fleischer art poetry teresa fleischer

CULTIVATION.

Because I long with determination

Because I long with determination I am not like honey, sweet dear
but I am no less spirited

instead I hammer bright with gracious manner and burn innate with a springtime tingle
that does not become soft with broad strikes and empty of details during high tides.

Does she pledge with the deepest of enthusiasm?

What I cannot make swell in you…with great effort or pain. There is no such perfect influence.

What is this theatrical costume

What is this theatrical costume icebound to the contours of me, a portrait to prevent surprise,
a frontier to keep my heart from interference,
but your bitter tasting storm is already there.

Sometimes I count my fingers so anything does not suggest for me to journal you, and that I will break rough with any raised movements from my heart.
The trampling does only delay the fundamental intuition, and it is swelling to keep on pretending that I can prevent the canvas from attaching to the frame.
You linger in me steady even when I arrest this irritation to my soundness.
You are unfailing.

Cover me with reprimand and references

Cover me with reprimand and references
tailor me with fungus,
for your quarrel is similar
and the content is a program void of kindness.
This is the cost when you want to win.

Distances wagon reasoning and forcefully transport competition
that permission wide brown clouds,
proportional to vertical vision.

To scold my decency,
these sentences pave a road full of cavities.
What a willful violation,
a sword sharpened
to thin the backstitch.

A worthless trinket

A worthless trinket,
the property of delusional beliefs.

In this rounded space
the fog is concrete,
and my mouth and eyes swell from exerted tension.

I shall assign myself to commercial printing

I shall assign myself to commercial printing
for this sort of flippant maneuvering
is causing in me an infection.

It is like a foul smell
or an elastic waistband.

You are not recording my misfortune, are you?
Because it is terrible and tricky practice,
and sours my ability to sport function.

I throw myself onto a sensation,
a restless desire
but it repeats without thinning
and worse, nouns in me with inflammation.

Ah, to be like a vine!
....to climb and withdraw myself from practical affairs,
will this suggestively give me substance?

Despite the oversights and obvious omissions

Despite the oversights and obvious omissions of due privileges
I am a person of order and manner.

I do not perform for competition nor do I carry endorsements
for I find them to be vulgar.
My heart is not sluggish nor is it lacking spirit.

To be adequate is quite tedious and this leaves me blunt.
Sufficiency is conditioned diplomacy,
insistently grayish and artificial.

String me Southern and I will become envious of your efficiency
and I will want to article in your characteristics, in your stainable importance
to which I am sure I will become
readily captive.

I am liable to exception.

Stark and industrial

Stark and industrial,

strictly metallic and starved of design,
I am entangled in opposition.
I stutter as you tangle me in volumes of displacement.

Such a notable person, full of exploits
yet you scold me with straw at length.
Exhaustion margins my ability to sustain my desire to audience you.

I may be lengthy and reasonable
and broadly permitting, even leeward
yet high is the portion of narrowness in this narrative
and barely is there enough space
within these margins.

Trivialities and contradictions

Trivialities and contradictions,
evasive arrangements
flourish my failure to provide
within this absence
the point, the right to face the sunset of language
that rivers within my heart because of you.

It is not imposed and spoken as a conqueror
but as an architect applying patterns
appearing naturally,

as a flow which is continuous rather than branched,
written on ceilings and openings,
the brilliant array of exclamations that star a wealth of light from my soul
because of you.

I am not asleep, I am not quiet but suspended.

Come move swiftly

Come move swiftly
a flash throughout my mind
only briefly influential
so you do not suggest your bright in my heart.

A narrow portrayal of contrast
precisely in a run of seconds,
a piece of scenery completely desired
without mine eyes walking a beat.
Plain and unprepared.

A half step
and I am downright awkward and clumsy.
A lack of words, faulty at repetition and respelled.

A petal leaves a design of wings
onto my sheets of paper
the smallest in size,
and I have no permission to be absent
or to temper with the differences between what is expected and observed
but to curve about with gradual change.

From midnight to midnight

From midnight to midnight
the hours and minutes pass.
The beginning or the end,
which is the measure of distance receiving marking?

Continual hours move around with no divisions
on an infinite course of units,
each without an imperial season.

Yet magnificent is the brightness that holds faithfully
with might and main, with chivalrous conduct
without fade
to the contours of your heart.

I am not anchored
but humbly engraving the outlines of you.

Shall I letter my burdened, my forlorn distress

Shall I letter my burdened, my forlorn distress,
the desolate rooms of my stark, my frail, my straw-hailing faculties...

Shall I press them deliberate and crisp, with index and content,
here...for you to theatre,
so you will have a catalogue of my agile cultivation.

I am not a sportsman

I am not a sportsman seeking amusement or pastime distraction,
although I am playful and honeyed, and fluent in the spin of spice.

My heart is uncorrupt, stainless and simple,
yet I am not immune to harm.
These moments do not attach to me and remain idle,
as surely as you are not incidental.

My stride is never vacant or dreamy, and I do not enlarge
or divert the truth
because I wish to revel.
Although I am impatient and find win with speed,
I nonetheless do not practice it with haste.

I am not short or shy, nor barren…even slightly.
Famine may have stricken me and I have been
empty handed, yet never without benefit.

My wanting is not from drain and poverty…
it is my heart,
the vivid resolution of purpose.

I no longer know the reach of my indifference

I no longer know the reach of my indifference.
It is not frigid or melancholy, nor is it out of penance.

If the World looks at my heart to be indelicate then so be it for I cannot set idle the pace of your murmur in it.

Shake the temper of me because I am tangled in you and no one can veer the bend of my heart, it will not retire to the toe dance of principality.