Quotes about oceanic, page 7

13: 00

Doors swung open with feigned eloquence
And eyes left ajar from daunted pretense
As time flew back towards the pleasant
Odyssey of your gentle goodnight
And the dark and piercing star-screams
Were heard guffawing and echoing
When the interpolating bliss ceased
With the last painted malady

The penumbra of the waxing moon
Incessantly stropped the brusque fringes
Of her stalemate blight, insinuatingly,
A pall of her emollient jet-black locks
Fell unto the fluorescence of her face
In the stillness of the windless sand
It whispered a riddance, droning,
That the ebbing water palmed
Into a turbid naivety: Good bye.

Your swimming eyes found a moor

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poem by Norman Santos
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~ ‘Sister Don't Give Me Opiate I Want To Taste Death' ~ [Drama in Real Life]

~ ‘Sister Don't Give Me Opiate I Want To Taste Death' ~
[Drama in Real Life]

Ms. Nivedita
UK
23 April 20,2012

[Note: From Drama in Real Life of a Lady Doctor of UK in her Terminal Illness ~ poetically framed ~ niv]

Final phenomenon
Tip-toeing
‘Sister don't
Give me opiate
Let me satiate
Final phenomenon! ' [A]

‘In lulling slumber

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poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
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Ode to my Dad & Mom

Poem by...Sivan PG Menon
---
…an ode to my ‘dad and mom’

I don’t remember the day,
I toddled on to this 'space...vast..
How I knelt and jerked to reach
the stars and the sky, still a myth.

I wonder, how I learned walking
And talked to ‘mom and dad’.
It still surprises me,
I could chirp like the sparrows,
And imitate the humming birds.

Blessed am I to have the green woods,
the mountains, the gushing springs,
the lush green farms,
the swaying Daffodils,
and a ‘Strong willed dad & mom’

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poem by Sivan P.G Menon
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Farewell To Florida

I
Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,
The snake has left its skin upon the floor.
Key West sank downward under massive clouds
And silvers and greens spread over the sea. The moon
Is at the mast-head and the past is dead.
Her mind will never speak to me again.
I am free. High above the mast the moon
Rides clear of her mind and the waves make a refrain
Of this: that the snake has shed its skin upon
The floor. Go on through the darkness. The waves fly back

II
Her mind had bound me round. The palms were hot
As if I lived in ashen ground, as if
The leaves in which the wind kept up its sound
From my North of cold whistled in a sepulchral South,
Her South of pine and coral and coraline sea,
Her home, not mine, in the ever-freshened Keys,

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poem by Wallace Stevens
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oceanic eyes, so vast so blue
iris halo of infinite horizon
coalescence of heaven and sea
Purest of pleasure,

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poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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The Countdown to Love

One-
Baby you’re more beautiful than the morning sun
It’s two-
Baby I feel so at ease when I'm with you
It’s three-
Baby you’re more graceful then the calm oceanic sea
It’s four-
Oh I’m waiting for you to come walking through my door
It’s five-
For every moment I’m spending with you is a surprise
It’s six-
Baby without you I’m down for the count because I’m love sick
It’s seven-
I thank God for sending me one of his beautiful angels from heaven
It’s eight-
Baby you have my heart beating at a fast rate
It’s nine-
Baby when I’m with you I’m better then fine
It’s ten-
For baby I love you now and I loved you back then

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poem by Poetic Philosopher
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I Could Bring You A Shattered Windowpane

I could bring you a shattered windowpane,
I could bring you a musical whip that's been trained
to read the stops of your flute
and how your fingers move like windproof spiders.
I could bring you the red brick of dried blood
that was left of my heart when I threw it through the window,
and it broke into a thousand chips of rose petals
that shed like flakes of dried paint off the eyelids
of a revolution that hasn't woken up yet
to finish what it started in a recurring dream
of mystic junkies flagging their fits
until Faustus sees Christ's blood
streaming across the firmament like mother's milk.

Should I ever come to know you well enough
to let you drink from my hidden starwell in my field of view,
I could raise your spirits up like a candelabra
to be whatever constellation you wanted
among all these myriad stars dying to be given a focus.
And if at first you didn't know where you were, I'd be your locus

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poem by Patrick White
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The Great Escape

Although the songs the birds sing are
Melodious and benign and
Locusts joyfully repeat their summer's tune-
Leaves upon the trees are emerald and their limbs reach for the sky-
The grass has never been greener- and
Clouds contrast with the oceanic blueness of the sky- Even though
Summer would be the favorite time of year for so many people,
At this time this world has become a foreign and terrifying place to me.
My mind has been lost in the clouds,
Not within the fair clouds that decorate the sky, but
Within the ashen and sallow clouds of hell-
From the window of the vault that contains me
I can see people seemingly worshiping the sun,
However, to me the rays of the sun are somewhat blinding, if not otherwise
Brightening all that is terrifying to see-
Cars racing raucously down the streets without a care- and shining upon
All of the people who would wish me none but harm-
If I were to step outside in this moment-
The sun would sear my flesh and its rays would invade my mind in
A devastating and intrusive sort of way-

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poem by Claudia Krizay
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Into Her Lying Down Head

Into her lying down head
His enemies entered bed,
Under the encumbered eyelid,
Through the rippled drum of the hair-buried ear;
And Noah's rekindled now unkind dove
Flew man-bearing there.
Last night in a raping wave
Whales unreined from the green grave
In fountains of origin gave up their love,
Along her innocence glided
Jaun aflame and savagely young King Lear,
Queen Catherine howling bare
And Samson drowned in his hair,
The colossal intimacies of silent
Once seen strangers or shades on a stair;
There the dark blade and wanton sighing her down
To a haycock couch and the scythes of his arms
Rode and whistled a hundred times

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poem by Dylan Thomas
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Cosmologist With Tweezers

Palace after palace of blood I feed my idiot heart
to the fish and the cannibal stars
from a barge of funeral swans sullen as books.
I told myself not to look for this death when I dropped it
the day I was born, to leave it lie in the violent grass,
a key to a door that doesn’t exist yet,
an insect crushed between the pages of the sky
that reads like the failing eyes of an ancient astronomer
compiling an expanded preface
to an encyclopedic suicide note. O I can say anything
when the mirror is having an affair
with the moon’s oceanic face.
I can put lipstick on the corpse of a rose
and die for the whole cemetery like a callous messiah
sick of being resurrected at the take-out window.
My love forsaken, a beggar reaching into a serpent’s nest
for an egg that longs to be turned
like the handle to a door
that might be a way out, I consult
the crazy wisdom of the crows,

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poem by Patrick White
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