Poetry blog

This work by M.A. Tempels is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

[definegodliness]

Incarnate

I.

No disturbances, Neither highs, nor lows. There cannot be A flight to soar or float in weightlessness; There will not be a Plummet and a crashing Through the status quo's Surface. No struggling; No sinking To the depths, nonetheless.

Steady as she goes. Not a Flat-lined ECG, but this kind of peace comes Close. Yet, who would know More of the sorrowful, gentle, Love for the world, Than A ghost?

I saunter on With a gut full of stones, and Leaden feet, when I am trying to be Substantial. When I am trying to be So, I can only feel myself crumbling.

Yet There is safety, Found, in a remaining Non-corporeal, Leaving no footprints; Staking no existential Claim.

As a ghost, I am awash in blissful awareness. My soul, carried on a gentle flow That knows neither highs, nor lows, Ignores its vessel, And roams, eyes wide open, as an onlooker, Beholding and cherishing the world With a deep affection For all that

Is.

II.

Yes.

There is love, still.

Love for a leaf; Love for a critter; Love for a raindrop; Love for a petal.

Love for a dog's face; Love for a rainbow; Love for a cloud's shape; Love for a pebble.

Love for a bird's song; Love for a tree; Love for a person, when I can't muster love For humanity.

Love for the small things, that are So heartbreakingly fleeting, Yet also love for all, great or small, That will remain when the onlooker Fades with the wind.

Love for the wind, And all I cannot see, That either within or without May carry Me.

III.

Gentle Is this love.

You can see it in The eyes of each of those Who have wandered just one step too close To the final star-strewn veil, Looked beyond, and came Face to face With the Harlequin — and A choice to be made in Irrevocable Being.

If… We all return Kinder than we were; Kindred spirits, oft betrayed By our Twilight gazes.

So, I have seen you,

Grey-eye. Gently, and, yet… in dreams, A disturbance.

IV.

If love can't breathe its flame anew; Its drum restrained to gentlest beat, I think I am in lust with you.

Who would believe a heart, so blue, Could swell, ablaze in pulsing heat, If love can't breathe its flame anew?

It's you! A solar flare burns through These walls; so bold and indiscreet, I think I am in lust with you.

Yet we are ghosts, it can't be true; No ash-to-dust can fuse complete, If love can't breathe its flame anew.

If hands can touch; a mouth, so, too, Compelled to taste you, head to feet, I think I am in lust with you.

No, we're not, one, returned as two; No star could care if we did meet, If love can't breathe its flame anew; I think I am in lust with you.

V.

Aching To touch, fingertips Scintillate.

If I had hands, For you, Would they pass through Your ethereal veil, grasping fog, Or spark in intensifying electric Contact?

I feel The pressure Of magnetism.

I need Your every inch, Painted luminescent With fingerprints, shining golden; Discovery in desperation to know You Wholly.

I feel. A craving Mouth. A smile At this continuous denial of skin By my brain in a jar, subjugated By you, eliciting this wanton desire To taste, And sense, And drink.

My craving to make your mouth Exist, so it may Smile In bliss.

VI.

I wish...

. (My wish)

No, I wasn't made for you, But I want to be real for you, so bad I could be remade by you.

Please, become real, too.

(Please,

Come true.)

--- 23-9-2025, M.A. Tempels ©

[definegodliness]

Pinning this as a showcase poem. I'm proud of this one.

Just look at the subtle off-white colouring. The tasteful thickness of it. Oh, my god. It even has a villanelle.

[definegodliness]

Tonight I'm gonna listen to some 80's music while trying to write a poem ('cause I've been slackin).

Poem or not, either way I win.

The Mood™

To be updated:

Bow Wow Wow - Do You Wanna Hold Me Vanity 6 - Nasty Gal Rock Steady Crew - Hey You ZZ Top - Sharp Dressed Man Van Halen - Ain't Talkin Bout Love David Bowie - The Man Who Sold The World Time Bandits - I'm Specialized Level 42 - Lessons In Love

[definegodliness]

I have finished my latest painting!

It's official: she's on my bedroom wall. An important piece, because one painting is a painting, and two paintings is a collection.

I'm proudest of the fact I used zero reference and plucked her out of the part of my brain where — I think, evidently — beauty lives. Memories? Fantasy? Who's to say (not me). Honestly, I don't even know anymore. With these things, I am a conundrum to myself. She has a name. I am not sharing. I'm keeping it as my little treasure (precious). Instead I am titling it:

She Flies On Strange Wings

Furthermore, after nit-picking the guidelines, and consulting some of you guys, I have concluded this painting is safe to share 'crude bikini'-less, without repercussions.

Still putting it under the cut, though, 'cause I'm a dweeb.

She Flies On Strange Wings

Acryl on canvas

2026, MT

---

PS:

Look how vivid she really is! Thanks to daylight, the camera finally could capture it.

PPS:

The collection started

[definegodliness]

Spun

You return to me, Cyclically: as a whiff of a hallucinated scent; As a flashback that Etches itself in the atmosphere, Lingering almost long enough to Return real.

Short-lived instances, these, wherein My inner world booms and blossoms By a sparked (mere) belief in your apparition.

If I am truly lucky, You return to me as a dream: Mine, for one night and a day.

So real, Almost real, That ever since you left, I have been wanting to make sense Of this

Returning.

First, I told myself it was the heart's Muscle memory:

The first time we met; our first kiss; The first time sex, and, Above all, The first "I love you" we Whispered into The aether.

All these golden threads tied to time's fabric. Yet time isn't cyclical,

Or is it?

Later, I considered The moon the culprit;

Thought Your returning Had something to do With its full pull, or new releasing All the water that makes me, or maybe At least my blood.

But despite wishful thinking Heavily influencing my pattern seeking, I could never Honestly link you to The phases of the moon.

In hindsight, I was only lying to myself. Cheating with the dates; what's a day, Anyway?

Everything, it seems.

Truth be told, I do not know Why your returning to me feels so cyclical, But when I look to the night sky each night And see the constellations slowly changing Places, as Earth is spinning, I realize this love is so much Bigger than me.

To me, You are love.

And love is all —

The All.

And I am spinning, Spinning, spinning.

--- 1-6-2026, M.A. Tempels ©

[definegodliness]

Hello, I'm late to this asking game! (Typical american lol)

How would you feel about finishing this?

Flying high, flying high

Soaring through the deep night sky

Fallen but it's no surrender

Take me to the first rays of dawn

I want to remember

I'd feel right about dandy :)

Fledgling

Flying high, flying high Soaring through the deep night sky Fallen but it's no surrender Take me to the first rays of dawn I want to remember

Flying high, flying high Where the horizons bud, revivified And every colour one can imagine Bursts free from bygones, bygone I want to treasure

Weightless days Like a fledgling, never contemplating Why And when And how And even if I'll spread my wings

Perhaps More than the flight I want to be the sky

I want to be the sky Again

[goneahead]

flying low, flying low;

struggling through the early dawn sky

rising after another surrender,

given under the last light of moon,

I want to forget

heavy nights,

heart of a songbird, always mindful

why

and when

and how

and even if

I sing my song

perhaps

more than the notes,

I want to be the heard--

I want to truly fly,

again

[definegodliness]

[definegodliness]

At the X

The tyrant died.

Nothing spectacular.

No pitchforks, no torches; I suspect Either old age or just malnourishment.

To be honest I hadn't even noticed he had gone Until I came digging at the X where last I buried you.

Instead, I stumbled on this mausoleum, Brutalist darkly.

The epitaph read:

"If you want to get to her, you will have to Go through me."

One final insult to injury, And, he, forever conjoined to your memory.

Maybe When this is all dust I'll get to bring you flowers again. Until then, I know better than to wake Sleeping tyrants.

--- 31-5-2026, M.A. Tempels ©

[definegodliness]

Eureka!

If I let the veil come round like this, I think we might be done. Well, globally aesthetically. But the rest of the work is only minor details, compared.

[definegodliness]

Visit Original Link

Disclaimer:

I haven't done a spoken word in ages, so please bear that in mind. I think it sounds more like talking to me over the phone than an actual recital. Also, I don't speak English every day anymore — warning: more rustiness — AND to top it off, it's hottt t t .

Slightly unhinged.

— end disclaimer.

The poems I used are under the cut! To the original writers, I really hope you like this little audio file. I know I didn't ask you for permission but I wanted it to be a surprise :)

@aubriestar

a peach of a day

it dawned golden halos illuminated with may vibes

the peach tree shimmered

an orange glow distilled from nectar within, released with a bite

juice of sun grown sweetness and a flavor bomb of pure peachyness

i lead you to it, a treasure shared how can such a simple thing overwhelm the senses

kiss me and taste it

a feeling of saturation of unadulterated flavor, of belief that love can still grow in an arid climate and i just have to reach for it, bending the boughs

peaches rescue us

.

@sanddollarpoems

Untitled

I stay silent here

Rolling in this holding pattern

Not allowing the hope

That you'll see me though it all

I keep throwing wishes

Over the wall into your garden

I wish you happiness

I wish your dreams come true

I stay here quietly

Not knowing how to break your fall

But I'll keep smiling back

Till you see me through it all

.

@fille--de--joies (sorry I butchered your username xD! My French isn't what it used to be)

Flowers on my bosom

Flowers on my bosom

Who can unseed what one's sown? who can unsee what one saw?

Late spring sultriness ripens incandescent bodies made for coalescence, not orbitation — inevitable irreversibility; who can run from one's lot? gulp down one's own blossoms?

Reaping the ingrown satiation of smothered thirsts, lessons of pain spelling for an illiterate heart, mind fasting for wise viscera.

How florescent of you to never come to fruition.

.

@wordrummager

blame it on gravity

I miss the way my body turned lightly, with care at the ballet now I am a hippo in the muck

I remember stepping through gardens in France feeling like a sprite never a lady

I wonder what I would have been with more encouragement and less imagination

is it ok that I don’t like opera but love stories with resolutions and poems without sense

I hope I don’t get tired of flowers or rivers or stars or clouds because that’s where I see hope

.

My poem:

Facadeless

This boredom by repetition Exposes only a lack of wonder, amazement, And curiosity. A sense of failure I am unwilling to deepen / signify Alive.

Superficially, I want to be More human. Which is an odd thing to think. As if I am Less human today. Still, This skin feels too grimy; Layered with something the water doesn't Quite rinse.

I wish I could wear a dream, If that makes sense (it probably doesn't); Something that could thrive On the idea of touch, alone, And doesn't have to be real. Like The Emperor's Clothes: A cloak That conceals nothing, And so let's me vanish When I am Solely this emptiness, Experienced Within.

[definegodliness]

Speaking of voice recordings/recitals/whatever the bots are calling it these days, I actually think it would be fun to plug in the mic and word out a couple of poems. It's been a while. I don't even remember how it works... what's my soundcloud again?

Anyway, I'm coming for ya.

[definegodliness]

Consider this a hug; a draping of a damp and cold blanket when you really need to warm up.

There is no hearth fire. There is no vision.

An olm wraps around you in the dripping cave.

There is a heartbeat.

It's all I've got.

[definegodliness]

Karma

I don't believe in karma, but if I get its mechanisms right, wishing bad karma upon another is de facto calling bad karma upon oneself, which is why I find it intriguing to only hear/read the term 'karma' being used in the negative sense.

"Karma will get them."

No, it won't. And if you wish it would — and create your own little personal reality, where life and death are calculating, just and fair forces — karma would get you, for this wish.

I don't believe in karma, but if I could, I would wish your good acts to be reflected upon you. If it were up to me, I would let you live to well over a hundred years, because I know the world would benefit from every second of your presence. I would never let you know pain, because you do not inflict it upon others.

But I do not believe in karma.

You suffer.

You were almost a statistical anomaly: all the light from the universe gushing in and redirected from your fingertips as you outstretched your arms, back into the world.

Everything flowed, as one should hope;

Virulent incandescence, I saw it!

A glimpse of universal just- and fairness.

I see it

No more.

You suffer now.

And karma will not get them.

--- 30-5-2026, M.A. Tempels ©

[definegodliness]

Use it well

[definegodliness]

Silent

A cymbal monkey

And I find it

Oh, so tragic to be me

Always wishing

Someone would wind me up again

But then I remember

No one wants to hear

Clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang

(Grin)

Scream

[definegodliness]

Touch two fingers just pinky fingers covertly brushing to feel sparks

[aubriestar]

does it matter

the direction that the wind blows

will scatter us like dandelion seeds along the river

or perhaps some to the purple thistle patch

our destinies tied together by wind currents that flux

with our every exhale, we tumble not knowing where we will end up

together is not guaranteed in a whirlwind or the dry sting of a dust devil

maybe the coolness of a waterspout could hold us

in aquamarine bliss one with the tides and eternity of waves

could you hear my voice over the whale songs and ocean murmurs

i will know you with every sense that survives the imperfection of this world

the scintillation of our words signal a faint hope

©️-Aubrie-2026

[definegodliness]

echoing in ripples traveling on, phosphorescent

i will steadfastly remain where you will come and find me defying the river's current

where you'll read my lips even if they are stiffened blue by a hailstorm

when nothing matters anymore, and the fire cannot sink deep enough

to warm these formerly liquidly dancing now obsidian turned fingers into once more a slowed caressing motion

that has known your blistering cheek from long before the coming of the first all drowning tempest

we were so much more than hot and cold, stillness and motion

all the stars longed to know our names to be become our depiction

now, squandered it seems, this elemental wonder

you are going to carve another path unto the ocean

and i am going to erect another mountain

we will never meet again

at the fire where solely ice makes ends meet

at the cold deep where solely the blind reign

giving another three seconds

to all that's surviving

oblivion

[definegodliness]

Been painting at the attic at minimum 35°C (95F) all night, and tonight for the first time with this current painting I have achieved:

Creator's High ™

It's like finishing a villanelle. So good.

Was it the heat? No. We've been having maggoty heat for three stinking days. My mistake was putting on football (podcasts) whilst working on this girl — evidently she does not like my fascination with twenty-two players running after a ball, trying to have it end up within the opposite net. Apropos, she doesn't like my fascination with F1 (and last weekend's Indy 500) either — but tonight there was no sports, so I put on the radio: Disco Tuesday.

I went from 50% done and doubt-ridden (with a chance of ending up 34% done after another bullying night) to 90% done and confidently envisioned. Suddenly, everything clicked. All my random actions worked, and I fixed everything that bothered that part of me that will not cut corners.

To think I woke up like, 'fuck it, I'll erase her face with white paint right now so I have a fresh start later this night.'

So glad I opted for coffee first.

She survived thanks to coffee, but she lives thanks to disco. What a gal.

Hell yes.