July 16 by The Running Son
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Here’s the best of my unpublished poetry over last week or two. Part 8. Love you all. Enjoy. 😉
collection pt. 8
The ground, a sound,
rhythm all around.
Just a tone–alone
no religion’s known.
We groan, and I’ve found
my home of profound
life heuristics for lone
and ordinary mystics.
The Poetry Question: QOTD – What is truth?
Her eyes were super round, like the roundest circle.
Her dress was really maroon, more red in color, than purple.
Her bed was uber rumpled, like a bed that was just slept in,
and her brain was beautiful, like the word beautiful, in cursive.
written for prompt from We Drink Because We Are Poets
I am wide.
with all fallen stars
and all earth
He should have listened. He could see that now.
She could dismiss him with a wink, and a bow.
Just missed the sink when the panic set in.
Sunk to his knees when the truth settled in.
The eyes in the mirror cant speak any clearer.
Her spherical eyes threaten him with half lidding
dumb-footed and silly in his bumbled replies.
He should have listened; her eyes were not kidding.
“tried by fire”
Nothing can break
me now. Fortifying
from within will condition
this being of flesh
and skin, leaving
so much human
as human again.
“eyes are the window”
I have leaved through book pages
and bought the help of sages
I have consulted deep astrologers
and stolen tricks from mages.
I have pieced together integers
to see your soul emerge, in stages.
I’m so glad you stopped. It seems
like I’ve been out here looking in
“fast un-fasting” (or, Ramadan 2k13)
Fasten your seat belt.
Passion will be felt.
The politic-impassioned help
prayer rugs unfasten,
and roll out.
Prompted by a post from fluteplayer
I made a list, and I checked it.
One life to live—you guessed it.
Never willing to exit it,
without once loving exquisitely,
I left the rest of the bucket-list
in my head like it dont exist.
Now, I found my twin prime.
Because of this, the rest
at no time ever will be missed.
“a poem about the simple”
Hearts speak in the dialect
of essentials, and essence;
they mention the special way
words make us make sense,
kept simple, and elegant.
Comment poem for Belinda (: ☼
“wood and skin”
What’s the difference between me
and you? I live in a tree, and you,
in a shoe. The too much feeding
and cleaning and doing,
and the spanking and the shoeing,
and this meaning to kick me blue
until I am red-welt blister-ache oozing?
I branch freely and seize winds to
help de-leave me. I root to water; streams,
and any source that quenches age rings.
I sing; breezes whistle across budding
spring branches reaching, a vibrating
that reinstates leaves, reinvigorates–
me sitting, a lotus, in this transforming
and fitting blue shade.
Poetry is the dimensional meta-coding
of formal definitions. Conversation
tones, normally, own just those
words zoned for linear exclamation,
sufficient momentary efficiencies, and
the daylight rational explanation of
hooking and reeling in thought. If wrought
in prose, tonic sparks attract, like love,
the non-creative man’s atomic arts: fought
inner tendency, forgotten lusts, and lone
dreams. Poetry encodes the me
you’ve never known, or seen.
“my 10 year plan”
Life will give birth.
Thirsty and grateful
I await my twist of fate,
my first taste
been asleep since
Of will, Independently, unconscious
messages are typed and sent to me.
Smooth! Your quill bathes me in Indian ink,
and we love black and white, born frein-amies.
these words are pure ascii energy, I think.
Letters quiver with many frequencies, I believe.
These characters are breathing air in, to me:
exhaling synchronicity—a richly textured symphony.
unpublished poem. (: (not anymore..)
Days are labeled wonderful
by sun ray’s fabled warming.
Seas are made by tidal dreams
we all sail, despite warnings.
From poem duet with Shruti
♫ hope u enjoyed! Jim –
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