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Amber Daydreams Oct 2011
she sat out my doorway
elusive, mysterious
a quaintness that I couldn't help but to admire
existing truly in a self reclusive reality
speaking rarely
and listening even less
possessed fierce gray eyes
that instilled inexplicable emotions within me
with little to no effort she touched my soul

she didn't do anything unusual
*I only wanted her to.
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2013
Oh me Ireland from the green emerald shamrock how you tantalize and share the blarney cool pools
And streams in diverse scattered form you bedazzle the mind I and all others are your prisoner
We fell under the spell of your charm wickedly fun delight smites from the heights of joy we
Stroll even the national theme is to cajole it’s born from the woods where the wee ones abide
They are the pride and honor of Irish lore Dublin the lilt the thrill rolls down the hill Joyce
Found and spoke from his native tongue so well there is the Mexicali rose and the” Spanish rose
That grows in Spanish Harlem” but what I know is those Irish eyes are gleaming makes my
Heart start my dreaming oh soliloquy with haste you make your statement the blends of this
Ancient twist of tree and steam that flows and then breaks a fix point to gather from wind and
Water the beliefs and wonderings of Leprechauns how else could such magic unfold and be told
After you awake conscious thought is so limited walk on my dreams and you will find my inner
Heart there revealed lost garrisons and bastions of thoughts and deeds spread to the woods
And coast spellbinding the listener the cistern of bliss was cracked open it profoundly and
Evenly coursed through city and villages alike timelessness found its place in this land uttering
The wistful richer than many pots of gold it was as distinguishable as a man’s own signature it is
Like a check list it holds close and tight the facts a man who as a stone mason handles the hard
And course and lives with the residue of fine stone work deeply ingrained like the esteemed
And like forth telling words of Thomas Aquinas who had the closeness to God and set forth
Those royal surmising that scorched the earth of his day it could almost be said as it was of
Jesus no man speaks after this order overwhelmed by the laudatory speech it rises on the
Breeze it stands in these excellent hills to walk is to be staggered with emotional fervor the
Bloodline of Ireland runs deep and is abiding what privilege to stand as a voice a teacher for
Such a place that has such great history that is easily exported to other places making inroads
To build Ireland anew in other lands if nothing more than in a small way that is the greatest
Deterrent to war is for all people to meet and share their positive and unique outlooks nothing
Can build quality life like sharing and creating like mindedness in others crafted out of feeling
And knowing of your world and your place in it to dispel doubt and fear and replace it with the
Quaintness and charm that makes every rock and bush in wee fair Ireland
Wordsinalign Apr 2017
The quaintness of a bar in the heart of my city breathes an air of charming, old-fashioned walls, it echoes of the days and night I sat there drinking my gin and tonic pouring my words onto pieces of paper or into hearts.. it reminds me that modern life is convenient but the quaintness of certain walls never die!
William Crowe II Jun 2014
but where are my friends?

I envy those who
sleep beneath the ground
as I toss and turn
beneath my sheets.

The rain coats the windows,
the clear paint on the wooden walls,
sheets of gray steel on the sidewalk,
blank faces in the windows--

the quietude, the quaintness, the
quilt of rain in the forests
and dripping from the roofs.

And where are my friends?

Away, miles away,
far from my wet eyes.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2013
Where are you headed the road and the future will tell there was truly promise in the air what a
Harvest was indicated the raw frontier lay behind some thirty to forty years an era was casting
Its first tender endearing images onto the landscape radio was the rage but it would be
Supplanted by vision stories would flow into living rooms dreamlike worlds would be presented
On demand the Congo and its fever pitch would be told through savage drums big city and
Small Time America would vive for time and all would be the portent of a country coming of age
And its greatest strength was its innocents love songs would mold our thoughts the older
Generation Seemed to stand with their arms spread out saying take us the rest of the way the
Boogie was Made more marvelous by a faster beat and the content was vamped up by the
Yearning Fulfillment of young love the age was a grooving sound that collectively had glory
Rolled up into Blue suede shoes and a whole lot of shaking going on it was the past and future
At an Intersection like no other the theme was ease hard mean living bowed in gentle dales it
Was the sloping a falling into pleasure that held magical aspects like strolling hand in hand
Down main street with the glowing shop lights greeting you with the feel of what wondrous
Times these are everyone was in this sensational drift a mood that was all consuming it was a
Purring hum that spoke in intimate detail of a way of life that was for a brief time the capture of
Quaintness the streets were filled with chrome and gleaming lines on cars that were spectacles
Of grace and beauty and everyone was caught up in the sensation and was youthful enough to
Exploit it fully without reserve laughter was a marvel that was uncommon it was a time just
Before wealth would rise as a tide but little was like a sacred deed and trust you never behaved
Badly thankfulness way the key in that time it’s funny now with everything no one is thankful
But are really more hateful more distracted distant the problem things have been placed above
Human worth there isn’t love or its accompanying payoff you have a society with so much but
The grand and beautiful is missing while people only get sadder and more lonely we took our
Hearts on a treacherous detour from the high ground to the low estate of rancor because we
Stopped believing in the preciousness of others and sought it in things what deadness that has
A hard north-easter fifty winters long
Has bronzed and shrivelled sere her face and neck;
Her locks are wild and grey, her teeth a wreck;
Her foot is vast, her bowed leg spare and strong.
A wide blue cloak, a squat and sturdy throng
Of curt blue coats, a mutch without a speck,
A white vest broidered black, her person deck,
Nor seems their picked, stern, old-world quaintness wrong.
Her great creel forehead-slung, she wanders nigh,
Easing the heavy strap with gnarled, brown fingers,
The spirit of traffic watchful in her eye,
Ever and anon imploring you to buy,
As looking down the street she onward lingers,
Reproachful, with a strange and doleful cry.
Zubair Hussaini Dec 2009
My soul is starving
With my spirit striving
And my consciousness contriving
For death's arriving

Heaven proclaims, my soul is starving
For even though faith resides aplenty
Of all else, I am barren and empty
For even though faith burns strong and brightly
My every action speaks contrary
Heaven proclaimed, my soul should starve.

I truly feel my spirit striving
For sweet surcease and release from the grind
To leave mortal limitations behind
For change or escape, no matter the kind
To rush to a fate, others feel resigned.
I truly felt my spirit strive.

Hopefully my consciousness contrives
For is not cessation of self, weakness
Silly, disregarding, childish quaintness
And it must be selfish to seek solace.
At the expense of kin's caring caress.
Hopelessly my consciousness contrived.

Now my soul has starved.
And my spirit has strived.
But no matter how much my consciousness contrived.
Peace has arrived.
Steven Hutchison May 2012
Her quaintness was saturated with 'sweethearts' and 'honey,' bespeaking the youth of my face. I have let its hair grow free for three days now and the bare patches are starting to show, but it seems I have not fooled her. No. I have not fooled myself either. My teacher shoes feel a half size too big and my feet are sweating profusely. I wonder if God made summer for the lemonade or the perspiration. In three years I will have developed a label for this period of my life. I am currently three years short of expressing myself properly and I fear this will always be the case. What do men do in empty hotel rooms? I kick off my shoes to watch them bounce bluntly on the carpet I have seen somewhere before. There is a poor imitation of jazz playing in the lobby and I'm positive someone has mistaken it for the real thing. It leaves a weak hope I will fool them too. Maybe most men are pretending.
David Hall  Aug 2014
David Hall Aug 2014
dance steps on the marble floors
still echo off the walls
music that's almost forgotten
whispers through the halls

pillars holding vaulted ceilings
no longer sparkling white
tattered torn and misbegotten
what was once ornate delight

dusty tables are scattered broken
chairs are thrown askew
joyful memories start to fade
as they feel no longer new

a space once crowded warm and bright
has lost its quaintness in the night

now that the parties over
all the people have gone home
shadows fill the empty spaces
where happiness once shone
PJ Poesy  Jan 2016
PJ Poesy Jan 2016
I've tucked my dreams away in a time capsule. For certain, they will be better use to someone in the future. Though in all likelihood, they may never be found, for I have told no one where they have been buried and shan't offer a clue. In the capsule, far under the darkness of dirt, should one happen upon it, they will find obscure memories along with those dreams. Just tokens they are, recapturing happy times, made of clay and paint, spell ridden for a future discoverer.  These knick-knacks are sure to have power, as no intention I have ever had has been greater than what was formed in those whatnots. You've seen bric-a-brac shelved, gather dust, and finally find themselves wrapped in tissue paper, inside a shoebox stowed in an attic and forgotten. Then one day they are rediscovered by another generation, who is charmed by their quaintness. They are dusted off and put on a shelf again, until sadness bearing that memory requires them to be sold at some yard sale or donated to a thrift store. I can not see this for my whatnots. To me they are too precious to leave in the hands of those close to me now. I won't have them sobbed over. That is the reason they have been buried. And should a certain someone find them in the course of time, may they only know their dreams fulfilled, by a time capsule that stewed long enough to design newer wonder of whatnot.
Please don't go looking for my whatnot. It has been planted for a certain someone. That person is yet to be known.
Molly  Nov 2014
Molly Nov 2014
Adding apologies to artillery shells does not amend the action,


My brokenness betrays me when it bellows that I have beaten bruises black and blue into your back


Crying is a catharsis much too commonplace to convey these casualties.

My doubtful disposition has denied you deliverance from your daring endeavors


Emptying myself to entertain someone else's enormous sense of entitlement


A feeling that frightens my already fragile sense of forwardness.

Glory from a god who glances generously upon us growling ghosts


A Heaven that hurts like hell because happiness is heresy


Isolation is an independence I never intended to introduce here.

Juggling jokes and jealousy between juggernauts is jeopardizing my judgement


Kindness is to knowing the truth as kissing is to your knuckles,


Like living life as a lamb but loving a lion.

Missiles gone missing are making me misunderstand my own memory


Needles have never seemed so necessary as when you're near,


Ownership is not an option so we have both become orphans.

Praying to people seems more plausible than pleasing a perfect being


I will quantify rather than qualify the quaintness of this quarantine


Respectfully reply that paying retribution to a ***** is ridiculous.

Soon something will surface that sends shivers down your spine


Today there is only turmoil taking its time to taper off


Understand when I utter the word "unify" that I mean us.

Vain and vindictive as you have very well verified being,


We worship with what we wish, not what we will,


Exploitation will exemplify an axis on which oxymoron is expedient.

You and your yearning will not yield to yonder threats,


The zeal of this zephyr will carry us to the zenith.
Trying out a different style, let me know what you think
A web of terror would know quaintness  
in their crêpe variety where a spider grew angrier
only silk woven blouse blest bats
why darts inside heads if their tough regimen were slime
and never really frittered away an hour at bay.

— The End —