Quotes about searing, page 12
Primordial
Love is throwing your heart in the burning fire
and being willing to see it come back a frozen hulk;
and doing it again
time after time.
Love requires that we set fire
to our brain,
and watch it burn
all in Love's Name
and Passion's Call.
Love is heat;
Love is fire
and we
are Mashmellows
of the Flame.
Love is time lost.
Who can remember
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Waiting Room
As I lay, pensively, dying
Beneath the seething graze of the sun,
In a metaphorical metamorphism,
I found myself, in films, meandering
Like a white eccentric and fictional lion
Dashing through the endless pitch
Hollowness of an ornate forest
The insipid beast teemed with fear
And not of valiance, as in the label
In this pocket of a gyratory cul-de-sac
The ghosts, glacial and searing,
Runs along with my buoyant feet
Their wails struck the barricades
Of the looming myrtle trees
And an echolalia came to life
In its corporeal form, a wintry
Pang that gnawed upon my chest
And I ran faster, like a frenzied fiend
‘Till I saw an opalescent stranger
With a lamp on his rooted feet
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poem by Norman Santos
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On Dreams
I don't know what I'll do if my dreams don't come true
I suppose it doesn't happen very often anyway
After all it's a reward reserved for only the hardest of workers
That of which I surely cannot be
Yes, I don't know what I'll do if my dreams don't come true
I suppose I'll get married and start a family
I'll tell my kids to reach for the stars
And never stop dreaming
Then I'll have a beer and sigh
And watch TV until I fall asleep
I should be thankful for what I have
But to be honest
I just don't know what I'll do if my dreams don't come true
I really shouldn't let such thought cross my mind
Dreams can be dangerous
Dreams can turn into nightmares
I've seen what happens to the stars in Hollywood
I should consider myself lucky
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poem by C.S. Smith
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Bitter Blow of Love
Love! you dealt a bitter blow –
You lay me cross the mortal plains,
Bedewed, bedimmed amongst a show
Of tearful clouds: eternal rains
To weep at my enduring foe
Of harsh reality – searing pains of
Destiny: dependable propensity
To fool myself repeatedly
That I could ever triumph over love!
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Lonesome Deity 'bove A Hermit Desk
A lonesome Deity hovers above my hermit desk,
delivering the soft, nuptial scent of dried chamomile petals;
a steaming vapor, livening puffy
bleary eyed, sleepy morning facial flesh
In the solitude of early hours belonging the songbirds,
I hear the familiar footsteps of his approach;
The invisible wind borne life force,
creaking untraceable floorboards,
rattling shutter-less windows:
Hermes, speaking in the silent code of Mercurial morse
revving me from the mossy undergrowth of my bed sheets
with a musing spring gambade from the ancient Aonian source.
The hiss and purr percolation of his slow drip voice
builds like steadily brewing kaffe klatsch
The dusty echo of his whisper soothes like a sleepy fan
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poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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0419 Tribute to a Listening Man (George Steiner)
The TV studio set for a prestige production
of the sort that wins renewed network contracts
if not viewers, late on Sunday night:
the subject, a weekly series on
The History of Christianity -
worthy discussion leader, impressive panel
mingling ecclesiastical robes of
a glowing spectrum of faiths with the
open-necked, for open-minded,
dress-down of young freethinkers, but
respectful of their elders, with it;
subtle lighting on the semi-circular panel
and the background, tastefully designed
with hints of the history of otherworldliness
and among the assembled voices
of faith and reason in their polite battle,
the great intellectual guru of the Western world
himself – would his searing intellect, his daunting
global dimensions of mind, dominate
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Romantic
Isn't it romantic
how the chrysalids land on the ice cubes
in our drink to wink
with sunlight and time
for the dawning double blind
Isn't it romantic
how wings unborn
are worn to be torn
from our aesthetic interpretation
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poem by Randy Resh
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Birth of the Lion Man
And he was a man with revealing sylvan eyes.
Sad, wandering, eager-eyes swathed with sagacity.
Coy he was, like an eagle in the wild; aversive but suspicious.
He is not a child, but he is less than a man.
A critique and a wonderer loathing his own skin
At the top of his head, he watched people
He watched them flash harlequin smiles at each other
Smiles that harmed his eyes like polarized lights
And he remained aloof, preserved to his flightless dignity.
His nest a bare warren of pride and fear
Every leaf of the book he turned with dismal eloquence
Disgusted with the filth of the forged layer
He desires to strip them, undress them
To crack the cynic Monalisa smile and the soul submerged beneath.
A spin-off awaits to swivel as he walked the cobbled streets
Unmasked, but masked with forced vulnerability.
Strutting the town like the lazy-pacing clouds,
Invading skies like searing rays of light
Her lucid radiance in the kind afternoon
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Creation I
The God separated a spirit from Himself and fashioned it into Beauty. He showered upon her all the blessings of gracefulness and kindness. He gave her the cup of happiness and said, "Drink not from this cup unless you forget the past and the future, for happiness is naught but the moment." And He also gave her a cup of sorrow and said, "Drink from this cup and you will understand the meaning of the fleeting instants of the joy of life, for sorrow ever abounds."
And the God bestowed upon her a love that would desert he forever upon her first sigh of earthly satisfaction, and a sweetness that would vanish with her first awareness of flattery.
And He gave her wisdom from heaven to lead to the all-righteous path, and placed in the depth of her heart and eye that sees the unseen, and created in he an affection and goodness toward all things. He dressed her with raiment of hopes spun by the angels of heaven from the sinews of the rainbow. And He cloaked her in the shadow of confusion, which is the dawn of life and light.
Then the God took consuming fire from the furnace of anger, and searing wind from the desert of ignorance, and sharp- cutting sands from the shore of selfishness, and coarse earth from under the feet of ages, and combined them all and fashioned Man. He gave to Man a blind power that rages and drives him into a madness which extinguishes only before gratification of desire, and placed life in him which is the specter of death.
And the god laughed and cried. He felt an overwhelming love and pity for Man, and sheltered him beneath His guidance.
poem by Khalil Gibran
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Deeply Blue Indigo Hued
DEEPLY BLUE
Your grief, as anger on your skin, tattooed
with hornet stings, I’ve scraped red raw again.
I see you deeply blue, indigo hued.
From deep articulate wells, you yell blood
curdling echoes of your past. You display
your grief as anger on your skin. Tattooed
drum beats protest, berate, constant and loud.
My love can’t penetrate the noise you make,
I see. You, deeply blue, indigo hued
by fossilised recollections of abuse
I don’t recognise, are stultified as pain.
Your grief as anger on your skin tattooed.
Slinging stones remorselessly, you’re good
at hurting, wounding, searing with your aim.
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poem by Janet Budd
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