Long Tremor Poems
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The air grows thick with want, a sweet and heavy shroud,
As primal needs escape the clamor of the crowd.
I feel a tremor deep within my bone and skin,
A wicked hunger where all reason wears too thin.
My thoughts, a tangled mess of what could be,
What’s done.
A fevered race to reach the rising of the sun,
Your lips, a whispered lure that pulls me from my place,
To lose myself within the rapture of your grace.
A potent madness takes its hold, and reason fades,
And all that matters is the game our bodies play.
The world recedes, a blur of motion, lost and past,
Until this fire is but an ash that can't be cast.
A hush folds over the room
Not silence but a velvet static
Like the air is waiting to see
What you do without dissolving
Shadows rearrange themselves
Into half-remembered shapes
Old thoughts brushing your ankles
Like animals that forgot your scent
The clock doesn’t tick tonight
It breathes slow and deliberate
Testing whether you’ll follow
Or break formation
Mind unwrapped from its sugar-dark cocoon
Moving with logic out of rhythm
A lantern swinging in a cavern
Where the walls shift when unobserved
There’s a tremor of clarity
Thin as a hairline crack in glass
Letting in a draft of something
Which cannot be named
In that draft
A question lingers half posed
Is this what the world feels like
When it remembers itself
Lying there sober as a moonbeam
Listening to the muted rebellion
Of a body relearning its own edges
A mystery unfolding one unlit corner at a time
the tattoo on her eyebrow frowned
at the sight of yesteryear’s cutlass
the well-rounded blade had become
blunt dull and worn down from overuse
and yet straight to the point of salvation
the pain cut unceremoniously deep
like a double-edged sword that
protracted the kill in anticipation
of slicing from a lacerated mind
saw teeth serenaded an ode to demise
one more incision and the blood flow
would take her across the river of tears
lacerated dreams punctured and carved into
her epitaph a forgone pleasant conclusion
the point of no return loomed un-capriciously
her wounds had festered in purulent beauty
and she appealed to her inner resolve
why prolong the inevitable release
and she was calm with no tremor
as she faced the extinction of terror
her glance fell upon the scalpel
next to the toothbrush and lather
and the mirror liked what it saw
cracked glass a few shards missing
a borrowed fantasy and reflection
of a bloody life unwanted as she
pondered upon what message
to inscribe on her tombstone
the shower curtain ready for a last splash
cheered her on ‘don’t you worry’
‘I’m easy to clean the mess will abide’
grout bleach and tiles lured a whitewash
and the toilet brush smiled in applause
cacophonous bristles caked in foul smell
took her closer to the crappy memories
which had darkened a life not worthy
of living and she let out a flatulent moan
ultimate and terminal the fizz pounced
and she gripped the rapier with
surgical precision and intricate joy
then Occam’s razor pleaded for parsimony
and she went back to self-laceration
prolonged suicide suited agony’s hurt
much better than a knife in her heart
17th May 2021
Knife’s Edge Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Time stretched stillness
And vibrant emptiness
Enables clear cognition
Of the in between state
Just before deep sleep
Wherein dreams cease
Since thought flow ends
Yet awareness is poised
As witness consciousness
In the void of no-thingness
When formless presence
Choicelessly then chooses
To meld with That oneness
Enlivening itself by intent
Of undifferentiated I-ness
Recognising the noumena
Causation of phenomena
Thus singularity and duality
Being but manifestations
Of the same unified reality
Reverberating as Spanda
29-April-2022@
Notes:
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turiya
https://hridaya-yoga.com/spanda-the-sacred-tremor-of-the-heart/
Hold on to me when time for you has come
When earth and sky melt into throbbing sun
Hold on to me when shaken to the core
When you must wait for just one tremor more
Hold on to me when time and space stand still
When every moment builds to passion’s thrill
Hold on to me when comes crescendo's time
When all you feel is thunderings sublime
Hold on to me and grip till earthquakes cease
And hold on tight in glow of your release
Hold on to me as tears wash down your face
For you’ve know love that's filled with healing grace
Hold on to me; be safe in haven sweet
With knowledge that my love makes you complete
Eileen Manassian Ghali
You came by maybe for the last time,
to my room, to drop my scarf
and the pen I’d once placed in your palm.
When you left, I held that scarf tight,
hoping it carried some trace of you.
I never knew your scent,
but for a moment my whole body trembled
with the wish that I did.
I hoped you would wait a little longer.
I hoped you would tell me about your day
the way you once did
when everything was simpler
and neither of us knew it.
Sometimes I wonder if you ever look back
on the quiet days we shared
and see the empty space I carved without meaning to.
I wonder if you regret anything.
I hope you don’t.
I hope you remember more than the silence
I wrapped myself in
when I didn’t know how to answer your lies
or how to speak when I needed to.
Maybe someday
you will walk past me
and I will walk past you,
nothing between us but the soft ache of silence.
Maybe.
Your small smile still stirs
that familiar churn beneath my ribs.
Maybe I am the problem,
but I will try not to hate myself
for the ending of a friendship
I fought to understand.
You had every right to act how you have,
And I’ve only now realized
how little we truly knew each other
despite all those hours we claimed we did.
Still, I imagine your arms,
the way I would sink into them
and cry until my chest emptied out.
Maybe some far-off August,
some impossible January,
I would hold you like I’d never let go again.
Sometimes I ask myself
what I’ve gained
by letting myself lose you.
Maybe time will open its quiet hands
and show me,
eventually.
For I have cried,
and I have hoped,
and I have wished,
and I have questioned every reason
I thought was enough.
Yet I still care.
Maybe you were only my emotions
wearing a familiar face,
but I still want
to hug you again,
to hold your hand
like the world hadn’t split between us.
What have I done?
Will I always feel this tremor
when you drift back into my thoughts?
Will I always wonder
about the things you told others
but never told me?
Will I always question
whether you’re lighter
without the weight of me?
Will I always carry
this quiet regret
for choosing the path
that led away from you?
But love doesn't always return.
And I do love you.
Yet I am not sorry
for breaking the promise we made,
for ending the part of the story
that could no longer hold us.
Some people like to live on the edge or hang on a ledge. Not me.
I'm just Daniel, a trailblazer forging ahead, making a pathway for others.
In the process, I have no shortest of respect for God's great creation.
I set foot on a wilderness from the warm Atlantic to the cold Pacific,
and spent a lifetime trapping, fishing, hunting, and heading wagon trains.
Earthquake Susan's quiet and sleepy today, not likely to quake, shake, or tremor. Volcano Sam has started emitting smoke, but maybe he won't blow his top today. Unlike a Hurricane Helen roaring across the Caribean on a course with measurable data, Sam's under a lot of pressure and he's always filled with suspense and unpredictabilities.
In mid-winter when it's quiet with lots of snow, I can hear Sam's pleads as he hopes people will pay more attention and not take him for granted. Like a youngster filled with rebellion and rage because of 'he knows not what', that volcano just ahead named Sam cannot control the massive 'buildup of fire' going on inside of him.
But I have been listening, watching, and studying his history for years, and if I have learned anything about my proper relationship with Sam, it's that I keep my distance and pay attention, being ready at all times to flee this entire mountain area.
12262018PoSoupContest, Sleeping Volcano, Eve Roper; 2P
Two social crystals
Two lovely books together
Under lamp of love
One mere paperback
The other hardbound gilded
Intense struggle on
“We shall overcome”
Resonated day and night
A rope walking tight
Page combined with page
A new book of poems grew
As a haiku came
Baby on her toes
Tremor occurred but the ball
Every time bounced back
A third book now grows
New story of a new home
Blue waves in white foam
In their shell a pearl
Now a ten year old bright boy
The family’s joy
Time moves on the shore
I still look to forming waves
In poetry caves
__________________________________________
May 4, 2016
Format 5-7-5 : (www. howmanysyllables.com)
Submission for Haiku on “My Family” – Poetry Contest
Sponsored by : marvin celestial
I need to put my calendar on Wegovy
There are four of us in my study group,
Emma, from Lyon, a tall brunette, To her, everything’s a moral question or a joke.
Léah, from Étretata (Normandy) a waifish redhead, who’s either quiet or a total riot.
Chloé, an anorexic ex-ballerina, from Paris (the living theater) who talks of quitting every Tuesday.
In our study group rituals
- caffeine is our sacrament
and Anki is our confirmation.
We read the sacred texts (class notes),
annotated in colors that signify ‘don't forget that,’
and “this will be on the exam (probably).”
Emma says “my life is an Anki-fest.”
Léah says “time’s a construct and sleep a trap.”
Chloé says “let's do (review) one more chapter”
the way an alcoholic suggests,
“let’s just get one last drink.”
We diagnose strangers on the metro
a cough, a rash, a limp, a hand tremor,
with the confidence of prophets.
Whispering about “classic presentations”
We all want to be 'high-yield'.
We have daily in-group rankings,
for creating the best flashcards
and the best sleep score.
Today’s lunch is gone
and I don’t remember eating it.
Emma pronounces that normal
Léah logs it in an app as “fuel.”
On our last quiz our scores were almost identical.
Chloé says we should celebrate and all agreeing,
we ordered eclairs and espressos.
9 days until first year final exams.
.
.
Songs for this:
Think It Over by Born At Midnite
100 horses by Geese
.
Anki - a flashcard app for spaced-repetition memorization
They cut the grid
into the mountain,
breathing a poisonous cloud.
A frantic chaos,
Staking a fortune from
beneath the eucalypt,
pulling hollow bones
they did not heed.
They bet on success,
Assuming the heavy,
damp silence of the bush
was a kind of surrender.
But destiny ignores a frantic hand.
It woke not as a tremor,
but a shift.
A slow drag against the iron.
The ancient roots waking
their weight,
a deep,
fluid groan rising
through fragile ground.
And then—
the inescapable alignment.
The ancient land would seal their fate.
The land sheared
like a severed cord,
swallowing their plans
into the dark earth.
Within the bruised shadows
of the collapse,
the twisted steel rests.
An eerie monument to fortune lost.
the earth does not negotiate with fortune.
It simply folds the chaos down,
and settles back into peace.