Short Instinctual Poems

arise with softness
          dawns instinctual rebirth
               creation imbibes...

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Of all an up-cheered rippling
The one constant
Watercourse. Thus vowed, strays not.
Nor turns stagnant.

Soothed of which thought, instinctual
Reversed cant be
Whilst swamped, this lil' craft of being
By life's rough sea!...

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Benevolent spherical form,
secluded in emptiness,
suspended in formless,
                            endless space,
brightened reflection
of the red flower.

Controller of tides,
instinctual and aquatic.
Supported by nothingness
          exclusively,
a shadow of darkness,
         so deep
that penetration is nonexistent....

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Just 

like

penguins

that know when

to leave the sea and
 
make that long cold march that leads them 

to their mate, I too am drawn from all security,

with no questioning, to begin the journey that I know will surely lead me to you.


Inspired by the movie "March of the Penguins" and 
the Fibonacci Poetry Contest of rob carmack...

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The moon gave silent shadows to our form
As we lay beneath its splayed softer light
The time spent is instinctual and warm
As mist from the lake engulfs us from sight
The depth of suspended droplets transform
And roll across us in sheltered delight
To be covered by moisture's misty air
Leaves a mystery,no trace of us there


Contest Through The Mist
Frederic Parker
8/19/14...

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River Rules

They strain against the confines of her flow, seeking release,
aware of naught but the river’s instinctual calling.
The mock applause of clumsy bears slyly spurring them on
offering feigned assistance over the cascading roar.
Nature’s justification - “survival of the fittest”.


11/15/2016

submitted to – Form – River Line – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Rick Parise...

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This is not dirty music,
It's a heavy beat
With a deeper depth;
Catering to
Our instinctual need
For rhythm,
From before
Our births,
Layered in the womb
Of our life bringers,
We had bass
In our ears;
The pulse
Of our mothers' hearts;
And we kicked
To that tempo,
And now here it is
Again louder
And oh so real,
Gritty; jarring
Rattling our bones
Comfort it brings
In it's constant groove
We bob our heads and step to......

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A narrow creek.
Night falls, I know the way,
even so
your hand guide's mine.

Your shoes can swim,
your arms can fly,
but you are not here
or anywhere,
just a presence,
a chaperone,
ushering me
upon an instinctual way.

I think you might be
the all-seeing spirit of an owl,
or some other nocturnal watcher.

Not a ghost,
not feathers or flesh,
just a shadow of heaven
by a narrow creek
where the dark travels.

...

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The soporific sound of rain
Falling on the shingled rooftops
Induces his subconscious brain
to summon id with every drop.
The instinctual impetus
craves immediate primal need:
vitality that flows through us
tonight the innocent will bleed
to quench within a burning fire
that’s required to tame his soul
forever damned:  a vampire!
that roams and stalks celestial
darkest nights for unfortunates
to engorge their blood to excess....

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What does it mean when i cant stop thinking about someone?
What does it mean when i am obsessing?
paranoid they dont love me in return?  
aching to be around them?
to smell their scent of something .....something... 
beautiful, primal, instinctual, a need to have. 
nothing will satisfy the "need" to have them NOW and in the future. 

Is then when i purchase her with a ring?
Own her sexuality till death do we part. 
I must own her.... forever........

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There is a collective revving
of chutzpah and pluck.
It's known, it's time,
bird-brains do not ask.

The flock takes flight.
One robin jumps late,
takes off alone.
It has an instinctual drive,
it should have left
with the others.
However, birds don't know -

regret.

It struggles to catch up,
then segues in mid-air,
as if to say: 

fork it.

The robin lands alone
on a bare branch.
It doesn’t care anymore.

Robins are not starlings....

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we hold in our hands the narrative

we artists and social scientists

21st century armaggedon screaming

dysfunctional children of history

living by purely subconscious, instinctual visceral pulsing

product of a campaign of vassals dedicated to erasing history

here we are.

so what do we do, we artists and social scientists?

we scream

we cry

we bleed

but also, and very important

we analyze

we do all this 

and we can call ourselves humans

and the true heir to what we call

history....

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The clock ticks slowly
As the sunlight peers into the room
Innocent and helpless
Not far removed from the womb

Unaware, yet troubled
Strong are the instinctual drives
There’s a compulsion to live
And a irresistible urge not to die 

Innate are the are the longings
The prerequisite are the needs
The true quality of the crop
Is contingent on the nurturing of the seeds

The clock ticks slowly
As the darkness peers into the room
Innocent and helpless
Not far removed from the womb...

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