Percolates Poems

It Never Ceases

With varying degrees of intensity, 
   my internal war rages on.

Freedom of choice vs. obligation to others,
   a conflict that’s been fought since time’s dawn.

The battle requires a decision to be made 
   that personal responsibility must mediate.

Choosing a position to take is juxtaposed 
   to choosing a position to abdicate.

The skirmish renews each morning, 
   since the tempest percolates whilst I sleep.

There’s no option that involves fleeing 
   because the repercussion would echo too deep.

I long for a palatable solution, 
   which could usher in welcomed peace.

But my internal war will continue raging on, 
   'til I find an existential release.

WISECRACKS

“Work is worship," a doctrine passed through centuries,
"Rest is rebellion," a baton, drowning in miseries.


"Act without expectation," karma echoes,
"Everything returns," as destiny bestows.

"Silence is golden," a soft ebb that silhouettes the sand,
"Words can change the course of history," a tide that overwhelms the land.

"Knowledge is power," the metaphorical snollygoster—
"Ignorance is bliss," a brazen imposter.

"Aging like fine wine," a desire to aspire,
"Worn by the years," behind a graceful facade.

"A stitch in time saves nine," maxim in Grandma's script,
"Don't fix what isn't broken," Grandpa's witty quip.

Aphorisms perplexing the gyri and sulci—
Dichotomy percolates, its fulcrum sheepishly sly.

Like a dolphin decoding submerged signals,
Surveilling truths with a dunk, a leap, and a dash of giggles.

When Trust is Planted

    When trust is planted 

        it germinates

     before it percolates

        and rounds into belief

DELUSION

We
      live
              a delusion
              day by day
the illusion
               we are free
               independent
free spirits
to be
              who we are
              to do
as
        we 
                 please
          when we like
able 
            to
                    choose
The
consequences
of ego
                    lie all
                    around
'til
      this
                hedonistic
                bubble bursts
&
       marks
                    &stains
as
                    it
percolates
              through 
               our kin

It
      is
             known
             as sin
but
is unconfessed
               never
                breathed
                aloud
oft
considered
an illusion

                  so this
                   circle
                   revolves
who
will
          break this ring
and
     ask
             Him
                    in

SIPPING COFFEE - NFC

Steam rises
“old faithful”
Percolates once again

The cup has character
Not charm

It has earned its place
Borne the days
Arrival

Wept
In oily tribute
At their passing

The brew contains
An oily rainbow

Its soothing solace
Savored

The Bluest Avalanche

Earth once had a heartbeat.
Everything was sparkling-alive...
The sun and dirt.
A spec of pyrite
rainclouds teasing the earth. 

All that man touches eventually dies.
Wars spring from iron hands.
From the malignant flavor of religion.
From love gone feral.
For the lust of petrol lands. 

When God kneaded man.
He kicked a mustard seed...
igniting the bluest avalanche.
All things beautiful were crushed.
All that is good was despised-disfigured.
Unrecognizable is the devil's latest fad.

This is the age of the ogre.
The age of opaqueness.
The age of the sub-cultured.
Dark matter of the soul percolates to the surface.
Faith is pulverized into the skin of oblivion.
The meek will inherit the stain of a dead earth.

Broken Beauty

Broken Beauty

By Mark D. Stucky
Glamour is a hollow, shiny shell,
a rapid, pretty paint job
on an insubstantial surface,
that alluringly promises much
but never satisfies the hunger.

True human beauty is internal,
from the depths of one’s core.
It starts in the heart and soul.
It slowly sprouts and spreads,
percolates and permeates
the exterior from within.

The best but bleakest beauty
grows from wisdom
wrestled and wrought
from woundedness.
Pain, a teacher of distinction,
comes to every one of us,
but only some students
embrace the lessons
and find meaning in affliction.

For perceptive learners,
crises cut and clear the clutter
from bloated, busy lives,
enabling the complex splendor
of sorrow and healing,
of tears and laughter,
of doubt and faith,
of truth and grace,
of peace and joy,
of love and compassion
to emerge from pruned spaces.


(First published in Small Town Anthology VII: Entries from the Seventh Annual Tournament of Writers, Vicksburg Cultural Arts Center, 2021, p. 93.)

Pondering and Percolating

we writers strive to achieve our best  
to bring forth what percolates within our breast  
giving rise to thoughts that are eager to be 
placed on paper for the world to see

at times we struggle as if climbing walls
other times we buckle when we hear the call
crying out from deep down in our bones
for sweet release, to find a new home

for the words we hear in a muffled voice 
conflicted by each and every choice 
of letter, syllable, comma, phrase 
waiting to appear on a bare new page

we know it's hiding in that writer's womb
a seed of surprise waiting to bloom 
any moment now, from dawn to dusk
pondering, percolating is a must

Greatness

Stranded on the highway
my heart beat slightly faster
I had a destination to reach
Suddenly, everything seemed uncertain
What would become of me, where would my feet go,
now that I had been pushed off the yellow auto that I was safe in
How similar it is,
to the sight of a man standing alone on the cliff side
as the sea hit harshly against the rocks
Nobody expects a few droplets of water
to defeat the sturdy rock
But still it does so
The rock breaks into fragments 
and ends in a mushy concoction of mud and stone
Water that percolates in between,
seems to mock it as the memory of its great past
flickers into non existence
Such is the story of great civilisations too
Would I end like that?
I ask to myself
I'm still at the beginning of my life
I wonder anxiously, is the best over yet?
Or am I still a small drop of rain, on my way to become a sea?
Not a part of the sea, that is too pathetic for me
I dream of valour and greatness
I can only hope to achieve them someday

Cord

A bush lark in the Greenwood forest sings.
She sings all day long near the mountain springs.
Is she trilling in notes so plaintive of her missing mate?
Unleashing her heart of its doleful weight?
	
Or easing the pangs of a heart that starves
For a soul mate yet to come for whom she craves?
Or sending a missive through the aerial route
Sounding in every ear a low melancholy note?

From the covert of dark leaves, her song percolates.
Through the sinews of my heart it permeates,
Striking a cord between two souls equally deprived,
Stirring in me an inarticulate ache, never once divulged.


Placed Eighth
April. 29. 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry  Contest

Bliss Mist

Bliss mist percolates deep within
Rapture unbound ensues
We feel the tingle on our skin
As ignition renews

We meet and greet each face
With open arm embrace
Owing to divine grace

Love gist
Bliss mist

09-November-2021
Quietus

To Be Without You

When buildings crumble
& return back to dust
& heads turn in disgust.
Faced with lust & deeds
Of mistrust.

When all else fades
& the stars speckle
Like eons of old dust collected
& swept across the sky,
Time will cease to exist.

While some of us ascend
The staircase.
Not all of us will be so fortunate
In a desert of red.

In any case,
No matter which way you go,
Wait for me.

Wait for me at the floodgate
Which passion percolates &
The stars weep for us as we do
For them.
Don’t breathe without me,
Just as I wouldn’t without you.
Humble & unknowing

I don’t know what’s to become of us
But I do know,
I don’t want to be without you.
When buildings crumble
& return back to dust
When all else fades
& the stars speckle
Like eons of old dust collected
& swept across the sky.

Wait for me,
No matter what happens

Welcoming Our Guest

Stand
still dear
soul, as bliss 
percolates form,
stretching the moment
and moments yet to come,
as time itself stands still thus,
with presence devoid of cravings,
drawing the current into our heart
resulting in blissful rapture unbound.

When we invite love divine in our home,
we first cleanse ourself of feral stains,
laying the welcome mat of trust,
with winsome smile on our face,
making room in our heart,
for the honoured guest
to feel at home
as we be
full of
joy.

06-July-2021

Cicada

For now they abide under the earth,
the bedded and dormant,
neither do they wake nor sleep,
but defer and endure
until a sun warmed air
percolates into countless
humming sepulchral lungs.

They are almost here,
the soil is erupting
with their tunneling wings.
They, the unearthing prophets
of tic-toc.

Then the great fistula
as the ground gives them up.
The whirlwind rustling
as trees are invested, claimed,
and proclaimed
in the great swarm
and rubbing-in of now.

Now they begin, the endless sounding,
the cacophony
the innate necessity;
each male a hollow abdomen, a sound box
for the drumming of membranous wing plates. 
The brief coupling, then more,
unto death do they pour.

Eggs fall like mist to the ground.
Soon millions of seeded nymphs 
will dig in 
to begin again an ageless cycle of 
species resurrection.

If ears could scream, 
they would rend the air 
with the shattered glass
of fracturing minds.

We who live as trees do
in the click and clack of their 
desperate songs, must grow numb 
or bury our senses deep
into our own earth;
try again to forget,
or not to count the long years
to the next pronounced awakening.

Open Secrets Continued

something shifts in space
palms and soles of feet glisten
hermit alone knows

silent thunder peaks 
bliss mist percolates within
hidden in plain sight

form splits into two 
one becomes two and two one
duality ends

18-April-2021

• Short Percolates Poems
• Famous Percolates Poems
• Best Percolates Poems
• Read Percolates Poems
• Long Percolates Poems
• Percolates Quotes