Is it about satisfaction After swimming through my sweat, Self-demanding worldview works To validate what I think is my nature? Through self-reflection I may learn, But it's put into practice only with others. The intrinsic terror of others That supports self-satisfaction– Secret and smug. I must break to learn Any real value of sweat. The soul is always outside its nature But clings to whatever works. A petty problem that works Itself out with some effort from others. What a superficial nature Inspected for fleeting satisfaction. Am I afraid to break a sweat; Then nothing more should you have to learn. I'll always be afraid to learn The true futility of my works; The utter impotence of my sweat; The subpar product I offer to others; I wish to present to your satisfaction Through the simple machine of my nature. Apart from cities, apart from nature, This modern habit I've come to learn, Perversely absorbed in the satisfaction Of looks and show and mirrorworks, Has me perturbed by potential others; And I deserve to sweat. Deserving or not, I'll continue to sweat And fret over my foolish nature; Craving esteem from others To hide how poorly I learn; Hoping to be engaged in works That someday lead to satisfaction. Let satisfaction be measured in sweat. My works will have no effect on nature. I can learn, but am I closer to others?
Author: Nick
Into love you will be distilled
Experiences always provide Eternal questions of how we're fulfilled; The masters of true living abide By the paths of subtle discretion and skill. Stripped of illusions the mind divides, Into love you will be distilled. The masters of true living abide By the paths of subtle discretion and skill; Realize the things which hatred hides And severs one from Creation's build; Stripped of illusions the mind divides, Into love you will be distilled. Realize the things which hatred hides And severs one from Creation's build; As paranoia and instinct collide It's common to be distinctly willed. Stripped of illusions the mind divides, Into love you will be distilled. As paranoia and instinct collide It's common to be distinctly willed; Instead reach out for the joy which guides, The recompense for pure blood spilled. Stripped of illusions the mind divides, Into love you will be distilled.
Rondeau; DJ
Ask someone, "hi, how are you?" Although I know it can be hard to; Some believe small talk is worthless, But sometimes that could be the furthest Thing from the truth I could argue. It could be a minor remark you Absentmindedly impart to A person right when their rebirth is; Ask someone, "hi, how are you?" An earnest care may loose a dart through Deep, demonic crises or scars you Never guessed to be the verges Of anguish they keep beneath the surface; Besides, kindness will recharge you. Ask someone, "hi, how are you?"
It really is like an arrow’s piercing
It really is like an arrow's piercing. All suddenness, the sheer sting Of a changed instant's immanence; A fact unchanged by my technique. The fiercest singing instruments With their clear strings stop at their peak. Deliverance's shock in ears rings So uniquely; all that's near shrinks When his cheer flings the dart where the tears spring.
Strike the bell again
Strike the bell again! Invoke the winds, and when That highest soaring note Pierces the most remote There'll be no need to pretend. When every word of pen With its song ascends To life from writing's rote, Strike the bell again! Gods of music, cleanse Our worried brows with zen, Make the bags we tote Light enough to float. Laugh once more my friend; Strike the bell again!
Clouds at Sunset
My lover called me to the riverside Where the breeze dances in the humid heat Mercurially, not for him or me, But a power far greater to decide. In the heat where cycles of sweating dried, He requested I witness this conceit— Towering higher than being can be, A dark, cloud-crafted fortress amplified. What glorious court was held there inside, With godly deliberations replete; Can one down here imagine the decree Their sovereign thunders which these great walls hide? Beyond the grasp of where the seagulls glide, The summer castle flickers at the feet Of heat lightning sprinting its circuitry, Lighting each parapet like distant guides. Then he bade me view the other side, And there was amassed a force to meet The stronghold of the clouds: far as can see An equally dark but blazing host skied. A haughty army of luminous pride, Or the pitted face of magmatic sheet; A cloud wide as the other vertically Inclined, burns an orange sunset-supplied. They seemed two worlds preparing to collide, Drawn for more than life or death to compete In a great clash that fulfills sanctity Between sunlight and night when it's complied. Golden, gleaming besiegers far off ride. The brilliant armor and shafts of elite Soldiers gathered up in resplendently Obscuring light in their rows multiplied. The chateau sat across dark, dignified, Feeling no fear, thinking not of defeat Or even its own magnanimity, Stoically on its dusky sky undyed. We inconsequential observers spied A bit of something senses can't entreat. A grand mirage of scale and majesty, Gawked at but not fully identified. Theorizing and projecting we slide To many a fantasy indiscrete, But even a beauty's simplicity Evokes different truths for each eye applied. Some find beauty in brief things that subside Like rainclouds that fade when their stores deplete, Or an interaction of amity With a complete stranger who leaves untied. Things that will survive after we have died And things that we'll outlive, though bittersweet, We love; and with their mutability We stretch them in thoughts kaleidoscope-eyed. And by stages our analogies plied Obvious things into things less concrete, Metaphors and symbols, perhaps a plan We ourselves could be also magnified. So far away, so huge, titans bestride Their cycles; which we can never complete As micro pieces of infinity, Yearning for more than our portions divide. The greatest minds where genius can confide Carry the weight of learning, which they beat Into the DNA of progeny, Making the best of what they can provide. To know the world not just through what we've tried, But experience things as more than meat, More than myself existing chemically; To know the reasons why so many cried, To understand how disparate forces vied In enigmatic epochs to delete What was, which for most ends in tragedy, And after all this to not have shied. What is dismantled and what's fructified In how many patterns repeat The machinations of life's mystery; Can all these things by clouds be belied?
The color of fire in this creature’s lungs
The color of fire in this creature's lungs
Is the token of truth that escapes his tongue,
The deepest majesty of existence;
All good flows from this source, for instance
His energy on the ladder's rungs.
For quite some time the fact has stung,
Despite his best attempts he's wrung
The smallest bit of the richness's semblance,
The color of fire in this creature's lungs.
Burning still in torches hung
Within his innard halls, far-flung
His sorrows are cast by the persistence
Of love enveloping like incense;
Envision how it shines when swung,
The color of fire in this creature's lungs.
2/3 Roundelay
Ever seen an anomaly, A form or figure of pure shock? Something with a quality Mundane existence can't unlock; The harpists cranial of Dalí Or the lip nipples of Georges Braque. Something with a quality Mundane existence can't unlock: The most exalted psalmistry And the Priapean cock; The harpists cranial of Dalí Or the lip nipples of Georges Braque. The most exalted psalmistry And the Priapean cock; So alien a colony, Cyclopeans of titan stock. The harpists cranial of Dalí Or the lip nipples of Georges Braque. So alien a colony, Cyclopeans of titan stock Reach out to us slalomly, Emerging from a sky of rock: The harpists cranial of Dalí Or the lip nipples of Georges Braque.
Sestina
What's an ineffable feeling, Since it can never be in a poem; What's concrete in happiness With an ever-changing I Is temporary; identify With a question. Who can answer? I wonder if there can be an answer To sculpt the phenomena of feeling From a doubt to what we identify. The fellowship of an errant poem, The spirit of its making, and I Quest to define happiness. There was a horse named Happiness. I suppose that's the only answer One's arms could fit around, but I Can't shake into that vibing feeling That conjures joy in an evening's poem, Needing no land to identify. If only I could identify Trees better, then happiness Could form a chain of songs, a poem That could operate as answer Aroused to existence by a vagrant feeling; Ever insularly I. My little spies that hide in, I Struggle here to identify Whether as art or blood, a feeling Stripped of senses, have happiness As their doorman's secret answer When he recites his half of the poem. As the structure, or lack thereof, in a poem, Life is freely constrained by I- Attachments, -desires, an I-dealt answer Of an other to identify. My self-contentment-happiness Ponders the mirror's estranged feeling. Feeling my way inside a poem, The happiness in crying I Identify as some kind of answer.
All my unintentional misdoings
All my unintentional misdoings Are so eminently preventable If each action perfectly, intently Eschewed things that I reduce to fractions. Urgently manhandling reviewings Mentally; they remain untenable. Ever these distractions keep renewing By tracts incensed and undependable. They're queueing up, ready to force entry. The ensuing chaos of reactions And their extendable propensity Is spent in full by folly's protractions.
A place for my poems 