I murmur like a rivulet through the
hitch of your hands, where the canyons
carve their parched longing into your fingers—
where silences sublimate like cera,
pooling beneath your glissando touch.
Your tremolo breath convulses rough and low
like sibilant submersion in water—
spilling, sinking, staining everything it meets.
I watch the estuary of your gaze split my horizon—
watch you hush abysmal eyes into
celestially arched surrender.
There is no stillness between starlight,
only the pull of mighty magnitudes,
fuses lit beneath the ribs,
pulses and throbs teaching the air
how to cleave—how to…
sforzando!
Love, here, is neither reserved nor reticent—
it is lightning bottled in glass—
hellfire burning beneath the tide—
language that deconstructs
even as it is uttered.
I step forward—some faltering cadence,
some submitting ascension—placing my hands into your fire,
not to be consumed, but to remember
how stars revel and rain.
I breathe Glenn Hughes
everyday and every night
his music soothes me
Others work and spend time with their families
while I put vinyl records on the turntable
and put the music up to loud
It is Glenn
who has saved me from the bay
pulling me back from submersion
His songs touch my soul
so many in so many flavors
from funk to heavy to blues
Dare I suggest
that you listen to him too
make him the center of your universe
Know though when you have found your peace
I will be home listening to and enjoying
the Voice of Rock, Glenn Hughes
The excursion to inner self inspires the
ire of many,
for it exposes them to themselves as mirrors
reflect
My well of emotions are still waters, & a ton of
respect is to be paid to introspection
for that's as deep as it gets
Submersion will test & cause panic as you
struggle with breathing,
but getting acquainted with inner self is a
wonderful feeling
These feelings deeper than oceans inspire
many floods of emotions,
so disruptive they sparked a change to my
external notions
The flame on the surface was out of control
driving the ego to ground
where it was burned up at the core, remains
never were found
Losing yourself within the self is the way
to be found,
as all that's left is your reflection staring
not making a sound
We're bound to the all, there's no escaping
the curve & the ties,
even if granted a Genies wishes &
infinite trys
Life is a role the soul plays on a loop for
reprise,
as everything is a circle of 360 bent on
illusions demise
A.Typical Drowning is Either
1.Fresh Water Drowning.
2.Salt Sea Water Drowning.
B.Atypical Drowning Has
Following Subtypes,
1.Dry Drowning.
2.Immersion Syndrome.
3.Submersion of Unconscious.
4.Secondary Drowning.
Note.Zafar Chalye Ravi River?
There lies a field, where mice run and race.
I bought some traps, you know, just in case.
No risk of finger snaps
fool-proof, with gluey flaps...
Mouse does not die; but he's kept in place.
Eyes beg for mercy, what do I do?
rain bucket handy offers a clue.
Mouse caught in sticky trap;
submersion, it’s a wrap.
Blitzkrieg, one gasp; it's his Waterloo.
A fierce inferno
The entice of gunshots
Engulfed by your worst nightmare
Wake up! Wake up!
Submersion of you consciousness
In which we have no valid control.
Hallucinations flash and tear down common reminiscence
Wake up! Wake up!
Parlous or peace
Which will past the test of slumber?
Stained glass
Bleeds rainbow
Over dust particles
Of sun
Rains colour
On my head
Deep organ
Fists slam
Feet stamp
Pounds music
Vibrato
Rattles my stomach
Voice booms
Speaks words
Incomprehensible
To ears detached
From reality
Sadness, gaiety,
Melancholy, questions
Happiness, silliness
States of mind
Suddenly
Devoid of meaning
And feeling
Intrinsic
Disconnection
Submersion
In experience.
***
Just one session of Mindful Meditation
December 22, 2016
Has God accepted
your burning
white flesh
yet?
As the blood seeps into the ground
nourishing the land
that was advanced by civilization.
The raped White carcasses
of White farmers
residents
and their ancestors
made them equal:
To the Black death of the dark continent.
Civilizations' fall
despite the gospel given --
that said love your enemy.
The pagan and tribal era has returned
--to dance upon the White carcass--
of autonomy.
If the savage had not been baptized
in Christ's name;
if he had not been clothed in civilization.
If tribe and chief had not been
absolved for sovereign man
--White man--
would not be supreme.
On the reservation is the tradition
of the primitive; still living their ghost.
Farther South they gather in the jungle...
Are they clothed? Have they heard you Lord?
Among the farthest East --they heard you-- and made you one of them.
Running wild in the streets untamed, the heathen rapes and robs in the name of social justice.
Saying your clothes do not fit and your baptism was not full submersion.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
We shared glittered eyes in flowering leaves, sauntering about the country side like vagrants without pretenses, sharing a bottle of wine that slowly ran dry, our spirits became fountains pouring into an idle time, and when lunch time arrived I nursed your shoulders like an exquisite tapestry.
We soaked in leisurely talks from insensible dreams to confessions of fear, we casted spells into the sky and built a bonfire bound by morning papers, burning our poetry in the laces of a hot afternoon.
We committed the atrocity of enjoying a whimsical stream, our pockets flooded from our clothed submersion, then we continued on in no particular direction.
At dusk, distant demons began howling as we rested in a wheat field. Suddenly you felt a spider crawl across your cheek, and I sacrificed its body to your comfort. You smiled as I tried secretly setting it free by a nearby tree, pretending to be none the wiser.
As the stars came out quivering and bleeding on us, we were exhausted and beautiful, rubbing our toes in midnight dew. The tameness of our sleep delighted us in the morning, we brushed ourselves off and sauntered off, heading in home's direction.
Rain fell inexorably down,
filling every ginnel and spit
'til all was a blanket, a crown,
and naught projected up from it.
Beneath were clock towers and tall
surfaces, drifting with foam,
buildings once rife with activity
now silent, no longer a home
'cept for fishes and floating debris,
hives not humming with energy,
still as a grave.
Presently, I find myself alone,
Alone on this distant island of ambiguity
Solitary in thought, and motives unknown
Perceiving what is visible with acquired acuity
Is this realm of new discoveries truly authentic?
Lest my eyes be deceived, ‘tis some curious reality
To witness the submersion of creatures which are lentic
And the flight of the birds in tune with commonality
How shall I proceed on this land uncharted?
Surely, with great passion unrelenting
And to my loved ones I bid adieu, from whom I have departed
Farewell to the common world, and to those so forgiving
Pardon my absence of perpetual elation,
As I welcome the day with a much pleasant sensation
The point is dull upon the spear,
But still it pierced my greatest fear-
That this pain will always worsen
(My sinking ship so wayward steered)
Through the Ocean of my person
Toward a vortex, alas! Am veered!
I'll sail to Hell- cursed excursion!
But, lo! An island doth appear-
The sea doth swell; to Her a burden
My Vessel and I; 'tis clear! 'Tis clear!
That She vows for our submersion,
Crashing upon the rocks rushed near
Shipwrecked! Incurred Her incursion!
When She, so once to me endeared-
How I wish a diff'rent version
Of our tale that endeth here...
*HEART OF THE SEA CONTEST ENTRY
Pigeon-toed and knock kneed
they meander around the ponds edge
an ungainly duo
mother and son
like an ancient fertility figure
found in the caves of Lascaux,France
she tumble-waddles
pendulous breasts bobbing
the dough-like basket of her womb
long emptied with its navel of Earth
submerged in a mound of flesh..
onward she went circumventing
the piddle-pond.
The child not yet Twiddle-Dee'd
by total submersion into
the toxic sweetness of a domino sugar
existence still stood a chance..
yet the spectre of diabetes
loomed around the two
like the Ghost of Christmas future.
It's too early for the dawn to know my name,
to pull my pillow off my eyes and contemplate my still sleep.
The dawn is off pulling carts in other nations,
dragging mud on wheels and letting an orange glow
glaze already hard at work hands
She is too busy with the backs of whales,
slicking their skin to shine at the surface
in the middle of a morning water spout
She too has to tend to sleepy flowers,
strengthened of stem from a good night's sleep,
ready to shed their diamond dew dust
and breathe into sunlight again.
So, who am I that the dawn should know?
Unless she realizes my need to see you~
catching your peace with the light in my hand
to wishes yet dreamed, unfulfilled
Perhaps she knows that the start of the day
is the first cast into a still pond,
the first bite of communication between the bustle,
with what's underneath in currents, always moving,
always on the verge of submersion,
just waiting to be caught.
Perhaps if I move the hair from your eyes,
kiss the tip of your perfect kissing nose,
the dawn will know us both,
and break the waning night to an orange
we can taste, and breathe and walk into
awake.