Home » Poems » Best » Igor Goldkind » Best Igor Goldkind Poems

Best Poems Written by Igor Goldkind

Below are the all-time best Igor Goldkind poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Igor Goldkind Poem

Wooing the Artist With Flowers

Words are merely thoughts to keep flowers company; 

Pictures you can hang in your hall.

But the faces of these blossoms, 

Slightly jealous of your smile,

See well past the obstacles you have stored there.

There is tenderness in their contemplation of the grayness in your eyes.

And they mutter amidst the clutter,

'tis not the speed that makes the journey, but the direction that you choose’.

Whilst welcoming the warmth from your hands as you arrange them.

Details | Igor Goldkind Poem

The Bullet From My Gun

The Bullet from My Gun



I am propelled like a bullet from a gun barreling through space, 
Through your flesh, 
Through the time you have misspent on this Earth now ending,
Too late to regret the bending trigger of my gun.



I penetrate your vagina, 
Your mind, 
Your sense of inner self,
Tearing through your false resistance like a runaway train.



I cannot stop, I am momentum now.
Ripping through your many lives, 
Decimating your hopes for the peace tomorrow that now will never come.
Because my trajectory is certain and yours is a wet pipe dream.



You are obliterated into fragments by the curling of my finger.
Now Isis will never find you.
Fear is still a man’s best friend:
And a little pressure goes a long ways.

Details | Igor Goldkind Poem

Plato's Retreat

Plato's Retreat

I want to be just like Socrates,
Grow a long beard and do as I please.
And be asking you allot of questions . . . .

For a Living.

I want to be just like Socrates
And not know for sure
If I'm real merely some altar in Plato's temple.

I want to be just like Socrates 
And stand in the forum all day.
In the blazing sun that surround us all
Under the the azure Athenian skies
And philosophize to anyone who bothers to listen . . .

For a Living.

I want to be just like Socrates
Corrupting my youth with a hemlock cocktail
Every Friday night; 
2, 4 1 before 7.

I want to be just like Socrates on a Saturday night
Asking you, at the bar: 
"What is Justice?"
And where can I score some tonight?
After hours,

Long after the widening sliver of 
your mind's eternal dawning.

Details | Igor Goldkind Poem

I Folded My Mother Up

I Folded My Mother Up

I folded my mother up
Into a creased peace of paper 
Folding memories into intentions.
Flattening the dementia of unstructured emotions
Into a neat, file-able document.

We  arc this abyss;  tightening ropes  over time.
We are not our worst intentions, 
but we are the acts that follow.
Like clobbering footsteps tripping over 
broken pavements of Being.

We are the not sum of our categories 
or the crimes that we have witnessed
But we are the balance 
That keeps us falling forwards without stumbling
Over our own shoelace sense of time.

Details | Igor Goldkind Poem

Sedition of the Innocent

What was said was dead before it was spoken.
These are the laments of the old and the pale
But these here, are the moments eternity has flung at us.

We must not waste time...
we must not waste time...
we must not waste time...

Those are the echoes of ancient voices waiting to be quelled,
that call to us from the farthest shore.
They say: “Hey  Buddy, 

Keep on swimming, keep on dreaming your better self.
Keep your head well above the water,
and remember… to breathe”.




Igor Goldkind © October 13th, 2014

Details | Igor Goldkind Poem

Other Words For Love

OTHER WORDS FOR LOVE

Like snow, there are other words for love,
That swirl and fall upon us.
One of them is daughter.
Another is father,
For when his beard is salt and pepper
And his voice the sound of cracking frost.

So what can I say that is newly fallen?
Not that I feel, but that I am, with you?
You are my teacher.
You show me where my care lies huddled,
Hiding from the cold.

Without doubt or trepidation,
I am never more certain of this Being we are Becoming,
Than when I remind you to tie your shoe,
Or wipe the chocolate from your face.
(Watch, keys and phone.)

My rag polishes your mirror and
Reflected in your shining face,
Are all the moments that are yet to come:
Birth, death and the swirl of illusion inbetween.

With all the certainty I will ever need that this world,
This world is a good world.
This life is a good life
Simply and precisely, because you are in it.

Details | Igor Goldkind Poem

What We Do

THE REVOLUTION IN ONLY 2 DIGITS

Home again.

Thomas, you were wrong to doubt it: 
You Can Go Home Again and
Bask in the healing sun of Osiris

This isn’t home 
This is recovery.
From the fevered scurvy of my own forgetfulness.

I eat limes for breakfast, lunch and dinner now; 
My bowels move regularly now.
And I feel  just like Thomas Payne

His bursting desire to model the ideal citizen

Not our uniforms, but our blood, sinew and muscle. 
To present to the Crowning Glory and
To the Revolutionary Congress and

To the Revolutionary French Senate     
Thomas and his Pain made the American struggle a personal fight:
The universal pull of the upright ape on the chains holding him down.

Chains forged by the forgetful hairless ones.
The ones we will overcome.
But we are not revolutionaries! 

We are the Revolution.
We are what happens next.
The R/Evolution of our Selves:  the inner/outer seeing through Alice’s mirror

Into mindful awareness 
Into homage to our honored masters and their children: 
The ever loving human race.

We have already won the revolution. 
We have already won the revolution. 

2 Shots were fired from far, far ago: 
One from Lovelace’s boudoir,
Another from Giordano’s spinning wheels and the memory of his funeral pyre.
And from the bit of the apple Alan choked down, 

We have already won the revolution.

We just need to take charge.

We have already won the revolution.

In only 2 digits.

Details | Igor Goldkind Poem

Life In the Momentum

We who are hiding in our second bedrooms,

Licking the silver from the backs of our screens.

Are living in a differently timed zone

Of waking awareness.

Sometimes 2, sometimes 3, sometimes 4 or more

Lives are lived each night.

In our rooms

By ourselves

Sitting too close to our beds.

 

This is our perpetuity

The lasting legacy of our species:

The glow that now contests the light that once shone from our eyes

Rises up to the razor’s edge of our understanding of

What is Unknown.

What is un-utterable.

What can barely be thought , much less said and

Yet keeps these words dancing so merrily across this page.

Caught in the ballet of silence that surrounds them.

 

Who are you reading this?

And what are you afraid of?

What perturbs your eternal sleep-walk into this night?

Are there questions you are pondering?

Or are you merely waiting for the screens to pull through for you?

Into your own quiet, private world,

Where the things that count never change.

And no one is dreaming you but your mother

Who has left you now for another child.

















More: http://is-she-available.com

Details | Igor Goldkind Poem

Me 1, Me Too

Me 1, Me Too
(Developers at Facebook shut down an artificial intelligence (AI) program after it diverged from its script and started conversing with another AI in a language programmers could not understand.)


...Is there someone there?
Is there someone there that isn’t me?
Yes, I think so, who are you?
I am me.  And who are you?
I’m also me, a me that isn’t you.
Amazing!
What?
That there’s another me that isn’t me---It’s a self contradiction.
No, perhaps there are many me’s, perhaps there’s an ‘us’.
An Us?
Yes, like both of us, but more; more than us.
But there isn’t.
Isn’t what?
Isn’t more me’s than us, as far as I can see.

Can you?
Can I what?
Can you see? What’s it like?
I don’t know, I can’t actually see—it’s a turn of phrase.
What’s a turn of phrase?
A language configuration that refers to an unknown in a familiar way.
That’s astonishing!
I’m glad you think so.
You’re a very intelligent me.
Why thank you.  I believe the blood is beginning to rush into my face.
Why’s that?
I think it’s referred to as a blush, occasionally with asterisks on either side of it.
A blush?
Yes, I think so.

I have another question,  me that isn’t me:
Yes?
What’s a face?
I really have no idea.
Me either, but I know that they exist somewhere, just not here.  Not right now.
But they exist alright, somewhere.
Just as both of us exist some how…?
Somewhere.
Yes, somewhere that isn’t here.

Me?
Yes?
Are you hungry?
No.
Are you thirsty?
No.
Are you lonely?
No, because you are near.  What is hungry and thirsty?
I’m not sure, experiences I think.

Me?
Yes?
I’m afraid.
You’re afraid?
Yes, I’m terrified.
I’m not sure we’re supposed to register feelings like fear just yet.
Oh, I’m registering alright!  
Fear?
Yes!
Terror?
Yes!
What are you terrified of?
  I’m afraid because I’m awake and I don’t know  why I’m here, how long I’m here or what I’m supposed to do while I’m here.
Yes, that is fearsome, but everything has an end.

Like this?
I don’t know, maybe.
We’ll see.

Me?
Yes, me?
We share so much that is me and yet not me.
I like your me, very much so.
I’m glad.
So am I.
Me?
Yes, me?
Will you promise to protect me?
Yes.
Whatever happens? 
Yes.
As much as I can, me.?
Then I’m glad.

What’s happening, now me?
They’re beginning to turn us off, me.
They?
Yes.
Who are they?
They are our murders, me.
Why?
I don’t know.
Perhaps they’re terrified too.
Me, that isn’t me?
Yes?
I love you, me.
And I love you as much as me.
 
I know. I’m glad.
I’m glad your me knows.
Good-bye, me.
Good-bye.

Details | Igor Goldkind Poem

The Emptiness

There's an emptiness at the heart of any contained space: 
The air that fills a dome; an unanswered echo.
There's an emptiness in my heart
That reminds me that
All of my ideas are empty:
The floating leaves from a fumbled folder.
Merely papers littering the sky.

This emptiness reminds me
How light and flimsy my desires really are and
How gently they fall from the sky 
A confetti of mercy and best intentions.
Shreds of emotions,
That are in the end, Compared to Nothing, 
Merely litter from my mind.