"aloe" poems
Your seduction has been unfair,
Though you could not help it, my dear.
My heart melts with the thoughts you share
And aloe smoothness of your hair.
Executed so ruthlessly,
You constantly seducing me,
With love given innocently,
You did it all so carelessly.
I’m smitten and I can’t let go,
Seduced by all the things you know,
You made my desire overflow,
Just by affection that you show.
I’m a slave to your seduction,
Mastermind of will’s abduction,
From our very introduction,
I was lost to your seduction.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 10:04 PM UTC
graceful
as the orient
but yet
a western plant
aloes
are
indigenous
to the desert's
rock and sand
delicate
white flowers
or
bold red
on slender stems
the flaming
torches
burning
bring
hummingbirds
to them
from the tiny
Aloe Pepe
to the mighty
Century
those plants
upon a hillside
are there
for all
to
see
there's the wierd
Octopus Aloe
small leafy plants appeal
one type of
Aloaceae
has a pulp which
soothes
and
heals
in my father's
cactus garden
he has
all types to show
please sit in my
Sanctuary
where
the
lovely
aloes grow
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/19/2016
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
He was going to get her a little plant,
and would be teensy-tiny and green
and the little plant would never die.
He would name it "Neville",
and she would giggle at the name
and the little plant would never die.
He would find her a little cactus,
or an aloe plant that had no spikes
(so she wouldn't ***** her fingers),
and the little plant would never die.
He would remind her to water it,
and she would tell him she forgot,
and it was a good thing he reminded her,
and the little plant would never die.
He would go over and visit it,
and he would visit her while he was at it,
and the little plant would never die.
He would bring her books about plants,
so she would know all about hers,
and the little plant would never die.
He would sing the plant little songs
when he visited the plant and her,
and she would like those little songs,
and the little plant would never die.
He would whisper I love you
to the plant, of course,
but she would hear it,
and the little plant would never die.
He would hear her say it too,
and he would understand,
and the little plant would never die.
But he did not get her a little plant.
The little plant would never die,
but she was not a little plant.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC
Above the forest of the parakeets,
A parakeet of parakeets prevails,
A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
(The rudiments of tropics are around,
Aloe of ivory, pear of rusty rind.)
His lids are white because his eyes are blind.
He is not paradise of parakeets,
Of his gold ether, golden alguazil,
Except because he broods there and is still.
Panache upon panache, his tails deploy
Upward and outward, in green-vented forms,
His tip a drop of water full of storms.
But though the turbulent tinges undulate
As his pure intellect applies its laws,
He moves not on his coppery, keen claws.
He munches a dry shell while he exerts
His will, yet never ceases, perfect ****
To flare, in the sun-pallor of his rock.
3.1k
when we fall deep into the never-ending abyss
where biting, caustic words nip at our shoulders,
we forget how to ward them off, but we can.
we can with these ingredients:
- aloe vera infused with compassion
to nurse the acidic sting of those words,
- honey that sticks to toxic atoms,
protecting us from further damage,
- a flame to remind us of our humanity
so we can join with **** sapiens across time,
- and coffee to give us presence of mind
to stay in this very moment.
We can take what we need,
whenever we need it.
Apr 8, 2022
Apr 8, 2022 at 11:35 PM UTC
this is
your open field
this is
where you lie on your back
on a fluffy, plaid duvet
eating strawberries
forgetting the sound of honking cars
and car alarms
this is your studio
replace the clay with bars of soap
paintbrushes with shampoo bottles
write your thoughts on fogged glass
lists of run-on sentences, scribbled
without inhibition
this is where the water runs off
your shoulders
this is where you reflect
it is not poetic
it is quiet, it is ordinary
knots of hair from gushing wind
smoothed over with aloe conditioner
everything is spinning, but here it slows
this is where you pause
this is where you breathe
this is where you begin again
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
legions of aloe vera lick my
toes, persuading in dissonance.
a herpetic grin streaks your
teeth, grease and yellowed
pages harrowed in stem.
now, i will tell you these
roses (that are everyanything
of a colour)--
sizzle against soft fingers,
the waft of yesterday
scribbling strikes of sense.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 8:29 PM UTC
if i was a tree i'd have roots so ******* deep
you wouldn't ******* believe it.
if i was a drunk man i'd hold the ground
steady with my face.
if i was sunlight i'd burn the **** outta your shoulders
and then change into Aloe
before you even ******* noticed.
if i was a racecar i could only be driven backwards
but i'd go fast as **** because
my rubber is hot.
if i was a huge cedar chest i'd keep secrets inside myself
because no one ******* cares about them
and i'd keep hope there too in case someone
started to.
if i was an alarm clock i'd let you pound me in your sleep
but i'd still scream at you in the
early hours of the morning
because without me you'd ******* die.
if i was a hurricane i'd blow right through your back yard
but leave everything untouched
and you standing there admiring my girth.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 2:33 PM UTC
Free fall sensation in the dark
invited dizzy dreams
spark singed skin
the last time I felt like I do when you touch me
I had stuck a necklace in an electrical socket
to try and figure out how the lights work
I thought I could take the energy
I thought by touching it I could understand
Except for that hurt, and you are the opposite of hurt on the same intensity
just with fingertips
except for I understand alternating current now but not this
You make me want to make sculptures
and bad jokes
you make me write but the words come out like dogs off the leash in the park
Next to you is the place where I fell asleep at the beach
and woke up warm and sun-washed
where my body felt like it belonged to me
and the waves had washed away the smell of wet cities and
old growth trees
Next to you is banana pancakes with strawberries
and silence is a round comfortable thing
like hobbit feet
like blanket forts
safe and temporary constructions
inventive nomadic shelters
lovely places to spend rainy days
You are like aloe-vera gel
and I've been forgetful and spent to much time in the sun
trying to breath in life but got hurt
but it doesn't feel raw when you slide over my skin
instead its tingly bits of mint and blue
like gypsy wind chimes and spicy food
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 7:16 AM UTC
Said the aloe to the agave
Neighbour
here in a foreign soil
the old world meets the new
Said the agave to the aloe
they forget
once we were related
can hardly tell the difference still
the human eye is quite deceptive
and what to say about the human heart . . .
Said the aloe to the agave
my blood turns to heal the ill
my fibres pulp to an ageless skin . . .
Said the agave to the aloe
my blood turns to a song and dance
my fibres pulp to a rope and cloth . . .
but what do the humans offer us
Said the aloe to the agave
not much
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
A few blooms in Bohemia
for your hair do a duty
and make their red heavier
to fit the brown of your beauty.
But how many gallows
morals have built along the trees!
Joyful sin, tell me, in their shadow,
are flowers allowed to please?
The burdock and nettles
are growing as every year
and so people of Protectus settle
with their tracts everyone's ear.
Praying is just a waste
as it was at the time I was born.
The blooming aloe is my taste
of your black hair adorned.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
Lady,
lady,
lady,
It made no sense then
and still I'm at a lack.
Those days I'd read and fall asleep,
take the cheap warmth of the sun on my cheeks
(and literacy) for granted, then
wake to a sunburn on my back.
Aloe evenings, peeling loose skin
revealing goose-flesh, feeling foolish
again, by my garden
on my deck
off my guard
and lonely.
Heck, this is only one instance where I had chills that summer
Another was under the orange glow of a poorly funded lighthouse,
Us there - just sitting - perched
on my car, parked
on
a
slope
West River lay ahead and below -
Behind were the kinds of smiles and glances
people give before they know
each other and the chances
of where they both may go
So,
I took my time
not giving a ****
despite the dame's insistence
on a kiss the tourists planned -
Too many instants
spent looking, fearing leaping
peering,
keeping
distance
sparse.
Alas, a tour de farce?
Thanks to pop-rocks when our lips touched
we chuckled at the sparks
Lip gloss
Then my loss of control
Utterly unable to console
Is it any wonder the cunning fox we saw just wandered home?
With this rhetoric I am ready to admit that
I lack(ed) certainty
Was the mist real or is't only foggy in my memory?
In hindsight I do mind causing pain
Though my brain,
it sure likes hurting me
And lo,
À l'acadie we go
...for academia!
My ego can't stand seein' ya
so the strained "Hello" is ignored -
Please impale it on the sword
of vanity and estrangement!
As I sway toward derangement
or insanity, I lurch forward
lacksidaisically
Need to learn to curb these feelings
to watch out for those of others
As the sun or lighthouse over us
this message resolutely hovers:
I hurt
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
I used to do things, you know,
with my time.
I used to read;
books, sometimes magazines.
I used to garden.
(Can you imagine?)
I planted tomatoes
and an aloe plant, some flowers.
I used to write, on occasion
mostly short stories
and some essays
here and there.
I liked to cook
and not just scrambled eggs,
(though you always liked my scrambled eggs)
but whole meals
and bake too.
I used to do things, you know
before you.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
The aloe to the sunburn
The blanket to the cold
The bandage on the cut
And the laughter to a joke
The you to me
You just make me better
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
Sunrise floods through
vertical blinds strong enough to
bleed through thick fingers of my aloe.
Mold grows from soil-top deep into
the root.
I
stretch my arms, wipe
crust from my eyes
just to find
you.
God,
anybody but
you.
Eyes red. You
didn't sleep.
It's been days since you
slept. Your
pile of cups, stained from old coffee, mingling
with cheap liquor
bottles. Lying on the floor like the bodies
in Normandy.
The first thing you
say to me, your
catch phrase, prodding me with bony
fingers, the scars across your
arms like scales.
Shallow pools under your
eyes lingering, you
say "you will not last today."
I
tried to spring to my feet, you
held me down.
"Sleep," you
cooed as my eyelids buckled
I
believed it best I just
lie
down.
"Spend the day in bed," you
said. "It'll be nice," you
say "let me have just one more day."
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 6:31 AM UTC
boy may move
make moves
the coast sways blue
ghostly grey quaaludes
gasp and gather and get gone
see gulls
see “get out of dodge” a la roget
sunburnt skin Rośe
aloe
vera ****
saint white
more saint than yves laurent
freighter; only witness
speak now
or hold your peace
see “forever” a la webster
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
You are a traveler of the South lands
brown, a leathered skin coyote
desert walker of the Sonoran sands
crafty, black magic witch
a shaman, lucid dreamer
Yaqui Indian spell weaver
of visions, of paintings in the sand
mixing colors, peyote flowers
red, the melting of the aloe bowers
dark blood, the blooming agave towers
thick with snakes, the fire and hiss
that burns black of sacaton grass
the quiver and flash of flying sparks
igniting night, time traveling to the stars.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
Pain, so irrevocable
Always too late once muttered.
You slice & dice me
And, I
Sprinkle you with lovers dust.
You pour petrol on an already lit fire
The smell still lingers days later
And, I
Seek out sweet medicine
Caressing your wounds;
Aloe Vera grows abundantly besides what we once called home.
You're the dog with her tail between her legs,
And, I
Gather you in my arms as you cry
A baby ripped from the womb
too soon.
© Sia Jane
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
Humid, sweat
The frizzing of hair
Burning black leather
Scalding seat buckles that induce cursing
Air condition on full blast
Walk in sweating
Walk out shivering
Self made fans out of anything
Slip n slides, swimming, ice cream
Sun glasses
Soaking up the sun
Ice tea, lemonade
Aiming for that killer tan
Sunburns, aloe vera
Sticky school days
That last too long
And the savior of the south goes to
Central air
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
At the same time of year
cold winds bite down and continue to blow
my knuckles encounter these tearing gusts with ripped chapping
Alone together
As the moon veils through the curtain
and the only noise outside
are echoes of crickets chirping
Embrace is proffered
Under a dim glare from the lunar glow
a lucky duo who are in need of an other to bestow
Heedlessly collect the offer
she coats her fingers and palms in oil & aloe
one at a time our hands begin binding
regarding this oil from plants insides refined
creating a mirrored rhyme
Her hands of wisdom take on a placidity
when combing over my wounded misery
I can see the searing adopt a soothing
Into every finger
she sends the technique of love speak
what it is to see in motion and defining
...the endearing
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 10:22 PM UTC
I need the sun and it's warm arms around me,
I need earth's sweet soil to stain my bare soles,
and soul,
I need the thick air of a humid day,
with the rain clouds hanging over me,
threatening to obstruct my evening plans of star gazing,
I long for the warm, ***** waters of the lakes of my home town,
the gargling bubbles in the back of my throat when I accidentally breathe underwater,
and I long for the pain in my ear canal when water gets trapped,
from pretending to be a mermaid for too long,
I am impatient for the ache on my shoulders and face, from UV exposure,
too much of a good thing does exist,
but it's nothing Aloe Vera can't soothe,
I am anxious for cold beers on the porch with my best friends
in the home we live in together,
and I am anxious for the mornings wasted laying in bed,
with the morning sunshine through my lace curtains as my only alarm clock,
I want the bruised legs, scraped knees, freckles, and ***** hands
that only these short lived summer months can bring to me,
I want the careless, reckless, "it's only 2 am" behaviors that come with a late sunset,
and I want the happiness that comes with the scent of flowers entangled in my hair,
a late sunrise, and warm winds.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
rivers of salt; saccharine silicon and
iridescent nightmares;
kids carve their names into trees
because their concept of forever is
three summers forward;
entropy demands a tithe, a
forfeiture of lives; decimate your herds
and still
no, it is not enough.
know it is not enough.
don't keep your sweet little mouth
open too long; sugar attracts flies,
and pretty soon your
teeth will be teeming
with maggots and rot,
streptococcus sanguis
cheerfully wearing down your enamel
like you wore down my inhibitions.
"it'll be fun," you said, dropping
one hundred milligrams
on your tongue, firmly grasping the back
of my neck, and applying your lips to mine.
one hundred milligrams
slide down my throat, and despite myself,
I laugh, because even when I'm scared
I want to be with you.
the Black Angel is God On Earth; she is
lonely beyond belief, and I give her a hug.
people forget that monsters have
feelings too, and
God?
God is the biggest monster of them all.
God is entropy, and she is
unimpressed by the pyramids
on your dollar bills; she will devour
the stars and the planets and newborn
babies swaddled in blankets,
and she yet hungers:
redwoods and sequoias and aloe vera,
microchips and inkjets and MacBooks.
we are crowded around the bonfire,
s'mores and cheap liquor, your hand on
my thigh; the heavens have
opened up, drenching us
in starlight: I have never felt more
beautiful. you raise my wrist to your
mouth, placing a gentle kiss on my
scaphoid and my lunate; you swipe
your tongue across supple flesh
before clamping down with your teeth;
I am seeing stars and feeling lovely
and I am so, so enamored with you and
so, so happy you are here.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
Sunrise floods through
vertical blinds strong enough to
bleed through thick fingers of my aloe.
Mold grows from soil-top deep into
the root.
I
stretch my arms, wipe
crust from my eyes
just to find
you.
God,
anybody but
you.
Eyes red. You
didn't sleep.
It's been days since you
slept. Your
pile of cups, stained from old coffee, mingling
with cheap liquor
bottles. Lying on the floor like the bodies
in Normandy.
The first thing you
say to me, your
catch phrase, prodding me with bony
fingers, the scars across your
arms like scales.
Shallow pools under your
eyes lingering, you
say "you will not last today."
I
tried to spring to my feet, you
held me down.
"Sleep," you
cooed as my eyelids buckled
I
believed it best I just
lie
down.
"Spend the day in bed," you
said. "It'll be nice," you
say "let me have just one more day."
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
The heat burns—
Like fire beneath the surface,
Coursing through my veins,
Tainting everything it touches—
Crimson-coloring my face.
Once contained, now slowly breaks free
Anger, to the point of
Pain.
It thrashes—
Wanting to be released,
To engulf everything
From crown
To spine—
The ***** of my feet
I'm on fire.
The inferno of my thoughts
Overwhelm me
Screaming, it's your fault
Not your fault, mine
I did this, this is me.
Two roads, a choice—
MY choice.
To give the power to break me
My wall crumbling to insignificant pieces
With every word, from the lips
That had to be truth.
Each gaze into bottomless eyes,
Getting lost in midnight.
The endless patterns traced gently on his skin
By my fingertips
Holding his comforting hands,
With the touch that warmed my heart
Consciously giving him control.
Back when he wanted me.
I could have stopped this
Before it was too late.
Before the hardening of his eyes
That lied more convincingly than
The tenor of his voice,
Before his touch grew cold and distant
As the eyes and lips that no longer
Belong to me—
Longed for me.
The decision—
To let it go.
The consequence—
To burn.
But time, it heals—
A balm, to the heat—
I smolder.
Once livid, it lessens.
In the recesses of my mind
Festering—
The fire is there,
As my aloe heals,
At it's deliberate pace—
With each tick of the second hand,
The self-inflicted blaze crawls closer
To the end,
The day when the flame licks it's last wound—
The day freed from a personal purgatory.
Time is my companion.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
And the butcher's daughter came down from the Elysium fields straight to the holy spirits of my pagan dream with the morning breath of aloe. And the soft music became rivers of pure green. The red serpent spoke to Apollo and her mind of muse. Volcanoes and storms erupted in jubilation commemorating her visit. Red turned sun, voices turned sirens. Forever the face of the earth thanked a thousand ways the mystical birth of the blood.The butcher's daughter snatched my words and letters and made of sacred stone my memory who still calls her.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC