spiralinginafield

[spiralinginafield]

Okay,(Check’s all the tabs on my phone) I just looked up the meaning of these to confirm that I read it right. I have not seen the show Yellowjackets, but now I feel it is a must. New hyper fixation here I come.

There is an odd point, that I don’t remember where Initially heard the word. Then I purged a lot of the tabs on my phone and still couldn’t find it.

I don’t know much of my own hostility, it’s not something I express often. But then again I did go back to soften, some of the words as I found myself too much. Then again I’d rather be a blade of my words than a blunt instrument that is used to torment.

-Fields

Arc 9: Heliotrope|Arm’s Reach|Fistfull/ Fleeting Obsessions

I’ve never broken one, unlike the rules I’ve been given.

I’d rather be abandoned and smitten.

I’d rather be burnt and bitten by animals than know a hate like your love.

A tenderness only known with your circle, and you shun all that is outside.

In your dissonant love, there, why would you confide.

An obsession like no other, why see the face when you can press the bones.

Why scream when you can speak so sweetly, a flood of words, a deluge of confessions.

Love and its superfluous connections.

A thorned fractal on my tongue, and the taste of iron means I’m not done.

Why sit on the grass when you can grab a Fistfull and fly into the sun.

An obsession like no other, disparage the current denotation and listen to the words that surround its shape.

Like an empty hole, but complete the image.

Connect the dots, then just merely listen.

Then hold out your mind in your hand and partake.

Would you go along with your parentage, I know that I will not.

Will you revel in dissonance as it climbs into your ears and brings you to tears.

Would you ever shake the fears or align in nonexistent disagreement.

When you embrace all your love will you keep the tenderness.

That which was inherent, from parent to child, from the modern days to the aberrant wilds.

Now close that which is agape and embrace, when in reality you know what it is, cause it’s a feeling that doesn’t require a taste.

I’d rather run to my garden and face plant into the dirt, roll around the flowers and mingle amongst the earth.

I’ll ask for their flowers, and hold the petals and press them against the face.

I’ll rather take in all that I love and hope, than agree with the ideologies you tote.

And I’ll stay here in my garden tending to the heliotropes.

Knowing that all obsessions must end, and mine never met the criteria.

But you held you heart the highest, and believed your love superior.

I want to understand and pass, the storms that is my Limerence.

While you cradle and crave that dissonance.

My, oh your hate is quite persistent.

And we’ll all one day lay, in beds of fields or graves.

I’ll be there with love I’ve saved, while you fade with no love to stay.

[spiralinginafield]

Last year I tried to organize my poems into three separate titles. The two sets I did make I do enjoy, but the titles being in sets didn’t work with how I actually would write. Too much it was, but now, there is a new clarity, but without the brevity I once knew it as.

I would like to share it, in its entirety when it is finished, something that is more polished than my other works. And it would not be in this format, as just pasting each poem separately would be a lot. I am not too familiar with formatting, but I have been learning how to make it more accessible.

There will be a minimum of 24 poems, without counting those connecting certain poems.

There was an earlier poem, that which guilds. It was initially a standalone, but it grew on me when my cat kept onto me and bit my phone.

The new title is Bespeckled Continuums.

-Fields

Arc 6: Keen|Ombre|Peripheral/Unfurl, Reproach

I proach the space and spread my eyes to my surroundings, and ruminate on the reverberations of the threads around, and strike them all at once to create a sound.

First with the pointer, last with the thumb, until the space filled with music then I would be done.

This place, I am the host of hands, keen to my manipulations, with one thought I could cause a squall or precipitation.

When I twist my fingers and my knuckles angle in ways I am confounded.

I will no longer plea to linger, and I revel in these fingers, that there is no fate to be delivered.

They grow and are culled, the cutting to a point and with the tip of my fingers I would anoint.

It was an act of love, without the aggression, that fell unto my eyes.

Instead I would confide, in the place I truly know.

I pressed my hands into my chest, and placed the trust there.

Then I would make my first impression, this act and all its love without the aggression.

Now an act of love, my cherished regression.

[spiralinginafield]

People say I should be moving onwards, but I tend to lag behind, not because I don’t understand, but that I’m too busy looking at the sky and how that goose got too lose to me. A fondness for appreciation, maybe that’s something.

Always about a place, and never the person. Or maybe it’s not a place, but a division that’s hard to read. I tend to focus on places, and when they change it’s odd. That’s a thing about places, they change little(at least where I am) , and there’s that loss when looking back or remembering. Those static moments in life. Just something about them that I like. Places are like that, but they things change at different paces. That’s what makes it interesting.

-Fields

That Which Guilds

That which guilds my bones, so that they’ll be fresh when I make a home, to acknowledge that one day I make a sliver of a home, even if this life won’t last forever.

That which guilds my voice, so that I may cast all I wish to endure.

To regress until all is burned, rotted and pure.

That which guilds my hands, my knuckles flexed in a grasp, so that I may hold onto everything as my eyes back into the depth, to hold cherish and protect.

That which guilds the veil, the pressure exerted to divest.

Myself of all that aches and pain, so I can stay.

I can watch the passing days, on lucidity and brevity’s best.

That which guilds the heart, on the cusp of something That is new to use.

What swirls around my forearm, what pressures and wanes.

A rich intoxication, that pulls and drops, and removes all disparity and leaves all separate from lost.

That which guilds, is something new as regression inwards builds.

That of the familiar kind, so I may walk a step above than I have years before.

That which guilds me is a sensation only known in the present, the encapsulation of a passing thought, when the swell of all wanes and falls.

Where it meets the grace of perception, and is defined, whether with determination, or a dreadful sensation.

The lucidity of knowing, as if all falls before you, but not in a clatter but a hand picked descent.

That which wills and permits.

[spiralinginafield]

A shadow of a light

In spite of all things known, tossed from fretted hands, the rise of a tone, to fill that cavernous gap of knowledge.

They would take a stone to polish, their hands, the friction and heat, the want to admonish.

Not a need, but a crave, the ache of their gaps, to fill the stagnant past with something they think will last.

Instead of earth, they pour, into the whole a liquid they truly believe and try, to follow under the ache of dissonance or threat. They would rather be satiated with that which leaks and soak, instead of the earth that is stable and never roams.

An odd sense is known, when the edges of the mind attempts to understand the gap, the absence of knowledge, an odd ache, a feeling we lack.

Reach a hand and sense, and feel the stillness, where are the connections?

The paths of our own brain, we tend to know well, we trust the knowledge within rather than without.

A chamber of echoes, where there is only one voice that resonates and shouts.

When the paths are traced, whether causal or the thoughts that make you ache, where is the origin of that distaste.

Many a reason, many without, do you see only that is, or all that is and without?

[spiralinginafield]

Guise

Another reproach of burnt grass, on the steps you press.

A will to another, fall past ears that do not hear the protest.

A bowed hand towards the sky, to be enveloped by the rays.

In the fetid moments, embers rise to singe the flesh.

As they touch the skin, a call to obey.

That sharp presence, that reaches to give, singes the skin and pulls all that is within.

To bear the rays, to shine upon that deep within, now fluid under sunlight, as above, as within.

It burns, the smell wretched and foul, but it purifies your doubt.

In the pain, the easement of your disdain, the weight of release from the encumbrance, even for just a moment.

It pulls you outwards, how it pulls, you rather not fathom, but release into its call.

Under the rays, it burns the guise left behind, to never let you have it, it would never say.

It pulls your cheek toward the rays, and speaks a gentle line to ease, to relish in that phrase.

Please, just refrain,

[spiralinginafield]

Shorn of Petals

I see the rise, when I wake, and I raise a petal.

In hand for something else, whatever it may be, it drifts from my palm, and follows a jetsam I can’t see.

But from my palm all is delivered, on a different shore that my eyes are still bewildered.

All things could be treasured, but maybe they don’t have to be, neither gold nor silver, but all the possibilities.

Restless ambiguities, strings around my hand, sever the binds, and be released from the demands.

When fear is always of the future, the past is the item held deep.

Consolidation of both, where is the path I seek?

A raised petal wrestles in the wind, a fleeting iridescent whim.

A sweet taste on the tongue, metallic and bitter like the other ones.

Familiarity clouds the rest, and now it is sweeter than last we met.

A raised item to know me best, a raised petal to bestow what I left, whether behind, above, or below.

The arm I extend, will no longer bestow.

A patience to cope, to keep the pace I know.

[spiralinginafield]

Chimes

The odd feeling, of the wind twisting among your branches, arm splayed wide, as if in reverence.

The heat seeps away, from the blood that mingles inside, braces against the wind, or with it, the blooms do not hide.

The inkling of a moment, hand to lift the veil, fingers stretched to meet the moment.

Days become something more unique, cast off that winter coat, that monotony.

The sound of distant chimes, the slow roll and reproach of a familiar time.

All within, the pull of air, all without, the whirlwind that snares, to linger in the moment.

When you leave yourself, no longer the opponent.

[spiralinginafield]

The concept of a spiral has been stuck in my head for months. I’m using all the powers of my psych degree to understand why, but I’ll know it’ll come to me in a dream or something. But it does have me reminiscing on older patterns of thought, you know, when you go through old journals, photos, or just anything older.

Maybe it’s something else entirely, and I’ll do a 180 and go elsewhere with it. Life is always a field.

If anyone has seen a certain show, then you’ll understand the title, but otherwise it is not that lighthearted.

This one was apart of a series that I don’t quite have much heart in. Now I see it has just as much heart I’ve put into the others. I’m just now more familiar with it.

Enjoy the cats

-Fields

February 26, 2024

Umber 2: Two old Cats

Skin to the bone, what I was told.

Living a life of lies, now I’m just a body on the roadside.

They slumber in the shade, their fur shining in the light when they pass by.

They speak in solemn silence, watching me twitch in uncontrolled violence.

They knew I lived a lie.

They see the fragments around me, as I twisted my limbs back into place.

They utter menial preyers.

I stopped before the gate.

I pressed my hand, against the cold steel of the bars.

Daytime fading, soon we’ll see stars.

I grasp a bar, and relay my intent.

Then my vision started to dim.

I awoke in the daylight, morning sun on my face.

And in my mouth a bitter taste.

I just stare at the gate.

I stare at the gate.

I stare at the gate

I stare at the gate.

It opened before me.

Two old cats, slumber in the daylight, and retreat to the house, when they see moonlight.

They yearn for food, breaths old, fur aged.

The owner unseen, they love the places they traipse.

Two old cats murmur in the moonlight, whiskers long, the purr to a distant song.

They hear it from upstairs, but that would be a trespass.

They relent and stay downstairs, content and fair.

Two old cats clamor in the dawn, yearning to wake their owner, hungry for their food.

They stomped where they stood, on their owners chest.

Waking them, waking them, from the rest.

Two old cats, lay down in the dusk, eyes focused on the passerbys, the windows as their external eyes.

They drift between the panes, moving at an unnatural pace.

The outside, they would just like a taste.

Two old cats, make a story about a body, their minds unfettered, no words, no sorry.

The owner pieces their voices together.

From one meow to another.

The owner welcomes in, a person like the owner.

Two old cats, will remember them forever.

[spiralinginafield]

Succession of Petals

Some days I wander, each step, descends into randomness.

The dirt on my heels, the hums and songs of the birds, the cool red on my face as the sun descends.

This spring, when the low pressure churns me into the warmth now frequently seek.

I stare into the young blooms, waiting for their fractals to breech.

An old tree sprouts, branches broken from rowdy storms of hail and torrents now forgotten.

Now, I think of leaves lost in them.

I see the buds begin to emerge, the red of fading daylight, and from the blooms what could I surmise?

It seeps into my arms, those tones that I rarely hear.

When I can admit, that it all draws near.

[spiralinginafield]

Cos

A sliver begins its momentum, and splits the curtain to beckon.

The pull, the possibility of a push, to even the odds, to balance the mind that reckons.

The pull that beseeches the desire, and lifts it as it rises to pay the call.

When the mind is enveloped in that pure stuff, the thrall becomes enough.

And once again it pulls, and in its arms we’re lulled.

[spiralinginafield]

Misnomer

This edge I tread, staring into the horizon.

I know it’s end, the breadth between, the forests and the seas.

All things said would become real, an encumbrance on my tongue.

The feeling remains, even when the days turnover young.

This forest I march, to break the leaves and stems.

Rays float down, a path marked for me.

Among the trees, between their filtered branches.

The air that comes too me is cool, the taste of salt, the sea entrances.

I sit with my knees to my chest, the waves pull me forward with each wavering breath.

The memories can be a journey, but what comes at the end.

Was it worth all the time I spent?

Deepening each feeling, to shrive the totality.

Like the fragments on this beach, I embrace fragility.

I wade in the tide, eyes closed to peace.

Reflecting inwards, I may want to traverse the seas.

When the wind is cool, and my skin tough and ready.

I’ll leave, lay down the loathing and begging, and forgive the fool

That harbors all my peace, every day, keeping steady.

Walking from the beach without a thought of fretting.

[spiralinginafield]

Burnt Nostalgia

The flame lingered on my fingertips, not a moment too long.

I placed the image above it, I won’t remember it for long.

Cessation, at what cost, to forget, to finally let it be lost.

The flame reaches upwards, with its sharp touch.

The image became ash, and it became nothing.

From the edge of my mouth, my sanity frothing.

Trying to keep it together, as a gap deepens, and the memory withers.

Once I dreamed it would last forever, now I want it to wash down a river.

[spiralinginafield]

Months

This corner I love, five windows, is that too much?

Sun in the morning and evening, the rays most soothing.

I’ll be wrong to say I wouldn’t languish here, mind fleeting in disillusion.

Then I’ll tell myself sorry, for all the confusion.

A pill for the head ache, and a good cry to stand up.

A sit down, cause my heart can handle so much.

Until it reaches the top, and it overflows, but in reality, I’m the only one who knows.

I’ve learned to miss the snow, maybe I’ll learn to love the heat.

Now I want to lie here, and listen to the beat.

In two months time I’ll be something else.

I’ll meet her at the grave again, and I’ll still be the only one alive.

I’d tell her how much I’ve strived, in pleasures and work, and if I’ve overcome any vice.

When the summer comes, I want it to be nice.

[spiralinginafield]

Among winds

Within arms I spent, endless hours, when admiring the fall of April showers.

In a month I’ll remiss, all the time we spent,

Within these rains we would talk, until we would sleep.

I’m n your voice, a whim into a gentle dream.

[spiralinginafield]

Oversky

To dream into the above, an endless euphoric rush of love.

A rush of those endorphins, that you know and shove.

Into each response, that you employ, and what is eventually stowed.

What has changed from the image showed.

[spiralinginafield]

UnderAmber

When you feel the ebb of the surface, the tension within the rise.

The course in which you have finished, was it plenty, strength now diminished.

A nail flicks a speck away, another in its place.

They crease the corner to smirk, letting their disgust take them away.

They place a nail between its fractures, and it splits.

Granules spill out, and whether from a lack of wit or too much of it they hold the halves in their hands.

They washed their hands, soap lathered first, then under the nails.

Under all, what stays beneath, beyond the sheen of the sap.

Were we trapped all along,of the past, or stuck within a swan song.

[spiralinginafield]

When I shift by focus, from the page to the trees outside, what do I really see.

The objects in the distance, the warm exhale of my breath, the wind above the earth, and there in the room with me.

It’s as if a warm breeze came over like a feeling, and deposited in was the cold air after.

When that warmth comes over me I wait and watch, for a pattern or an action.

I could never leave it in the past, how could I.

An odd feeling of spring, maybe that’s it.

It comes again with a new scent

-Fields