Long Intimate Poems
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POTD - 25th September 2024
Synopsis -
A bitter-sweet, hauntingly romantic and heart-wrenching ballad that follows her journey of sorrow and longing, as she searches for answers to a love torn apart. Watch as the story unfolds, revealing the depths of her heartbreak. Thank you for watching.
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Love Hurts - Bound by Love Broken by Fate
(Extracted from my Poem ‘The Train’ and made into Lyrics and a video.)
Mesmerised by the candy-coloured rainbow
Coy behind the fairy floss clouds
Through shimmering sunbeams, we gazed
My senses in overdrive
As memories surface
And hover back to
That one day
Boarding this very train
Squeals of joy
As cloudbursts unleashed rain
Chorus
But you left me
You took my heart and locked away the key
Squeezing into one seat
Wrists caressed and kissed
Floating to that intimate space
Sensual lips taste
Whispered promises
Sparking bright eyes
And blushing rosy face
Softly against my ear a hum
Our song
Fingers daring to trace
Burning paths
Through shredded threads
Faded jeans
Breathless on the high line
Us, giggling teens
Chorus
But you left me
You took my heart and locked away the key
Speeding through fields of wildflowers
Sparkling like diamonds with the fallen showers
The train hooted in joy
Through the rain splattered window amazed
Mesmerised by the candy-coloured rainbow
Coy behind the fairy floss clouds
Through shimmering sunbeams we gazed.
Chorus
But you left me
You took my heart and locked away the key
***********
Dancing with shadows in my room, dispels all
specters of gloom.
I envision the young Panagiota,in tulle ballet gown.
Bowing gracefully to her audience.
Oh, my how she made young men swoon.
At sixteen,lovely, nervous, her ballgown of sequins,
satin, lace and white.
Bowing to an audience, holding long scarlet stem roses,
on her special debutante night.
Years later, I see her learning belly dancing in Greek town,
on a lit stage.
"Always do something new"' was engraved on the top of her
lfe’s daily, exciting page!
She could never be still and sit quietly on any chair!
If a dance floor were ready..you can count in it, Panagiota's
feet imnediatelly would be there.
Between dancing, for Panagiota, there is always soul-love!
So sacred, so intimate, so unique..
Her heart rhythmic, yet soft as a young turtle dove's.
11/1/2024 Poem 3
The tiny hand that crabs your little finger,
birth of passage for the individual thinker.
Personality through intuitive developing spirit,
like the artist becomes art itself and it’s lyrics.
To see the spirit of modesty is beauty itself,
veiled by nature to cover the greater excels.
Himself most modest but intimate with those,
who practice the scales of cosmic force.
That ethos is like some genuine art,
added with a life responding heart.
Evidence of prophecy from divine tongue,
personality and interpretation unsung.
The wise asks the question into the mirror,
the free heart opens the channel of nearer.
Knowing the ego is born from the ashes of false,
then matter is a state of spirit, throwing some salt.
Words that come through light from source of soul,
more precious than all jewels, by being whole.
I see nothing till I do,
I start as a feeling,
Building up in your throat,
Tracing the lines of the inner most parts of your soul.
My vision is always warped,
As though I were looking forward with a thin vale over my eyes,
Every shape is round,
Nothing sharp or ridged,
But instead all is obfuscated.
I lay dormant for days,
Weeks,
Months,
Maybe even years,
But I come back just as nimbly as I left.
I stay with one women,
She uses me more than I would like,
Everyday it feels as though I am abruptly taken ahold of,
Throttled and squeezed,
Then there is nothing left.
I feel her calling me again,
This time it is subtle,
More incubuses than before,
She must be hurt,
That is what I think,
She must be broken,
Bleeding out somewhere angrily dark,
She could be dying,
That must be why this time the hold on me is soft,
Almost reverent,
Like a lover’s touch.
So she must be dying,
For what other reason would she be this way?
When my vision does come it is unclear,
As it always is,
I find myself catching in the folds of the woman’s face,
At first I flow down her lashes,
Then I drip along the most intimate places of her face,
Sometimes I even manage to end up running along the dryness of her lips.
From what I can tell though,
This women is not dying,
She is just hurt,
In a different way,
Then I expected.
Through the cloudiness,
I see two of her,
They are inverted,
One of them,
Seems wrong.
More cruel,
Maybe a bit too honest,
So it is no surprise,
That she turns away from it,
To look at something more,
Ideal.
The ball in the sky,
Makes it harder for me,
To see her,
As well with the flicker,
Of flames.
But then the women,
She stops,
And I feel myself leaving,
I feel how I soak up,
How I dry out,
For the women,
Has none of me left.
But before I disappear,
The fogginess leaves,
Allowing me to see her,
For what she really is.
And with the shapes now,
All align,
I can see her,
She is just as I thought,
Yes,
She is indeed beautiful.
They do not ask permission
to burn.
They scatter themselves across the black
like secrets no one could keep,
like laughter that escaped the mouth of the universe
before it knew what it was.
Some are already gone—
their light only a letter
still traveling through the dark,
addressed to no one,
yet opened by everyone
who dares to look up.
They are not lanterns,
not guides,
not even wishes waiting to be claimed.
They are reminders
that distance can still be intimate,
that brilliance can outlive its body,
that silence can roar
if you are patient enough to listen.
And when you stand beneath them,
neck bent,
breath caught,
you realize—
the stars are not above you.
They are inside you,
burning,
refusing to be forgotten.
Do we cherish our aliveness innate
Gods gift of life, each heartbeat that elates
Celebrating breath from start to finish
As conscience, right from wrong does distinguish
Pure childlike heart, shedding off ego weight
Love and light beckons, why then do we wait
Succumb not to fears and desires that bait
Vibrant bliss within, our revered parish
Do we cherish
Feel life, immediate and intimate
As to the music divine, we gyrate
Boundless bliss in permanence, as we wish
Vivifies our form, in an instant swish
Even as we playfully meditate
Do we cherish
01-April-2021
Writing Prompt - Cherish - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
There are triggers...
and then there are triggers.
When the stars above shine on me,
I am always aware that you trigger something within me.
What you trigger is loving.
You warm my heart
and sometimes chase me away in sadness.
But tonight you warm my heart.
Thank you. I have been wondering
many things.
The universe has no interest in what I know,
but occasionally peeks in to see how I've grown.
That eye...is not accompanied by ears.
Have you ever noticed that?
I don't want to be left behind...
and suddenly I'm that 16 year old girl
and like a box of discarded items
my parents moved several states away.
That is mine, my emotional problem. I own that.
So I send it back to it's source, return to sender,
and bless him on his path.
I am cleaning my field
in the autumn of my life.
working out shortcomings -
appropriateness...
buffing down and softening those hard spots,
that have been misperceived as strength.
Please don't misunderstand the love you trigger.
It is appropriate,
not the intimate kind,
although it is personal.
So I send you love.
Yes, there are triggers...
and then there are triggers.
I seek out inspiration.
Oblivious to love’s heat,
mind was unable to tweet
scents that pervaded the air,
seeking a lifelong affair.
Save in silence, we are bound
to dark desires that confound
but if we’re still, voids soon fill,
making swift ascent uphill.
Knowing we’ll return to dust,
to what avail’s savage lust,
denying us love’s embrace
and benedictions of grace?
May each breath be intimate,
wherein polarities mate,
that as bliss rapture heightens,
our soul’s auric field brightens.
Aligned with the cosmic hum,
we’ll feel God’s magnetism strum
thirty three notes on our spine,
making us on earth divine.
Being by thought forms decoyed,
bigots notice not the void,
falling to ego stalking,
they’re like a dead man walking.
MIRROR
an artifice
of endeavour
precise
candid & confiding
quietly
in unobtrusive
clarity
a focus
mirrored in
unshowy
lucidity
in calm
equanimity
inducing
feelings of
anxiety
a
revelatory
addendum
intimate &
immediate
beguiling yet
singular
with
interesting
glints
&gleams
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
Stewards washed the feet of their masters to make them relaxed.
Master, dignity-filled, bestow blessings on these small ones.
Did Jesus, as a master, make his disciples feel taxed?
His love for them made them feel like they were truly his sons.
Who is great? Who is small? This concept went with the world's ways.
Should such feelings overtake the minds of intimate friends?
He taught them, like a child, to blaze with a glaze of pure rays.
Did they, as grown-ups, easily give up their earthly trends?
Truths go off-head when ego fills the physique and psyche.
He who humbled himself wished to teach them humility.
This deed indeed is a deed of ending a power hike.
Is there any virtue yet greater than integrity?
Each one carried out this teaching of their master ever
Each yearned for more degrading death for him than the other.