Settle On Poems | Examples

Them and Us

You see the evil doesn’t look at all condemned
Those evil troublemakers of mankind
Are well remembered, way above the nameless dead
Who by the will of country rulers had to die
Because the actions, as you say my darling dear
Speak louder than words, and so they act
As if they had too little history in rear 
So thinking they’re unique in making pacts
They settle on the same old evil plan
The same catastrophe, the same vain sacrifices
Inevitably ends it up, as it did then
When those like them disdained the words of wise
Complacency can’t be outsmarted by the cruel
Can’t be reported by the frightened flatterers 
Complacency is always punished by the rule
With no exceptions to it, but that’s not about us
We can’t relate to those obsessed with power
To their staffers, games of death and hymns of glory
The bumblebees collect the pollen from your flowers
And there we are, in our eternal garden story.

Ways of Providence

He stood, arms, legs, outstretched, seemingly biding
in that lambent light against, darkening grey
where summer heat and storm are oft colliding;
in some time, the rain will come, yet not today.
Ancient dust will settle on his naked breast
slowly bake between the Sun and human sweat;
as his shadow slowly shifts from East to West
he knows, again, his payers have not been met.

Random Thoughts 1: Face wash

I wash my face twice a day
Once vigorously
As if I am exercising demons
Residing in my pores
And once gently
In circular, sweeping movements
Like I am washing away the crust of tears
That have come to settle on my cheeks

The beak has broken, and I settle on the shore of painful thoughts

The beak has broken, and I settle on the shore of painful thoughts,
while the sea sews salt around a shell of feathers—
a cradle carved from a time long vanished, a vapor dream of the past.
I touch it gently—the wings contract like secrets hidden in evening shadows—
fragile bruises, a poem of memories passed through rains of forgetting,
hidden beneath an old echo of lullabies that the wind whispers voicelessly.
But still, the shell splits and leaves behind only silence that drips into the depths,
beautiful things, shattering harder and harder now,
its beak caught in the shell's emptiness, wide and unmoved, a scream transformed into sculpture of silence.
And I—I remain stuck, dreaming with open eyes at skies of memories,
dragging myself through the sand of time, with knees scraped by edges of dreams,
still trying to fit into a space where I was never meant to be.
And the only question left—how many times can you bury a falling star,
that never asked to be held in the palm of an unknown desire?

The Loves of My Life

Strangers wander about outside my window glass (gift daydreams to hurry along my time clocked in) 

Roomie erupts into our pod post-trek home (every 4:57pm, I – a dog – wonder at her return)

Dad scribbles out his end of week “thought you’d get a kick out of” list (always squints to read on call) 

Partner hoists arms to let me settle on their chest before sleep (I regale, they smile, I quiet, they breathe) 

Me, myself, I pick how to spend each second (growing weeping willow, who will sway or stay?)

Saturn

“The moon.”
Is no longer a single mass. 
In this never ending orbit. 
If I looked at the time.
It would be midnight on earth. 
Here, time is slow and heavy.
Moons laughing.
So we become a part of the cycle. 
Tilting, unsettling. 
Gravity within gravity. 
A large planet. 
I wish I could settle on some bench. 
But no human things abound here. 
So I am simply like an ant that got caught up in a wave.
Saturn’s rings. 
You learn to stand and skate. 
On a burning skating rink. 
And pretend everything is normal. 
But even the moons are trapped. 
Gravity is stronger here. 
Everything is stronger here. 
Except my feet. 
Which burn on Saturn’s rings.

Caught in a Snow Globe

Ivory flakes fluttering down, 
Turns the ground into white from brown, 
A soft blanket of silver snow, 
Kisses from heaven sent below;

It clothes the earth with milky mark, 
Has that extra glittering spark, 
God rains down blessings floating slow, 
Kisses from heaven sent below;

Moonlike little stars in the air, 
Frosted fluffs flying everywhere, 
Covered in icy crystal glow, 
Kisses from heaven sent below;

Melt-on-the-tongue magic stardust, 
Diamond dots on the winter gust, 
This lacy quilt coats the meadow, 
Kisses from heaven sent below;

Frozen tidbits settle on me, 
I feel fantastic, feel so free, 
Caught in a snow globe, I'm aglow, 
Kisses from heaven sent below;

Who else can make this unique thing? 
None, but my God, who is The King, 
His love in winter, He does show, 
Kisses from heaven sent below.

AMERICAN CINQUAIN COLLECTION

How slight
The petal of
A poppy,flowering-
So much like us,beautiful,yet
Fragile

Hurry
Takes its toll as
In our daily stroll,we
From deepest ruts of blind alleys
Quicken

Beauty
free from above
embedded in our heart-
His loving-kindness ..ready to
impart


The warmth
Of love's invite
Encompassed my desire,
In two soft whispered words of love,
Be mine !


Eyes closed
As lips caressed,
Mouths joined,impassioned
Tongues explore,in our love's embrace,
Time-framed


My love
Beguiled me,with
Soft sensuous lips,sleek
Long thighs with rounded hips,twinned heart's
Enlaced

Long days
Of August sun
Where nature blinks and shrinks
The dying grass,yellowed in sleep-
Held fast


Night chills
the aging bones-
blowing on the east wind
flurries fine and dry settle on
new graves.

These be
the keys to life,
faith,hope and agape,
love,the greatest gift of all three-
to thee !

Desire
welled within-
words became a promise
so sublime,to love now and for
all time.


We had
met and conversed,
a rapport on first sight-
a chance meeting to a life's time
delight

On a night when stars weep their ancient light

On a night when stars weep their ancient light,
I lose myself in the whispers of paper, in the song of ink,
Like a river of memories winding through the hills of the heart,
And I wonder if writing heals something within me.
Traumas are a veil of mist dispersing at dawn,
Leaving only shadows dancing on white pages,
Transformed into fine lines of art that people applaud,
Yet in the applause, I hear the muted echo of my suffering.
My fingers touch the lines, feeling the thickness of life,
While my tongue presses against my teeth, reciting slowly.
Sadness and pain pierce like thorns into flesh,
They burn, transforming into ashes that settle on the soul.
Does writing heal any wounded corner of mine?
And if so, how much can it soothe my pain?
How much of suffering becomes a rainbow on paper,
And how much ink turns into living scars?
In this continuous flow of my consciousness,
Metaphors are born from an open wound,
I seek answers in the echo of deep silence,
As letters are laid like stars on the sky of the soul.

the big apple

Friday in the big apple

 It is 17.53 in New York 
those who work at night are stirring 
drink coffee, shower and dress
to look their best
This as the multitude drive home 
for the week end 
The police are busy, a rich person
was shot by what appears to be 
by a charming man with a winning
smile, but was he a man?
We live in a time when many women 
strive to look like men, because 
they think men have more power
when they realize it is not, so blame
the capitalist system
Two professions are busy tonight
the police who have murder to catch
and the women how try to look 
as feminine as possible, to entice men's
libido, they are more busy now 
than ever before when so many women 
strive to look like dowdy  executives
with horn rimmed specks 
 more interested in status than love
The police will find their man, commentators 
will blame Trump and the man with 
an odd name, Elon Musk (is he real) for 
the violence caused by unrestricted 
freedom of expression.
What happens in New York to night
pales into insignificance, compared 
with a world, at the brink of of a war
that will destroy us all
Perhaps with Exception of Musk who
will settle on Mars

Autumn Alouette

Autumn Alouette

Autumn slips away -
Pearly mists of grey
Settle on the scarlet leaves;
Fields now seem forlorn
Gone the wheat and corn
Bundled into golden sheaves.

Daylight seems to mourn
Passing days and storms
Umber glories litter streets;
Crystal frost now plays
In a pumpkin haze
After days of solstice heat.

scenes of love

Scenes of love

I love you, but you love the mirror 
thinks your nose is perfect
green eyes and rosy lips
your fragrance has a narcissistic 
allure, as you take the last look
in the hallway mirror before
leaving for the ball
Ah, the way you walk, pavements
adore you, rain shies away to
save your hair from bother 
When you cross the road, car horns
blast by themselves, white cars 
turn pink 
The sun doesn't burn your skin
makes it golden in the afternoon 
and glows in the night
Until one day, the mirror sees a wrinkle
years are ganging up on you
the enemy time is waiting in the wing
furrows  settle on your forehead
I love you, but the mirror doesn't love
itself, insults are remembered 
Get off the road, you silly old cow
your scent of youth has lost its aroma
still, you smile, sure of one thing 
I will always love you

Deciduous

Late autumn winds are quickening the leaves
igniting metamorphosis of fall
where spectral colors burst forth and enthrall
a rapture brief, then vanishes and flees.
With fading eyes, she stares through window's eaves
to view the ancient oak, its heartbeat call
she feels the length of years, a weighty pall
her fleeting life, like leaves, will someday cease. 

A bitter cold now grips the ancient oak
where destiny does hasten nature’s blows
as dying leaves fall swiftly like a wave. 
She wakens suddenly at midnight’s stroke
the scythe of death arrives, as her heart knows
she’ll join the leaves that settle on her grave.

Enigma

The chaotic times shake the sands of disarray,
settle on the stratified shelf of the disorganized life.
In moments moving with dispersed dust of perturbation,
the truth of trust oscillates on the ruffled ripples of disorder. 

In the bewildered efflux of errant confusion,
everything changes in the cauldron of conundrum.
The mysterious alchemy of mental metamorphosis
reveals the fantasy façade of perplexing transformation.

In the disorderly squall of divesting dismay
my marooned mind is disheveled to a dishabille state,
splinters the secret leitmotif of the embedded emotions,
the confounded cascade of consternation carries them away.

When disparity develops from consuming closeness, 
dancing to the music of mystifying maze makes no sense. 
At the end of the day our riddled roads diverge disoriented,
I choose within ambiguity the one that takes me away from you.

Our differences are like pieces of puzzle called life,
I drift with no rancor out of the realm of extant enigma. 
I won’t explore you if at night you become mystery aurora,
I’d walk on the pathway of my life the way I want, for it’s mine.

Metamorphosis

See snow settle on windows. 
Chimneys gently, carefully, puff out smoke and I 
see irradiated lamp posts linking 
cable-lines across the street. 
Near a frozen wall of bricks and wires, 
I fly over water pipes. 

Ich fliege über Wasser, der Himmel zu, 
wo ist Frieden, weißt es du?

Gutters pump out sleet 
and newspapers wrapped in shiny plastic. 
I watch grey watery clouds swell 
and thicken in the sky. 

The cold air wraps my wings 
and butterflies meander with the wind 
to hilltops we fly in. 

Soon – 
my wings will hold 
a flower.

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