Long Undeciphered Poems
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Women, secret priestesses of the soul and undying dream,
Whispering ancestral secrets woven in the threads of destiny,
Knowing men like parchments deciphered under the full moon’s glow,
Understanding every hidden longing, each impenetrable dream, and every unspoken whisper.
They weave knowledge from the deep, dark, and luminous recesses of their hearts,
Sensing all that men can become, like storms rising from deep waters or gentle hills,
All they desire, their wishes sculpted in the shadows of unspoken dreams,
All they are, faces shaped from rock and waves, willows swayed by the wind.
Women are architects of destinies shrouded in mystery,
Creating worlds from the butterflies of the soul, laying out landscapes from the beats of our hearts,
Reading us like unwritten verses in ancient psalms,
Dancing their magic around us, crafting cloaks of pure love.
They are those undeciphered enigmas, where each smile is a spell,
Every gesture, a stanza from an archaic poetry, every touch, a sacred incantation,
They know when to lift us up and when to bring us back to earthly realms,
With a love that carries depth and gentleness untold through eternities.
Women are falling stars weaving their light into the horizon,
Reading our dreams and fears like silent constellations,
Nothing escapes them, neither wind, nor storm, nor hidden desire,
They are the poets of life, whose verse is the secret of the universe itself.
In their eyes reflects the entire cosmos, like in azure crystal mirrors,
They extend their soul like a bridge between the temporal and the eternal,
Always knowing what we can become, as they feel our destiny in the silence of infinity,
Becoming our muses and guides, showing us the path beneath starry skies.
Women are those eternal stories, flowing through time like sacred rivers,
Enchanting us with their songs, embracing us with warm thoughts,
Knowing that, in their absence,
We would be wanderers in the night without a beacon, lost in a boundless dream.
Women, wise in silences and dreams, know everything about us,
Like an aurora discovered in a night of secrets,
They read our hearts in the pulse of the universe and the whispers of stellar tranquility,
And thus, through them, we become endless travelers in the eternal light of destiny.
A tiny scar that marks a
long-ago mishap or misdemeanor.
A slender ridge left by an
ancient scalpel.
Faint dots and lines,
barely more tactile than a tattoo,
in the shadow of a breast,
the lee of a thigh,
the curve of a hip,
that startle my hands because
they are like invisible jags in silk,
minute blemishes
embossed on flawless skin.
Cocooned in love’s sleepy afterglow in my bed,
your body is warm like hushed earth that
remembers a newly departed sun.
My hands sleepwalk across this
mythical landscape,
stumbling eyeless across
a scattered alphabet
in which I’m not literate,
the coded script
to a life that has now joined mine.
There will be plenty of time to learn.
For now, my fingers are content
to gather up their stories,
undeciphered, into my dreams.
The bastioned confidence of quarried pride
Conceived no ingress save by iron decree;
Yet vesper-dew, where noiseless graces bide,
Tutored the adamant to clemency,
Till lichened liturgies, by increments unseen,
Unthroned the obdurate from its sovereign mien.
The littoral catechised the granite's bone,
Not with assault, but sacramental wear;
Each undeciphered ripple, one by one,
Absolved the precipice of all its air,
As though the meekest ordinance of tide
Could loose what catapults had never tried.
Thereafter—vision trespassed into sense:
A child, ungarlanded by name or throne,
Inclined his silence with such innocence
That altitudes remembered they were sown;
The mountain, recollecting elder birth,
Relinquished all pre-eminence to earth.
Then every fortress, founded upon weight,
Began to expatriate its ancient claim;
The stars themselves postponed their sovereign state,
As though eternity had altered name;
And what no conflagration could dissever,
One feather of the Infinite undid for ever.
A raw quiet
stretches like a membrane
across the night.
Pulled tight it waits to amplify
the slightest sound.
Each passing minute dials up
the volume of a nerve
strung to snare
the powdery whispers of a moth
or the faint ticking wheezed
out of an old wristwatch
kept beside the bed.
Others sneak the outskirts,
undeciphered, just out of reach
of being named.
Then in time
thoughts take over
and chatter in an aimless
dialogue of the brain.
The past is replayed
again and again
in regrets or unhealed shame
or bent to shape
itself another way as if
a choice was had
to change what happened
into what should have been.
Or the mind stammers, afraid,
paused on the lip
of what's to come,
a dull dread
of something unshaped
palling over the days ahead,
or plucks some planned event
for it to fill
with imagined pleasure
of what might be.
A distant siren
tunnels the dark
with its urgent wail
then thins to silence.
Unease lingers in its wake
and slowly tightens
until all distills
to just the sound
of a muffled pulse
beating in the chambers
of an ear.
One day it will stop.
In the hidden darkness of the guarding night,
Where the silent world holds its breath at dusk,
Lies a deep and undeciphered secret,
An untold story where love and destiny meet.
On the unseen path where shadows dance,
We were like two spirits lost in an ancient spell,
Seeking the answer in the undying flame of a candle,
In an unbroken dance of dreams and promises.
The whisper of leaves and the song of the wind guided us,
Through the corridors of time where reality and fantasy intertwine.
We were like two comets traveling through the cosmic sea,
Searching for that meeting point where stories become real.
Under the dome of the starry sky, where mystery watches,
I felt your secret, emerging from the depths of times gone by.
In the mystical silence, we both felt the burning longing,
An unbounded desire to find what seems lost.
I miss that night, the enchantment that enveloped us,
The promise of a love that died in the heart of the night.
Yet, in the cosmic abyss where the mystery persists,
I continue to seek you in an unseen world where love exists.
The poet does not see reality, but sees beyond its enchanted veil,
Through his eyes unfold the mysteries of the world, in mantles of light and shadow,
A young wanderer on the paths of imagination, mastering the unpolished art of dreams,
With every gaze, he pierces through earthly layers, discovering hidden magics.
Under the starry sky, he unravels the deep song of the night, where silence becomes poetry,
Every drop of dew on leaves, a diamond sparkling in infinite stories,
The stars, torches of the ever-burning soul, whisper the secrets of the universe,
In the moonlight, shadows become eternal riddles, dancing on untamed paths.
In the wild gardens, the flowers reveal the murmur of life, the hidden nectar of sorrow,
He sees the forest as a cathedral of sacred essences, the deer as the silent priests of the night,
Every tree, an altar of unspoken memories and desires,
Where the leaves fall like longings, whistling through rivers of astral light.
Through the lines written with ink of yearning, the poet explores other worlds,
Stepping on bridges of words, in realms where fantasy has its throne,
He carries his love and pain in tireless verses, guided by the echoes of destiny,
Constantly seeking through the veils of reality, the hidden truth of the dream.
By extinguished fires, where the embers sing their farewell song, moments become paraphrases of an undeciphered future,
He does not see reality, but weaves words from its essence, discovering the miracles hidden under the skin of time,
In the depths of the universe, each star becomes a metaphor for boundless longing,
And in this endless quest, the poet becomes an alchemist of souls, transforming reality into pure magic.
There is a circle of misunderstood signs dancing at the horizon's edge, deliberately hidden,
Where simple eyes see only land, he sees poetry springing from unexplored dreams,
On the path to the unknown, between reality and the realm of the fantastic,
He steps lightly, leaving traces of light behind, a story ever alive, stirring hearts and destinies.
The labyrinth of the mind transforms into a somber temple, where glyphs of thought intertwine,
And beneath the dome of the nocturnal sky, hearts like ancient scrolls unfold and burn in incantations.
The only enclosure where man erects his biography is a veritable menagerie of dreams,
A pantheon of thoughts and phantasms, with the altar of bitter desires.
With fingers of transparent dreams, he stretches his wanderings across the inner frescoes,
Where colors blend into palimpsests, and pigment is born only when summoned.
But the depths hide the fog, unleashing sphinxes that roam the corridors of wise chaos,
And the shadows come, the night's responsory, to absorb his light, to fashion his coffin of shadows.
In this labyrinth of the self, celestial wolves and crystal deer spin round the roundel of forgetfulness,
And in the corners of darkness, basilisks nest, dreadlocks of darkness weave the feverish tapestry.
Demons silently ringing at the gate of essence, demand the toll to be freed and transfigured,
And all this reverberation, each turmoil, is an unwritten palimpsest, a silent carol.
Every breath, every tremble of the lip, is an undeciphered libretto, an unsung chord,
In the crypt of his heart, dungeons of unfulfilled passions,
Wandering on a melancholic arpeggio, on strings of a sealed and closed wasteland.
But from the darkness resists, a phoenix of thought, a leaf of hope, an unexpected flight of light,
And man deciphers that in his own labyrinth,
He is the master, the musician, and the sculptor of his boundless life.
Thus, crossing the threshold of flesh, he surrenders to the wave of dreams,
Flying on the rainbow of imagination, in his most sacred sanctuary,
Where his imprisonment is the heart of a living temple,
And he is the hidden angel, in the eternal saga of his own light.
We are born into a world of sublimated madness, calculated with the precision of a broken clock,
amid the shattered stained glass of desolate factories, where the echo of emptiness reverberates,
in taverns where silence bears the weight of invisible lead,
in battles that start with fists and end with echoes of gunshots and fatal stabbings.
We are born in hospitals that seem like temples of suffering, where treatment is an inaccessible luxury,
under lawyers who demand impossible tributes, encouraging guilt as a way out,
in a country where cells are crowded and asylums closed, lost souls without refuge,
in a land where crowds raise madmen onto pedestals of fake gold.
We are progeny of the dawn shadows, destined to bear the imprint of darkness,
where dreams cling like spiderwebs in the corners of a forgotten world,
where every smile is pearled coal in the burned flames of memory,
where silence is an echo of an undeciphered past, sneaking between heartbeats.
We are born into a world unraveling like the fabric of an old tapestry, yet persisting in its illusion,
under skies laced with shooting stars, comets of unfulfilled desires,
among hopes that shatter into shards of light, blooming in dark corners,
under the weight of a crushing truth, breaking the wings of unremembered dreams.
We fade away in a world that dances on the edge of a deep abyss, a waltz of silent despair,
under the moon slipping between clouds of unease, a pale torch in the night,
and we dream, we dream of a day when we will be reborn, like a mystical tree, in the eternal forests of our soul.
And yet, in the shadow of pain, we seek sparks of meaning,
catching ephemeral glints from dust and cosmic silences,
from every sunrise, we recall the fallen leaves of hope,
for we are born and fade,
in a world full of wounds, singing the longing for a hidden world, murmuring unfinished poems.
8/16/16
This world has still not yet been fully exlpored and mapped
Imagine that
Pages on the original bible aged
While many lifeforms were unable to reach the final stage
Due to unexpected disasters such as tidal waves
Objects now buried, that use to be on the surface
Waiting to be found, taken care of and used with a purpose
Or to be sold and purchased
In so many regions
Monuments built for specific reasons
Due to whatever it was that they believed in
Or to help them out through the seasons
Plants that are native
And others considered invasive
In all kinds of different places
Caves
In pitch blackness and shade
Full of things that are strange
Trees towering
Over fauna and flora flowering
And where others lost or found a ring
Stones
In biomes
That are scorched and froze
Some of which have markings that are still undeciphered and unknown
Animals adapting
As time continues passing
Nothing is everlasting
By: Dalton Ogletree
What is life?
For I grew tasty to be
The most foolish, explored
The library and balustrade
Of foolery, for many a good time,
But in the line, undeciphered
That the most foolish I could ever
Get was ever going to be the startline
For another!
So I turned back to knowing, that I, too,
May acquire it and be counted a wiseman.
I did read many a wisebook and thought
Many a wisethought but, yet again, it was
Dawned on me that I was never ever going
To be the wiseman my taste craved, and that
I was a fool with permanent folly!
Hence, I turned to my mother and cried
To her of my dilemma.
She advised me to toe wiselines.
I asked her how wise could I ever be?
Then she gave me an answer that ever
Makes man sigh and hiss like a serpent!