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Mar 26 · 158
Poplar Branch
Mike A Eyslee Mar 26
A chill of Styx water runs through my heart,
Arrows cannot reach it, I will not let them.

To do so is to die,
Please understand.

Shots of Phlegethon stopped reaching my tears,
Too many times have I gone mad from it's flames.

I would rather forget,
All that icy pain.

When I die from this curse of long-lost touch,
Send me to corrode on the banks of the Lethe.
Mar 18 · 105
Birth Flower
Mike A Eyslee Mar 18
What is the flower you were born into?
The scarlet carnations of the new year?
Perhaps the daffodils of the birth seer?
Is it bright honeysuckle you're drawn to?

Or does the warm aster of death make do?
Maybe even narcissus and it's leer?
Well whatever the case, it is not mere,
Character, but rather how love moves so.

You see, my flower was the wilted rose.
I watered that thing and tried (I really did),
Yet nothing came of it, and so I stare,
At the gnawed hole in its roots,
At the salted and maimed dirt,
At the leaking watering can,
And the wilted roses.

Here's what they don't tell you:
There's a dead space in the flowerbeds.
look up "birth flowers" if you're interested. mine is the sweet pea. first 8 lines are traditional sonnet structure, so that's why it's "somewhat of a sonnet."
Mar 11 · 205
Leave Me
Mike A Eyslee Mar 11
I tattered your Yellow Wallpaper,
And trenched along your Groves.
To find that little special place,
Creeping amidst your Prose.

I scouted your Lands in search,
For what I found most dear.
But frankly I never found much,
That Gem was always there.

So as I walk my fickled Wood,
I realized something good.
I really never understood,
And I never really could.

Light Eddies And Venerable Elm,
Meant Everything.
acrostics are always amazing. allusion to "The Yellow Wallpaper," by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.
Feb 20 · 167
Creed of a Night Owl
Mike A Eyslee Feb 20
Every morning a beaming carmine penetrates my brain
unbeknownst to their perilous call
a smiling bird and a white heal all.

Violates me at my eyes
from green chasing lies
from wicked placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the stalker of stalkers that haunt my pre dream routine.

Every evening a lustrous crimson punctures my lungs
unbeknownst to their unsafe swath
a quiet bird and a paper moth.

Vexes me at my eyes
from yellow following lies
from haughty placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the lurker of lurkers that submerge my pre dream routine.

Every night a hazy velvet pierces my heart
unbeknownst to their loving provider
a dead bird and a snow drop spider.

Visits me at my eyes
from red moving lies
from stoic placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
the finest sliver of silence you can imagine.
inspired by "All in green went my love riding" by e e cummings for the structure and "Design" by Robert Frost as evident by the allusions.
Feb 19 · 99
Get Extra-Death™!
Mike A Eyslee Feb 19
In the past month have you set up a shrine,
Where you were simply looking for a sign?
Just get Extra-Death™!
For those who took their last breath!
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Feb 19 · 157
?
Mike A Eyslee Feb 19
?
On a broken hill,
A sad smile with two slit wrists,
Eats at his own flesh.
hopefully, this will put him to rest
Feb 18 · 101
Rainy Day In New York
Mike A Eyslee Feb 18
You see it hears like rain that never stops pounding Light out the tires on sleching ground step stop skip to the next Light tires of holding the umbrella to rain on see gray dark squares shining yellow and my eyes my eyelashes my eye-irises are now cold gales of hair my eyes smart to Light tires on the ground lay shadow rain daps head my hair tires of the wind Light stroke of metal lines the tree tangles my eye my hair in my tongue daps of Light on road tires which looks and hears and smells and feels and licks like rain you see.
been reading "The Sound and the Fury" as of lately. tried to go for some on-crack (or as some may say, faulkneresque) stream of consciousness.
Feb 14 · 112
Recycled Rememberance
Mike A Eyslee Feb 14
I can faintly remember that day;
We had been driving for hours.
Finally, I could hear it:
Loud supersonic booms and echoes.

I got out, and I could feel it.
The suffocating air,
The scorching, burning heat,
And the radiating, bright light.

Overhead I could hear the loud birds,
Singing shrill, sharp shots of glee,
Of a bright, midsummer's day.
Slewed, silver starlight wait in their eyes.

It was a calm, crystal clear day.
The canvas, unblemished.
The horizon was clear,
Showing off rays of the first light.

The gold, soft and lumpy heated ground,
Littered with trinkets, waiting,
For the taking of loved hands.
Drinking the horizon of pale light.

We had climbed over soft, yellow hills,
To reach our location.
The blooming, frigid palms,
Creating a smooth, gentle breeze.

Realization of the burnt dawn,
And suddenly…

I can remember.
old poem I wrote a while back. dug it up and thought to post it here. not the best, but fun to look back at.
Mike A Eyslee Feb 13
alone in a dark room and i(
our beating ventricles
shoved between red and amber d  a nc ing
plumes of swishing sHApEs

(to the fig of the fig tree
and to the fig tree of the fig)

Sadly
ones from myworld or
perhaps yourworld
here only wisps a hot cinnabar

Careful
dance may others
joyous of tune and wonderful of off-key
and bright of you of you of you

the secret with us is lu (empty) ng
no sway please
only dot on no (erasure)

don't look
remain the page
keep it steady

hide it from the light of day)


sigh in my chest
Mike A Eyslee Feb 12
Springtime field flutters.
Blood splattering the paper.
The rush of the reeds.
weird image that keeps popping up in my head.
Feb 3 · 90
Red Heart
Feeling my fettered heartstrings,
Velvet lips can't nourish all their gentle fibers.

Instead the touch fragrance hair tufts transcribers,
The wisps knitting her lids flitting my wings,
Fierce ride, curved my floored felt scar into playthings.

A wound no-feet long, untraceable inscribers,
Who cut miles deep, hellish hateful imbibers.

Laugh, you dressing gashed daylight under the rings,
Of your fingertips, for we were one in the same.

Neither caress nor touch nor glance,
Overlapped either pining silhouette's frame.

But now it's not the same.

Now caress and touch and glance,
Are all within our flame.
Feb 3 · 152
Tyrant
The old immor(t)al wound
                                  He tak
                                  es a
                                  gil
                                  den
                                  ro
                                  d
                             mouthful
                       Unaware of ichor
                     Power. Deceit. Malice.
                 co      urs    es  thro    ug
                 h                  h  is         v
                  e                  i             n
                                                    s

                 and  bleeds  onto  his w
                                                (abh)or
                                                     (go)ld
sorry if it looks weird on mobile.
Feb 1 · 174
Whiteface
Devoted to your second hand
Your  electrifying
Admonishment   your   embrace   solidifying
a    swirling    technicolor    land
                                                                            (move)
Meant along your path engroove,
bring
          error receiver much to be desired
just a bit of inspiration. tried for some cummingsesque spacing imagery; wasn't in the mood for a traditional sonnet. i included a bit of wordplay, so have fun picking them out. and yes, on line 2 I intentionally used that form of "your."
Jan 31 · 203
My ". . ."
Mike A Eyslee Jan 31
Since feeling is first, and syntax is lies,
To enscribe you, my darling little jay,
I would have to ask, "Is there any way?"
Not of mimsy guise and anything-dyes,

But of nоnce-nonsense and everything-sighs,
Keep these thoughts pastiche on a wayward bay,
And perhaps leave them, removed on display,
Entirely altogether?

You are this fool's  ". . ."
". . ." as  '. . .' but  ". . ."
Lea ve me ". . ." on, a . . .

A skip!         for,
". . .   &      . . ."    "can"t; f o r get
(love ". . .") and you,
". . ."
inspired by some cummings (as evident by the spacing and the obvious allusion to his work, "since feeling is first"). also, "Jabberwocky" for the nоnce word. sonnets are annoying to write.

— The End —