"alcoves" poems
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium
Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a ******
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
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Just a Game. . .
In the comfortable stockade of my mind
Hide and seek cannot be won
Tiptoe away and find a hollow,
The solitary spot
Slipping between turmoil
Festering in alcoves
Always waiting; back tensed,
Adrenalin sheathing the silence
If I remain undetected
Perhaps the seeker will ease off,
Forget the ollie ollie in comfree
Leave me stowed away.
Much later, I could creep into safety
Call a truce, change spots...
Yet unmarred, the same old rules;
Vicious whispers that ask of unknown.
Meaningful glances and gritted teeth,
The shock of lush green eyes chasing down memory lane.
Wake up, Maple. Wake up.
But I wouldn’t, and it didn’t matter.
Because the stabbing whispers would continue inside;
Dueling emotions I long ago left at bay.
Reside there, waiting.
Counting.
Watching.
*Ready or not,
Here
We
Come.*
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
Moody blue waves go black with mischief in her moves,
Always flowing,
Spraying secrets untouched into the salt-heavy air above,
A slow smile spreads that far and wide away towards the sun,
Also turning on her tides.
Moonlight illuminating her curves and gestures.
Deceptive and lovely, a woman.
Never to be owned or won. Never to consider not being.
Magnificent. In her alcoves and her storms.
Gestures of night and paradise.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
I
Room after room,
I hunt the house through
We inhabit together.
Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her,
Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her
Left in the curtain, the couch’s perfume!
As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew,—
Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.
II
Yet the day wears,
And door succeeds door;
I try the fresh fortune—
Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.
Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.
Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares?
But ’tis twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore,
Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!
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head filled with thoughts of knives and blood and tears and the finality of the silence that comes After.
short car rides feel that much longer one-handed and with your mind taking detours.
an empty passenger's seat, save for the bag of fresh pharmacy goods; bandages and pills and the sting of the chill winter air.
the suffocating feeling of being stuck inside all day, except this home is a body and relief is only found in quick, deep successions.
basement flooding with memories of Then and When and Red and we find ourselves to be lost in it all. drowning even.
wade through the murk and discover us in the darkest alcoves of yourself. we hide in the shadows where it's safest, drenched.
it's hard to stay present around these parts for very long without something (or someone) stirring inside begging us to forget the rest.
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 12:01 AM UTC
“Why talk? If you do not listen to me?", he asked. He spoke to her in Kurdish, the language of her misty childhood memories. Simon had guessed, but did not know, could not know, how deeply she was speared by this simple statement, spoken flawlessly by a man she thought she knew. She ceased her melody, and as the chords faded away, so her warmth disappeared. Her eyes watered...cleared, darkened. Memories long buried, embalmed with religious care, rose again out of the shadows she had banished them to. "How dare you speak to me like that. Who do you think you are? How do you know my language, my childhood?"
"You talk in your sleep..."
She leaned forward and slapped her friend across the face. She knew there was something wrong with him, knew that there could be no such thing as unconditional companionship, as real altruism.
How stupid she was, how naïve to believe that she might have found someone who didn't want something from her, who didn't have a price.
Simon, who knew the alleyways and alcoves of the past like a lover knew his partner's body, should have been more concise. But it wasn't in his nature to approach personal history with spotlights and pragmatics. Ta'ra was accusing now, calling him hideous, a betrayer, one who steals sweet things in the dark from lack of courage. "It's not like that Ta'ra, not an ugly thing like you make it," he tried to explain. But she did not want to hear, did not want to listen as he tried to tell her how she cried in her sleep on the long drive from Cadiz, how Clara told him a little of their history together in Morocco. "So Clara told you so much did she? I should've known she'd pout to somebody as soon as she could, as soon as I wasn't listening! So what else does she tell you? What else does she say about me when I'm not around? Or do you do more than talk hmm?"
She was standing over him now, guitar abandoned like an orphan, her green sweater all askew. So close to him he could smell her. "It's not like that Ta'ra, she cares for you, wants the best for you, and I...I..." he trailed off. "You what? You fantasize about me, you put my face on those ****** you find in the bars and cafes?" She slapped him again, crying in earnest, and he knew that the choice now was his.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
for Katie
martini of elderflower in a dimly
lit room. 40s tune plays with feminine
harmonies lifting a room. green
tiles and floor lamps, a yellow glow.
alcoves of lounges, retro chairs
contain saturday groups on long
weekend splurges. V glasses, colourful
concoctions, buzz of the mix
in several quiet corners. chatting with
Katie, a beacon in darkness with
infectious regard for pictures and
words. talking planets and spaceships,
a fictional odyssey, silicon storm in
ridiculous glasses. rosemary’s baby, a
theme cocktail infused with thought.
film screen and text gets
the message across. early alarm means
an 8pm ending from hours of
wander and lovely therapy. parting hug
warms a deep fried heart,
plans to disco inferno at a melbourne haunt
in the midst of sydney. donna left,
everyone remembered. amy goes
back to black. records spin. i feel loved
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
This life aint' love song whilst i march on blindly....
Each secretion of dissections interrogations are on...
on my LIVING soul
man ,
if only you knew ,
i slip like a hidden seamstress
into the alcoves of plenty, the catacomb of mind
and sit and wait untill
the seductress is ready -
her lesions
are lessons
learnt in TIME
she is the mistress of the dark
she needs no title but if you prefer you can call her Q.
this is because , yes , not only is she an insane nerd
she is also -
the softest heart i ever ( dang ) - had the chance to grace ,
Mother for those in need ,
Brother to those indeed
Lover to the oh so lucky few ,
Who she might like to point out, are just as glaringly brilliant too...
so , it's simple.
The layers of time are VERY FLEXIBLE
we need not notion ,
to the motions
at futures unclear - well
but see glimpses ..
- of , past's rejuvenation's born again into different actions
conclusions ..0...
the butterfly effect are the ripples : figment metaphor ( metaphysicians apply inside)
of wings - we are all ANGELS of a sort...
but i like to call angels = experts
they seem to know what's what...
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 6:54 AM UTC
To see you naked is to know the Earth.
The Earth glistening, empty of horses.
The Earth, reed-less, pure in form,
closed to futures, horizon of silver.
To see you naked is to see the concern
of rain searching for a fragile waist,
or the feverish sea's immense face,
not finding its own brightness.
Blood will cry in the alcoves,
enter with swords on fire,
but you will not know the cache,
of the toad's heart or the violet.
Your belly is a knot of roots,
your lips a dawn with no outline.
Under the bed's cool roses,
the dead moan, waiting their turn.
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when i write a love sonnet
i want it to be about love
and not just ancient alcoves metered to a tailored rhyme
stirring depths of who we aren't.
i want so much to see your hate
transform, in flicks of pleasure
rise to meet entwined
our loving of each other's source of love
seeded even in a waste
remake the vital bloom
display what meaning pours
the vision: this is it
another meaning we can live for
sing for
.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
In the house I have today
Most everything has a place
Wardrobes incarcerate prior and present
Each with gates for closing
An open seat is kept for comfort
Another for imposing
A shelf I have for string and twine
Another for hope and faithful
Rakes and spades are saved outside
And perseverance on the table
Honesty's stored behind mahogany doors
And sacrifice on the stove
Cleanliness is kept in sight
And dust in neglected alcoves
A place I have for peace and joy
And even one for sorrow
But in all the rooms
Of my house of today
I have not room for tomorrow.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
Poet daubed the corporal on the wings of carney
Wanderer dilettante soul lusted au wild routes
Counted each the millimiles covered
Upside , unstrained , Unflaggingly.
Yon the valleys , epitome meadows and Hillsides
Beated around the alcoves amok
Ridges passed the marooned trails
Agape the flinged self flew spirited madrigals
Slowly rooted the tints into wilderness
True entity got superimposed to sylvan instincts
The obsolute shadow rigged the shooner
By dimension lengthier the time but shorter by grace
Grazed through and some toxic airs exhaled then pulled
Blinked all the roof to rugs
Remembrance of concrete boxes and intimate sidekicks
Cheap conflict wins to hit the ring
If body wins wanderlust looses thereby path ends
Simultaneous call by consciousness and objection by eternal shadow
Only the body grazed the maps with pointers
Though insatiably leveed
Kept retention the coursing shadow
Yet remained damp , savaged the sylvan traits
Life was near but the abstainer failed
Wilderness abysm rejected the unfortunate physique
There appeared
Scorched canopies along wilted flora
Container flogged the shadow to a stultifying death
Physique deceived self the core truth
Existence thereafter without knowing the chance with eterna
Several followed the imperishable conflict trail
Roll of honour diminished by fourth dimension
Marked victories of featherbrains over pappus chambers
Only few sticked upto xanthic flowers
Raise up , were the victories thristled down?
Many knocked and still keep on knocking incarnations
Fine array of fossilized saturnine inhibitions
Callous attritions over altruism of succinct shadows
Flip sorties pariance spurts
"The stanchion to revet my sky" voiced the shadow
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
i am malleable.
i could be a succinct calamity
with small macabre alcoves
full of the furies from my heart
do not open them-
i am pandora.
still, without them
i am impenetrable.
i can be a composition.
a lullaby, or some sweet aria
with a gargantuan finish.
or, just silence - a statue
in shy circumstance.
i have an obnoxious heart
that just can't handle love
with any dignity:
i am every figurative phoenix
and i will see light again.
i am malleable.
but for the love of god
do not hurt me.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
''click-ety-clack
don't look back
click-ety-clack
don't look
don't
don't
don't''
the chanting carriages
stutter through the
blue knots of steel-
house-lane junction
trying to remember
their lines before
we vanish
down tunnels
stuffed with depth
thick enough to
touch; I unwind,
unravel, shuffle past
Mr Allsmiles
stretch my bones
and muscles back
into a less shocking
relationship and
rock toward the
corridor filled
with cold echo
spilling through the
open windows
like a cave
breathing out; damp
walls swing close
and away again
black with soot,
and other dark
things inches from
my outstretched
hand, if I bellow
through this window
...........
if I bellow
through this window
at that passing
wall of alcoves
my voice will become
another echo
in its history
shrinking like
a farewell
wave; ten minutes
behind Staffordshire
Mr Allsmiles
declared his love
for travel
to be borne
of desire for
new places
new faces,
I explained I
travel to leave
both behind.
'Even mine ?' he
joked
'Even yours' I
replied.
'You find pleasure
in arrival and
I in departure
don't....
take it to heart''
but he did
and he left
and he saved me
the trouble.
Outside is
a big dawn
in a pink and
an orange sky,
we are tearing
a scar through
it's birth
at one hundred and
ten miles an hour
toxic (per)fumes
invade my lungs
tears slide sideways
into my ears,
when it rains
I will wear
pits in my skin
like a pebbledashed
wall I am fifteen
years old,
at this speed
I can barely breathe
but i am flying
faster than
my fear of
a normal life and
...it ...can't ...catch ...me
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
Poet daubed the corporal on the wings of carney
Wanderer dilettante soul lusted wild routes
Counted each the millimiles covered
Upside , unstrained , Unflaggingly.
Yon the valleys , epitome meadows and Hillsides
Beated around the alcoves amok
Ridges passed the marooned trails
Agape the flinged self flew spirited madrigals
Slowly rooted the tints into wilderness
True entity got superimposed to sylvan instincts
The obsolute shadow rigged the shooner
By dimension lengthier the time but shorter by grace
Grazed through and some toxic airs exhaled then pulled
Blinked all the roof to rugs
Remembrance of concrete boxes and intimate sidekicks
Cheap conflict wins to hit the ring
If body wins, wanderlust looses thereby path ends
Simultaneous call by consciousness and objection by eternal shadow
Only the body grazed the maps with pointers
Though insatiably leveed
Kept retention the coursing shadow
Yet remained damp , savaged the sylvan traits
Life was near but the abstainer failed
Wilderness abysm rejected the unfortunate physique
There appeared
Scorched canopies along wilted flora
Container flogged the shadow to a stultifying death
Physique deceived self the core truth
Existence thereafter without knowing the chance with eterna
Several followed the imperishable conflict trail
Roll of honour diminished by fourth dimension
Marked victories of featherbrains over pappus chambers
Only few sticked upto xanthic flowers
Raise up , were the victories thristled down?
Many knocked and still keep on knocking incarnations
Fine array of fossilized saturnine inhibitions
Callous attritions over altruism of succinct shadow
Flip sorties pariance spurts
"The stanchion to revet my sky" voiced the shadow
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
The sun rose pink over Lancaster;
Its frozen rains came quick in tow—
Here, we sense the passive and the active:
To take the drag or pull:
He is dragged by the way of the automatic hand-to-mouth;
The Other, is my command—
But that, even, impelled snowfully toward
A closed fist, a locked grasp, an unwilling departure.
I suggest a dislocation somewhere in parallax:
Take paper dimensions and fold them 104 times
And everything flattens out—
The ocular inversion becomes like-real; I’ll swim in that!
Puddles are dragged by the wind, whilst the pull thinks in spite
Of I, its strange corpus of author, and opus
Drags to the creature of appetite deign to call to order.
But a power powerless to its name given it:
Destined desiring of sunnier metaphors—
The alcoves of the thread, brought to just us
Caesuras of what satisfies, in food, in just us
The depth of image holds true: one cannot live on bread alone.
Thus, I muse and mull back to locks of hair and bellybuttons
Waiting, in time—the deepening of time’s cloth
Where my hand caresses her thigh—
One can feel the gravity pressing on the heart,
All the love that self-reflects, combs out the wrinkles,
And has faith in the good inertia.
By this secular host consubstantiate
And Other (surely a pleasing affair) is but moments away.
And she and I look so pretty together,
Our is of whom and what and the third conditional.
That which presses upon itself, the one dimension,
Cannot disentangle from name or alliance, nor faith,
Greedily picking at the oily ruptures, effulging in transparence,
Contradictions care not for astrology,
And whether you are poetry
Is not important here.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
In the alcoves I hunt for mystery
and pleasure. Seeking your joy. I hope
to break you to the core,
and make you crumble to all my love.
Id hope your days are perforated silences,
my voice a trickle of whiskey.
I treasure your absence,
thinking to myself, with a cigarette.
I sip down evan williams
Pretending not to hurt,
but with a hurricane
your surge through me.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
Near the alcoves of a secret garden
you'll find me lost in the maze of my mind.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
Room after room, I hunt the house through We inhabit together. Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her, Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume! As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew,— Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather. Yet the day wears, And door succeeds door; I try the fresh fortune— Range the wide house from the wing to the centre. Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter. Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares? But 'tis twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore, Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune! -
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
can you taste the iron on your lips?
acid reflux creeping up your tongue
as you swallow another soul whole
sweat stains on a pillow
all of this surrounds us
time will tell us as legends or monsters
we aren’t in control of the wheel
tirelessly we maraude the alcoves and nooks
of an indifferent planet
they call the thing we’re looking for love
we call it whatever gets us through today
but if this shriek of pain sets your teeth on edge
just know that it should
just know that even the smallest island
is connected to the most landlocked country
through an underground railroad of humanity and history
the bedrock is constantly shifting and warping
but it’s key elements remain eternal
tattoo my address on your forearm
should you ever find me lost you’ll know what to do
with the baggage I carry like heartbeats in a ribcage
do not burn the bridges
regardless of how rundown they might become
do not convert drift wood into an idol of the sun
because time is relative but the moon will always have it’s moments
eclipse your protests with apathetic motor oil
manifesting the robotic machinations of another man shackled
tethered to anchors which set out not to drown him
but to keep him on the precipice of high tide
all of the great words in the world couldn’t paint a picture
of what this all means
so why do we try so ceaselessly
to see the face of God
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Words lost over time
I search for
wanting to feel serenity.
Moments expand
but senses seem dead
as winds chills surround.
Months and years pass
as familiar tunes of
I love you mom,
or how are you?
are void inside ears.
Words still hidden
in the alcoves of ears
as time passes
and pain continues.
Sadness of emotions
rise and fall
inside levee of heart
as he holds the key
to my balance.
Distance and busyness
brings one into actions
so my search continues.
Perhaps, someday I will hear them.
Perhaps my heart
will be lifted
to fly.
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 1:37 PM UTC
The wave beating solitary on the shore
every once in an aeon, comes an hour
when the fuzzy bundle of timelines
must collapse to a certain certitude
Long hours of labours past the dark nights
that have borne their ends but not far
speak in hushed voices of defeat
and surrender, and dejection,
that it is all over and what else but
There, in the distance is a brewing morass
a descent into chaos and death, a war
that has no winner but the abyss
factions ranged, outweighed not by
their arms but destiny
that now threatens to ****** away everything
that a people fought to preserve memories of
on the island where death rules the heart
this little patch of a shore
hidden away in the alcoves
the one hope of redemption
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
What seems so straightforward when coming towards me,
is twisted, I see,
on the back foot, the hop, it has caught me
I stop.
Nothing can change the way I change the way that
I hit the day running, always running away.
I stop,
lay my thoughts to one side,
confide to my maker
take a moment, consider,
did I really do that?
It's not often I pray
and seldom
when running away.
Straightforward's not so or not that I know,
it has hook and crooks and dismally looks
so severe,
never here though, not
even when coming towards me and
giving me warning or towering above me.
I cower in alcoves just to be safe,
secure
is a place I know,
changing the pace
I go and
hide.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
With what I see, I draft a sketch
(and not how it should be)
I fill details, with all your loves
minutiae like Versailles, and such
colour here, a sculpture
there, a broken heart, alcoves
wainscotted with toil(e). some
envy carvings, poetry: a decoupage
of words,
said over years, re-cited
into countless tears,
ripened ensilage and patterns
recognised surprise,
through my hand I trace a line.
How I see, what I beget, is
defined as mine
stand and be yourself
through traffic, silence, and mindset
and if you don’t remember, know
that I do.not forget.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC