Hema

Free verse....spilling your essence...

Forge the turbulence out of the silence
ride the jetplane to the horizon
wipe your ass with water

Listen to the gods
laugh at the humans
dwell with the beasts

truth is certain
man is not
gratitude is beyond truth,
spits out truth in its wake
Truth is the jetstream of gratitude

the world expands and truth stumbles
but, in the philosopher, makes strides to keep up
Now the world waits, and whistles;
to the world the philosopher is a fair child
worthy of its attentions, it wishes to teach this child  
and use it to its advantage

The philosopher must mistrust the world, force it to give up its secrets.
The world covets its own spawn, this is why we disappear into the earth afterwards,
and downwards, the tale of Saturn.

It is said that the soul as it de-incarnates, 'excarnates', its semiphysical remnant (perhaps an aggregate of spin, a kind of electrical fractal of tendencies) it is absorbed into one of the other planetary spheres; Earth has a surface and a light atmosphere, Jupiter has a dense mass of gasses and fluids, in which an electrical form can easily be assimilated, and continue its 'living'. The storm on Jupiter is essentially its king.

A star is first a point,
around which there gathers a cloud of gas.
It concentrates intensely upon itself,
pulling all it can into its becoming.

As it strives to form itself,
it pulsates,
Struggling,
to keep its mass together.

It sheds the excess,
ejecting into the void
the energy it cannot fold.
The plasma screaming within.

And as it shed itself,
and took in itself,
it twisted,
just incorrectly enough.

It could not turn back the clock,
despite its struggle.
There was a perimeter,
it could no longer juggle.

It was ripped apart,
along the path of nil resistance.
And all it had accumulated,
had now dissipated.

The ghost of its excellence,
was its fading atmosphere.
It did not turn into a star,
but out of significance.

Satyr,

Eloquence is your essence.

Positive Pollyanna wrote:

Satyr,

Eloquence is your essence.  

I've been called worse.

Cough, cough.
I cover my mouth
and hide the noise.

Embarrassed,
not for my sickness,
but for the trouble it caused others.

Cough, cough.
I mingle with others,
revealing my cough selectively.

I mingle to learn how to heal the sickness,
I slip up sometimes, but the ones around are kind enough to excuse me.

Cough, cough.
COUGH, COOOOUUUGGGGHHH.

This one is going around, coughing,
making sure you take notice.
It does not hold it back.

It takes notice of me, hiding my cough.
It approaches and says to me:
"Look here at this coward. This one who represses his urge to cough."

Not enjoying the antics, I rebuke it. Others join in.
He COUGHS and yowls, hollering loudly:
"Look at this double standard! Others tolerate this man who is sick but not I!"

It corrals the many who are sick with different ailments around it with its whining.
He COUGHS loudly. Another SNEEZES. The first speaks up:
"I have pride in my sickness, not just despite it! All around us are the anti-sick, when we've never chosen this!"

?

I love the twilight, and the fleeting time before the dawn, hovering, there, nowhere, like a moment that never comes and never goes; like a passing touch, playing upon your skin a song, that never ends, because it has never begun; like death waiting, breathtaking, in erotic anticipation, to take you on.
I hold my self.
Suspended, still, listening for a climactic chime, that never comes, and by never coming, never ends.

If I could, I would, live in the northern lands where the sun never rises, and never declines.
Simply waiting there, on the horizon, blood red and tumescent with excited melancholy, like slightly parted lips, breathing in, and out, ready for the coming kiss that never comes, and by never coming never leaves.
Not strange for a Mediterranean, by birth, to have such tastes for the meditating, mid states, separating the mundane from the sublime.

I've always lived here, even beneath the brightest suns, hoping clouds will come to save me, and take me back to my comfortable dusk, where shadows bring out the subtlety of shapes, and their secreted delights.
My home has always been in the in-between, the fracturing lines of space and time, where daylight comes to meet the night, and where in concealing all is revealing, the darkness in the light.

When I am overflowing I want to spill outward to create...a new life, a new chance for me to live, again, with a slight adjustment.
When I overflow with life I want to seed, fertilize, give my love to another, and see it repeat.

When I overflown want to face the world, fight the enemy, look at myself in a mirror, as i am, not as I want to be, as I pretend to be, as I wish I was, as I wish others to see me, but as I am.
When I am proud I refuse to lie, primarily to myself
I refuse to fool myself, to confuse myself, to numb myself, to inebriate and drug myself.

When I truly love myself, I love all of what made me possible: the pain, the suffering, the insecurity, the wounds, the blood I spilled, the scars I collected, the lessons I learned.
When I am confident I want to share this knowledge as I lived it, hiding nothing, pretending nothing, sugarcoating no bitterness, covering no ugliness.

What has befallen to make me so sullen, I cannot avert from mine eye.
To be so parched and uncaring 'bout the taunts of the craven, finding their admiration just as dry.
I sought, for a moment, relief in the rare and revealing, but found it to be just as well.
As any amusement, and terror inducement, I settled upon every life that I fell.
Farewell, childhood dreams, I finally found a way out.
No longer bemused, or so easily seduced, I have found a new game for my toys, my easy joys; new pleasures in my old suffering annoys.

Of your loyalty,
to me,
let the crimson smudge, sallow sweat
too; a silent tear
discretly roar to me.
For what you show
for what my eyes then see
my brain distills
and heart denounces ill.
The word is cheap
the feeling flees
whats deeply rooted - never will.

As banal as it may be,
a ray of sun
a gust of wind,
a pinch of warmth from within,
be it soil or soul,
are all to me.

**

Despite that I avoid all that glitters
it's all that I fight for
to become free
O, gods,
the tricks of language,
the vicious masters
irony.

**

I, great poet,
as humbly as I can be,
will desperately scream,
hey, you!, please look at me!!!

The focusing of rage is a centering of the spiritual brutality of time. -Kvasir

Have I not listened carefully to your mindless humming, passionately consuming the tones and rhythms you aimlessly cast about?
I wrote lyrics to accompany your thoughtless tunes and repeated them back hoping to stir, in you, a longing lost in time.
I thought I had recalled your memories, giving them shape and form when it was you who reverberated in me what I had forgotten but not yet denied.

Let me die in your place, if it frees you to live unburdened by the thought.
I promise to keep it from creeping into my mind, ruining those almost perfect moments when you laugh, as if you'll live forever, and I, in you, find the courage to endure twice dying: once, to myself, and the second, more painful than the first, to you.

Beauty, oh beauty, I watch, unable to bring myself to touch you, fearing I might ruin what I cannot have.
Beauty, oh beauty, I witness, unable to own you, seeing myself reflected in you, wanting for you what I wish for myself, to be free from grasping, unspoiled by another's touch.
If you would give yourself, to me, I would refuse, as I would the giving of myself to you.
I belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to I.

Perhaps, a limited, ephemeral, grace, sweeping against each other, leaving its mark before it goes on.
Perhaps, a partial sharing, a glance that sees and then sees no more, leaving an image before it is swept on.

Nothing is complete, nothing is eternal.
All is fractions of give and take.
We carry and are carried, on different paths, towards unknown destinies; pieces of ourselves belonging to strange travellers, crammed into their baggage, not knowing when and if they will be unpacked; pieces of strangers belonging to us, memories that may, or may not, be recalled and relived in their hazy imperfection - mementos, evoking vague, uncertain, memories we hope to repeat.

I understand you want everything,
I know you want the world,
I know that you want to see everything,
I know you want the infinite, and more.


I know you want an eternity,
But you don't want to take it from someone else.
But, I cannot give you an eternity,
And I cannot promise you'll have it,
Without taking it from someone else.


But what I can give you is one that understands,
And one that wants it, as well.
One that sees an eternity in you,
And one that puts it above all else.


That one is, yes, assuredly me, 
As I am a simple man;
One that takes what's in front of him, 
And tries to keep it for himself.


But, if that is not enough,
Then what I'll promise you about eternity is:
That by my having you, you'll have given it
To at least half yourself.
And if we make seven, then you'll have given it to three more.


And I know this poem might be romantic,
If I couldn't lie about it applying to literally anyone else.
But I assure you, my darling,
Having written this before I met you,
I'm too forgetful to bother lying; 
Especially about myself.

Mr. Depressed

Mr. Depressed would never wear a smile.
When he would be asked his opinion, he would shrug with disappointment.
When he was complimented or met fortune, he would slightly frown.
When he would be confronted, his face would sour in deep resentment toward himself.
When one thought he should be happy, he would frown greatly.
When one thought he should laugh, he would almost cry.
Whenever Mr. Depressed was surprised, it would just remind him of how incompetent he was.
Whenever he would be happy, he would remind himself of his life's futility.
Whenever he was confronted, he would resent himself for not fighting back.
Whenever he was complimented or met fortune, he'd remember his own smallness.
Whenever he was asked an opinion, he'd wonder if the inquirer or himself deserved to boast.

And if they feed on the crumbs of my table, offering no gratitude, what is it to me?
They know not of the bounty of my table, but can only feed on its excess.
They know not what it took to stock the pantry, and what it took to its prepare and serve the meal, using their imagination only to imagine, and with this imagination satiate their primal appetites.
If this is enough, for them, then of what cost is it to me if they feed on my excess?