Actualis
There was a strange carnality
in flowing robes,
a waiver penetrates
in incorporeal ellipse.
I must speak of him in his absence
combating for the actuality.
Knowing lust manifolds,
yields a prayer,
primrose opens the eyes.
The knowledge liberating -
you cross the inlets.
Anxiety peels off your mind.
An obnoxious presence of unbeings,
the weeds, the vocal generation
of priests, are anything but art.
The body blooms, in suicidal note.
Birds shriek, before the moon climbs
on the dark trees. I let go the orange,
only the white spreads.
poem by Satish Verma
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Related quotes
Good Friday and More
Good Friday. Dark purple over
All the statues. Grimstock stares
At windows coloured glass light
Shines through. Kim Keltis on his
Right dressed in black mind in prayer
Standing there. Crucified on a brass
Crucifix a Christ hangs the eyes
Closed arms stretched out the hands
Nailed. Grimstock's eyes lower down
To the slim waist of Kim and lets
Eyes move over firm buttocks fleshy
Thighs her dark dress caressing.
Unaware of his eyes her eyes closed
Holds to prayer talks to God confident
God is there not knowing Grimstock's
Stare. Grimstock's eyes like feelers
Reach and touch suck and feed in mind's
Eye greedily the prayer book in his hands
Clutched tightly becomes part of the girl's
Fleshy thighs becomes this becomes that
His dark eyes moving up rest upon her
Brushed hair. Kim standing still in prayer
Not aware Grimstock's there with finger
From forehead to her breast from shoulder
To shoulder makes soft sign of the cross
Imagines her own sweet Crucified hangs
For her in pain there Sweet Jesus she mutters
Like eased breath. Grimstock dreams she's
Undressed beside him in his bed making
Love passionate utterings sexual soft touches.
Kim opens her dark eyes sees Grimstock's
Greedy stare travelling over her standing
There his rough eyes like fingers touching
Her ravishing her soft flesh raping her in his
Mind and knowing that deep down that this
Man pushes hard onto her Jesus' thorny crown.
poem by Terry Collett
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Fragment
Moon of leaves,
Moon of the falling leaves,
To you I bring the slippers
of the sun.
That you may dance upon the
floor of sun,
My lady carries sun within her eyes.
Moon of the Unrevealed,
Moon of the gold-encrusted shield,
To you I bring the fragment
of my prayer.
Moon of the crinkled hair,
Tell me, will my lady yield
Eyes and mouth and breasts unsealed?
Will my lady yield?
Moon of the yellow streaked with red,
Moon that the sun would lead to bed,
Moon with the death's head
More than dead,
Why do you frighten the Goddess of Love,
Whose frail white fingers are moving above
The lover's white body lost in his love?
Moon, you are more than dead.
Moon of the ermine loist in the snow,
Moon of the frozen furbelow,
Moon of the nothingness here below,
Moon, you must go.
It is the Sun that tells you so-
Moon, you must go.
And I was dark beneath the moon,
And you were dark beneath the moon,
And we were dark beneath the moon.
Now I am gold beneath the sun,
Now you are gold beneath the sun,
Now we are gold beneath the Sun.
poem by Harry Crosby
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Witch
Eyes, rivulets of red that run beneath a canopy
Of green-tinged lashes –
Tear blood playing on the grey-white skin,
Stretched across the twin peaks of cheekbone.
That slender pillar of a neck –
Magnet of eroticism, blinds to
Veins gorging on the flesh,
Dancing under pulse of blood –
Or whatever pumps inside.
Coal-black lips word intentions –
Castigations – variations of the horror
She was born to be.
O the hair! – a flame-orange avalanche
Thundering down to Hell
Where seething mounds of torn bodies lost their souls
To viler wants and fouler holes of
Scatological minds.
And the plunge of lavish breast –
E’er the siren’s weapon! –
Baits the mortal man –
Were he to chance his hand across
The certainty of doom.
But still we go, our weakness on display –
Hers will not a challenge be to see to our decay.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
Under lust rain
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Cyclical
CYCLICAL
life blooms
so blooms flowers
fragrance spreads
by wind
wind creates ripples
on rivers and seas
howling seas on beaches
murmurs of the river
brings people around
dwelling spreads
far and near
man’s greed’s so high
want to reach the sky
cracks hole in ozone-layers
that changes weather
the thought of doomsday
all around brings sigh
when reason wins over greed
man’ll go for your lotus feet
trees will grow forest spread
rivers flowers birds sing to greet
everlasting praise of Nature
life blooms
so blooms flowers
fragrance spreads
by wind
wind brings ripples
on rivers on seas
peace prevails all over
Rajkumar @Singapore
09-07-2009
@Rajkumar Mukherjee
poem by Rajkumar Mukherjee
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Why Do You Think That This World Is Not Interesting?
everything has a reason, that is the tenet, nothing happens by random
that is a restatement, perhaps an accent, and emphatic stress for those who still doubt.
every reason explains itself, whether you know it or not, they have mouths and minds.
though they do not speak to you, or think of you, they think, they speak. A premise.
the fire tree blooms today, and there is fire all around the wildlife part. Warmth is intentional.
Fire for summer. Warmth on a hot day. There is a reason. The petals speak for themselves.
an old pedicab under the mahogany trees, the driver pedals its way on a dusty path.
a child wearing an orange shirt sits restlessly wanting to jump screaming. Noise in stillness.
the trees are shedding off yellow leaves and the ground accepts a good cover. There is no sound.
the grasses are starting to wilt and the moss on the pebbles are dark brown. Time to die.
the joggers are here feeding an activity to this oval the silence of which is finally broken.
Summer. This is rest for most. The holy week and time to reflect. Meanwhile the sun shines
on top of the world, the clouds are cottony and so white. The wind blows on my face.
There is a reason for everything. That is tenet and i know nothing happens by random.
I scribble some notes on my mind. Stating what is not spoken by the sun, the trees, the mountains, the joggers, the dusty path, the child in orange shirt. The pedals squeak and
I am watching and listening. There are too many reasons wanting to be written. Anger, and
pain and bliss and company and solitude. Why do you think that this world is not interesting?
Are you not amazed with what we still do not know? Did i not tell you the color
of the daffodils? Or that the man pedaling its way under the mahogany trees
is an old man feeling so useless and that the child in orange is his grandson?
Life need not be what we think we do not have.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shiatsu
soft light
tinkling water
linen white futon
her thumbs walk
cat-like along
my resistance
body yields
mind opens
timeless tranquility
*for Mary Ingram with thanks
poem by Alison Cassidy
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You Are Not A Dream
last night you are the woman undressing before me
beside the brook with bamboo trees swaying on its side
i am told that you are just a dream
the fruit of my weary mind
i have seen the waterfalls flowing from your hair
i have touched the full moon of your breasts
i laid my body on the cool green grass of your body
your hands are soft and perfumed like the orange flowers
cascading on my face
i feel the rain dripping on my cheeks
when you left me
you are not just a dream my love
you are real from the very beginning of my sleep
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Further Bank
I long to go over there to the further bank of the river.
Where those boats are tied to the bamboo poles in a line;
Where men cross over in their boats in the morning with
ploughs on their shoulders to till their far-away fields;
Where the cowherds make their lowing cattle swim across to the
riverside pasture;
Whence they all come back home in the evening, leaving the
jackals to howl in the island overgrown with weeds.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferry when I am grown up.
They say there are strange pools hidden behind that high bank.
Where flocks of wild ducks come when the rains are over, and
thick reeds grow round the margins where water-birds lay their
eggs;
Where snipes with their dancing tails stamp their tiny
footprints upon the clean soft mud;
Where in the evening the tall grasses crested with while
flowers invite the moonbeam to float upon their waves.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferryboat when I am grown up.
I shall cross and cross back from bank to bank, and all the
boys and girls of the village will wonder at me while they are
bathing.
When the sun climbs the mid sky and morning wears on to noon,
I shall come running to you, saying, "Mother, I am hungry."
When the day is done and the shadows cower under the trees,
I shall come back in the dust.
I shall never go away from you into the town to work like
father.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferryboat when I am grown up.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The New Moon
What have you got in your knapsack fair,
White moon, bright moon, pearling the air,
Spinning your bobbins and fabrics free,
Fleet moon, sweet moon, in to the sea?
Turquoise and beryl and rings of gold,
Clear moon, dear moon, ne’er to be sold?
Roses and lilies, romance and love,
Still moon, chill moon, swinging above?
Slender your feet as a white birds throat,
High moon, shy moon, drifting your boat
Into the murk of the world awhile,
Slim moon, dim moon, adding a smile.
Tender your eyes as a maiden’s kiss,
Fine moon, wine moon, no one knows this,
Under the spell of your witchery,
Dream moon, cream moon, first he kissed me.
poem by Zora Bernice May Cross
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Ars Poetica
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind -
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs
A poem should be equal to:
Not true
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -
A poem should not mean
But be
poem by Archibald MacLeish
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Tell Well, shall Shell Spell Hell's Bells Pell Mell
Tell Well, shall Shell Spell Hell's Bells Pell Mell?
If known, unknown, enjoy a perfect fusion
illusion in itself may contribute
to overwrite illusions of confusion
between ideas that sundry sects confute.
No medecine can cure life's revolution
as death, - if death exists - strife turns to dust,
iron to rust, while lust proves no solution;
may bust prove boon if boom soon ends in bust?
Though knower, knowledge merge where light’s way's greeted,
dark sable seeds need for their journey out,
thus urge to surge, to merge, style self completed,
seems in itself crime's partnership with doubt.
Duality denies mind void discounting
all emptiness as horse mid-[t]race dismounting...
6 April 2009
robi03_1879_mant01_0001 PSX_EXX
Reply to Marion Mantel
http: //allpoetry.com/poem/5025243
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIII
Aham Brahmasmi – I Am Brahman
“Investigate the source and mind itself will disappear.” - Ramana Maharshi -
The Vedas’ wisdom penetrates confusion -
like medicine that penetrates the cells –
eradicating illness of illusion,
and liberating mind from countless hells.
Like this, one-pointedness of mind’s established,
and knower, knowledge, known now merge as One.
When Brahman as our own true Self is cherished,
the medicine has worked, its job is done.
But may I nonetheless inform the readers
that holding on to scripture’s not the goal?
In Brahman, there are neither worlds nor Vedas,
nor gods, nor sacrifices and no soul.
From dual parade, senses are withdrawn.
Through empty no-mind, Brahman shall be known
Marion MANTEL AP maa 5 April 2009
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
poem by Jonathan Robin
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In His Presence
Kneeling at the foot of the Cross
I focused my mind on Jesus
In silence, I said a prayer
That His presence will come in this place
The raging storm that i felt inside
He has changed it to a calm deep blue sea
A vision of a flowing water from a fall
Just like the whispers in the wind..
it gently sooth my mind in peace
poem by Meggie Gultiano
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Lust
Lust is what I speak tonight,
Lust is what I see tonight,
Lust is what I feel tonight,
And I Lust You.
Show me your Body
inside out…
no clothes on,
no holds barred…
bit by bit,
part by part,
give me your smells,
and your sweat…
give me what all you have
every naked bit of yours,
I want to see All of yours.
feel my hands
feel my legs
feel my torso
my body begs…
Come on me
and make me wet
juices flowing…
feel the heat…
together, we’ll
make ‘us’ meet.
If Lust be sin,
So be it…
For I am a Woman,
And you a Man.
How can I love you
and not lust you?
For Me,
Love and Lust,
go hand in hand…
for I am a Woman
and you are my Man.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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When the birds fly
When the birds fly
the mind opens its eye
the heart looks up to the sky
the birds fly.
The birds fly south
the ear opens its mouth
the nose sees summer
the kids they are playing out...
When the birds fly
we dream our words dont die.
Reborn with a babys cry
the birds fly leaving stars
they stay in the night,
we are the birds
we escape to the light.
poem by Daniel McCann
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The Temptation of St. Anthony
-After a design by Félicien Rops-
The Cross, the Cross is tainted! O most Just,
Be merciful, and save me from this snare.
The Tempter lures me as I bend in prayer
Before the sacred symbol of our trust.
Yea, that most Holy of Holies feeds my lust,
The body of thy Christ; for, unaware,
Even as I kneel and pray, lo, She is there,
The temptress, she the wanton; and she hath thrust
The bruisèd body off, and all her own,
Shameless, she stretches on the cross, arms wide,
Limbs pendent, in libidinous mockery.
She draws mine eyes to her--Ah, sin unknown!
She smiles, she triumphs; but the Crucified
Falls off into the darkness with a cry.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Fantasy IV
Pounce of nipple
Snatches,
Catches me off guard
Flounce and ripple
Thro' the breasts
Arrests
Landing hard,
I'm flung upon my back
To analyse the ceiling -
No appealing under stress
Now under dress -
Panties gone
And she upon
My countenance -
I rouse to bait
Her feminine way
Lead astray by
Aromatic warming
Of her womanhood,
I tune her body's
Resonance
Thro' eloquence of tongue -
Her shrieking
Highly strung
We up the play
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The First Tooth
There once was a wood, and a very thick wood,
So thick that to walk was as much as you could;
But a sunbeam got in, and the trees understood.
I went to this wood, at the end of the snows,
And as I was walking I saw a primrose;
Only one! Shall I show you the place where it grows?
There once was a house, and a very dark house,
As dark, I believe, as the hole of a mouse,
Or a tree in my wood, at the thick of the boughs.
I went to this house, and I searched it aright,
I opened the chambers, and I found a light;
Only one! Shall I show you this little lamp bright?
There once was a cave, and this very dark cave
One day took a gift from an incoming wave;
And I made up my mind to know what the sea gave.
I took a lit torch, I walked round the ness
When the water was lowest; and in a recess
In my cave was a jewel. Will nobody guess?
O there was a baby, he sat on my knee,
With a pearl in his mouth that was precious to me,
His little dark mouth like my cave of the sea!
I said to my heart, "And my jewel is bright!
He blooms like a primrose! He shines like a light!"
Put your hand in his mouth! Do you feel? He can bite!
poem by William Brighty Rands
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Oh! Lisa With These Lovely Eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
So please tell my soul to sympathize,
We shall cry forever in overcast skies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes,
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Heartbroken heart spoken, not taken back
To change a mind so is lifes dream
Lisa with the dark brown eyed
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
That blends your butter scotch face insight
Smiles which brings sparkles to my mind
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Many pre thoughts of your strays hypnotize
French, African, English culture dies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
She dabbles her life in fiction trash
her soul with curious follies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Loneliness, has come far a sad. sad day
Emptiness in your mind and heart pay
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
You walk the world in beauty forgotten
They speak about you something forbidden
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Your body your mind so whole same so
Your gave birth and I wish I could understand, understand
Lisa with the dark dark raven eyes
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes
Curiosity is so special time flies, my sighs
Persuaded a fool to be wise, so wise how wise
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes.
poem by Klayne Mario Burton
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The actuality of all of material Nature is therefore kept out of action and that of all corporeality along with it, including the actuality of my body, the body of the cognizing subject.
quote by Edmund Husserl
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Green Sour Orange....
first i get an orange
a green orange, the young one
sour, but still
citrus, not pungent
but inviting, not a cure for the
wound, not easing,
it penetrates pain and
makes it more painful,
then i cut the orange,
press it
and press it some more
to get all its juices....
i do not drink it
i leave it in the glass
for all those dark nights
till every juice dries,
till what you see and feel
is the same
emptiness....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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