early
to actually struggle.

Switched on the lamp -
the one in my head.
Accumulations of amputated dreams
wriggled back into the shadows.
I shake the clock
some residual moments
slipped limply through cold fingers.

When the light freezes,
when dawn breaks its brittle shell,
snow humps (so far unseen),
will resemble the many recumbent hours,
but of course there's no way
to measure those hours now.

It could be days
before the snow melts
or until eyes unstick themselves
from all this rumpled mess
of being.

The Ninth Spoke To Me

Mama taught me to remember the celebrations 
The ninth spoke to me
Remember me
Remember him, who sits alone
with his purple urn
Her ashes, not the same
The clinks and cheers,
a shame
Her lips would sip from his glass
He’d plant a kiss
The honor, we miss
Now, near her frame, her smile inhabits
the room, but mama’s presence
is ash, contained
Wedded bliss so missed

1/12/2022

Angelic Woe

The sky’s painted gray

My heart is bruised 

My mind is cluttered

But I have you


You mend my wounds

And organize my space

Light the way 

My pain is erased


Even when sorrows and woe

Refuse to wander astray 

You’re always there to comfort me 

On my most melancholic day 


What was once dull and grim

Now inhabits a vibrant hue 

Your loving regards 

Are that of morning dew 



An angelic presence in this confusing place 

Deserves a gentle and affectionate embrace 

I love you 

And that I will forever state

Lunar Incantation

The light
is not its own, but
caught and passed on
to comfort a darkened world.
It inhabits the lonely places
and where absence
has gone unhealed,
becoming a summoner 
of dreams and visions
as if seeking a form
to manifest something
of itself in the apparitions 
wandering human sleep,
or in a memory
that gently brushes
the mind when still,
or drifting far away, 
as the image
of a mother's cooling hand
caressing a child’s 
fevered brow, or
comes upon the senses
like a breath
in the soft sweep of hair
across the lips
of a summers evening,
when love, for a moment,
has the power to make
the soul believe
it is not alone.
And there too in a song
surfacing in a few haunting notes
that sets a longing loose
to hear it all.

Worthy of Pause

Carolina wren lifts fluted song
skyward
in a forest spotlight
breezily pitched
               like an opera worth staging
               a sentiment of joy
its cheeky self
              when measuring reserve
a song, over-stuffed
poised cliffhanger 
              from a winged vagabond 
              its agile volley of survival

wren
of brisk longing
               that peeks through green
               that breaks our corset-like indifference 
buoyant chatter
       that inhabits a small world detachment
choral company to dappled light
diva-like
bound
          to the heated stillness of summer




Poem composed July 26/2022
Revised November 11/2022

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