"astringent" poems
I do not ask for youth, nor for delay
in the rising of time's irreversible river
that takes the jewelled arc of the waterfall
in which I glimpse, minute by glinting minute,
all that I have and all I am always losing
as sunlight lights each drop fast, fast falling.
I do not dream that you, young again,
might come to me darkly in love's green darkness
where the dust of the bracken spices the air
moss, crushed, gives out an astringent sweetness
and water holds our reflections
motionless, as if for ever.
It is enough now to come into a room
and find the kindness we have for each other
— calling it love — in eyes that are shrewd
but trustful still, face chastened by years
of careful judgement; to sit in the afternoons
in mild conversation, without nostalgia.
But when you leave me, with your jauntiness
sinewed by resolution more than strength
— suddenly then I love you with a quick
intensity, remembering that water,
however luminous and grand, falls fast
and only once to the dark pool below.
9.6k
I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . .
"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"
-- Because I have made my loved one drunk
with an astringent sadness.
I'll never forget. He went out, reeling;
his mouth was twisted, desolate. . .
I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,
and followed him as far as the gate.
And shouted, choking: "I meant it all
in fun. Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain."
He smiled at me -- oh so calmly, terribly --
and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"
Kiev, 1911
4.2k
Asylum
In the madhouse
on beds of daggers
we slept like crickets
chirping to ourselves
while they tried their best
to make us cannibals.
The nuns were worse than
lawyers, praying like accordions,
tracking their sins into our soft
wax skulls, wheezing like roosters
when one of us cried, laying the greasy ribs
of Jesus on our plates.
They kept you behind
door number six. I'd go to you
with a stolen key, when the noon
smelled bright as carnations,
when the nights were
more purple than the jacarandas.
You spoke of your father
dead of snakebite,
a clockwork marvel with
his million-dollar suit of skin,
of your mother
with the viper between her lips.
I remember your kiss
astringent with reason
as bitter lemons, and the way
your hair blew back from
your dog-brown eyes like poisonous
smoke from the oleanders.
I thought these things
as beautiful as angels
whispering in the dahlias
when I was lost in the asylum,
when the doctors did all they could
to see that we ate each other
down to the bone.
April 2022
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 8:54 AM UTC
Its faded pink parka,
Stretched tight across its shoulders
Even in the summer twilight,
Crinkles, stale newspapers and plastic bags
Cacophony with the rhythmic
Thud of shopping cart wheels.
Its rotten malt liquor stench--
Astringent ammonia sweat
Runs in rancid rivulets down
Decaying skin on decaying face.
Pimples and pus and
Meth-notched teeth.
It offers a drink
In exchange for change.
My pockets jangle noisily,
But I offer only empty hands.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 9:09 PM UTC
Its sun-bleached pink parka
Limply hung over slumped, thin shoulders
Even in the summer twilight,
Crinkles, stale newspapers and plastic bags
Dissonance with the jarring
Rattle of shopping cart wheels.
Its rank malt liquor stench—
Astringent ammonia sweat
Runs in rancid rivulets down
Decaying skin on decaying face.
Pimples and pus and
Meth-notched teeth.
It offers a drink
In exchange for change.
My watch has never been more riveting.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
The fruit of
the Pacific madrone
tree may at
first entice you
with its fiery
scarlet skin.
But bite
into it and
you’ll taste
astringent, gristly pith—
with hard seeds
like discarded
children’s teeth.
You will know
that foolish feeling
that lurks within
the shadow between
sugary expectations
and bitter truth.
Nov 15, 2021
Nov 15, 2021 at 11:00 AM UTC
I stepped out,
finally, a terrestrial in Istanbul.
My leveled shoulders carried
an empty satchel of undone buckles
To let every fresh sip of raw experience
tumble inside,
my adventures impatiently plucked
from the closest branch
of a banyan tree bearing
a crisscross of endless tales.
I rescued my lungs with air,
thick with resentment while
swallowing astringent flavored symphonies
and ballads of orchestrated ruckus as
women deflated their lungs
blowing out antipathy, through high pitched whistles -
A forgotten kettle blowing off steam.
Adorned in scorn, sardonic welcoming mats lined the airport.
Women pushed at their car horns as if the dragging sound,
like a severing saw can cut through
the tenacity of the ones with innate ear plugs.
They have become obsolete traffic signals -
First, their green light diminishes - like their wages
Then, their red light is dimmed -
it stops too many people in their footsteps.
And thus the world just races past them,
And they are left only with yellow -
Telling them to slow down.
They said it was an act of love.
That their plumped crimson lips,
Glossily complimented with nails
that matched the tails,
of the so-called mile high club
was just too much to handle.
Priming for work meant neglecting their love
for the perfect shade of watermelon lipstick,
No more sweet ketchup fingertips
Showing you the emergency exits. No more,
lipstick stained glasses
of a self made woman.
These cumulating lip kissed glasses
stack up like trophies,
that sway in the heavy panting
of the ones who can’t keep up with this generation.
So the women gracefully conducted the orchestra
and through lipstick stained whistles,
They tried to drown out the dogmatic policies
And with unrelenting strife,
they passed on some advide
stop shattering our liberties
And underminining our abilities for
Endless possibilities.
Because we are the ones
Who fly high and soar
And we will always
look fabulous
while doing it.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
Tea sprouts wildly
by the roadside:
jade splayed fingers
flaming the earth
in warped green flicks.
Mild, astringent,
the aroma drifts
into the
triviality
of the present.
Looking over
my backyard fence
toward the road,
quick, damp-green scent
antiquates my
vision: Eisai,
holding seeds from
Kyoto, hikes
across border
hills into a
feudal Japan.
The tea-lined road,
framed by my
imagination,
is an anachronism,
a snapshot that’s
double-exposed.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
I strolled, awhile, down by that bog
Through thick, astringent, swirling fog....
Perchance, perhaps, in circumstance
I fancied that the reeds did dance,
Swayed in time to pulsing beat
Expanding in round ripples, neat,
To radiate across the pond
In league with moss of ferny frond.
Causing spider webs to sway
Through which the dewdrops came to play
In iridescent beams of light
Illuminating shards of night
Which cast a most unearthly glow
That only frogs in bogs, would know.....
And know they did from ancient time
Where bullfrogs ruled in slippery slime
When incandescence filled the glade
Whilst time stood still and mayflies played.
Dancing in the fantasy of Patty's Pond.
With love M.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 5:51 AM UTC
Written not to thine appraisal accord;
Words that aim to torch the infernal loom,
Seeking the world of sorcery and sword
Unconfined to thine astringent courtroom.
Methinks thy hackles must surely be raised
For hours laboured, tempering such sleight...
Yet adamant this pen, wielder unfazed
Mirrors many thou haplessly indict.
Scholars of insight construed only thee-
So feebly traced was this artistic lie;
A labyrinth from which my muse soars free.
Minoan mentor, dare not I deny:
It may be an Icarian Ascension,
But stands it staunchly, lacking pretension.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
“She who has infused every minute of my day,
Hastens through titillating my endorphins.
Absconded hiding within myself,
As blue crystals glaring teeter in the sea,
As we sanction the reticence of ardor,
While the sea eradicates its perennial effigy,
As infinite cascades eradicate beneath us,
As the water stride procures to the sandy shore,
Where the waves shatter on unsettled rocks,
As once again the clear light bursts as sun sets,
Enmeshed in a fabric of palpable vibrant colors,
Portrayed as that of a burlesque plumeria of infinites,
The plumeria burst of aureoles immortal love,
Unyielding its pedals as the devouring sea rotates,
Will ephemeral demise procure in the deep blue sea?
Over its blue pedaled face an astringent frown,
We have embarked on a promenade of love my dear,
I now stand before you no longer with emptiness,
Only perennial affection that you are mine and I yours,
In our Aureoles of Plumeria”
By AG 03/10/2018 ©
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
The lady in white turns and my gaze runs over her, I was taken aback—
This mysterious woman was like the missing puzzle piece of the black and white picture lain out in a lack of color. She is a classic beauty. Her face has all the sharp angles and the perfect pout of her red up-turned mouth, but it was her eyes which captured me.
They are actually… Actually, the color of a persimmon fruit and like a persimmon fruit; which is very flavorful if eaten at the right time of year but very astringent if eaten wrongly. This woman’s redden eyes churn with a sweet taffy, a chaotic intent bubbling below.
The sound of her mystical voice drifts towards me like glass wrap in sensual silk, poised to strike but yet a feminine edge to it.
"Hello..."
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
mixed stirrings
hard to place this constant ire rising from ashes of a fire not quite, yet felt
stir into that melting *** the sum of miscellany unknowns
all wrought from the unsweet gifts of quotidian sighs
no need to wrap the present, baby, for it's already here
twinkling in the birth of every moment
we hardly know it nor acknowledge
so busy wrenching pain from secret places the darkness loves to keep
yesterday brought unsought smiles of outer space dust
then space in pushed into the blue spit bubble of crayfish folly
and fear frozen into place on cauldroned cheeks
as tendons pulled fury tight on a cocky bounty's cry
I want to carry that sweet loading joy
which scorches my receptiveness in astringent non reciprocation
I die to please that spangled energy so much
which holds back its cagey kernel, far from my prying hands
I kneel to take in out of the blue blessings
which fall slapdash on this preoccupied trajectory, forever waiting in sozzled hope
I take the package you flash and cast heavy
which leave sweltering whiplines across my insides
all fine, all just a fine melange
beneath your magic fontanelle lies a sunken cache
there are painfully few privy to that miracle
I live in hope of neither looping nor taking
but just to be happy to bear witness to the shiny array of your gem stock
you are like none other, inimitable and hard gemstone (inside)
a mix of purity stirred in crazy, along with star shine and fire sparks
my angel with honey eyes
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
Have you sipped a good old fashioned?
A perfectly crafted cocktail
One that costs 12 or 15 dollars
And is made by a man with a mustache?
It's sweet at first, almost cloyingly so
Sugary and malty and fruity.
Underneath the sweet is something sharp
The alcohol, the citrus, the bite.
Not sour, just bright and crisp.
It's a pleasing drink, dancing across the palate.
But if you pay close attention,
If you really focus,
There are the bitter notes, the astringent moments
The ones that pucker and hurt.
A good old fashioned hides the harshness,
Like the memories of a love that walked away.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 1:03 AM UTC
When dawn unfolds on a town's older region
Sunrise crawls across cobblestone streets
Autumn break speaks its opening greets
I say an urban dream world comes into vision
I walk these archaic avenues alone
Following the lead of my oversized shadow
Astringent cold awakens my face and neck
While a glinting sun slowly pats my back
Past gothic fencing and cream-colored brick
Concrete bridges veined with vines
Damp shades of wood stare from the park
A fountain shines at the heart of the square
The muffled click of claws against curb
From blackbirds prodding the lower scenery
Shares the air with benevolent fumes
Of bakery bread and chimney smoke
Porch lights fading in soft succession
The radius of light extends its exuberance
Reflections expanding in dark shop windows
The first opened door soon taints the silence
In time the usual routines exude
An old piece of map slowly stirs to life
Another new chapter from torn, yellowed pages
Is resurrected into a tangible shape & stripe
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 10:28 PM UTC
mom? dad?
i’m drowning.
swimming towards the light above,
astringent tears fill my lungs.
mom? dad?
i can’t breathe.
miniscule doses of albuterol
escaping from my little plastic inhaler
stand meager in the eyes of the overly developed fear,
prying its way up the lengths of my throat.
mom? dad?
there’s a stranger in my room.
i stand in front of the mirror
waiting for my reflection;
waiting to see that little girl,
bright, blue eyes, wide smile.
but there’s a stranger there instead;
bloodshot eyes,
inflamed scores down her cheeks,
reaking of poor judgement and broken promises.
mom? dad?
i can’t hear the music.
the floor is varnished with broken cds,
torn-up sheets of abandoned lyrics,
mutilated “i love you”s;
but the record player is still on.
turning and turning
yet i don’t hear a single note,
my senses are paralyzed
by the blow of my demolished heart.
mom? dad?
they won’t stop talking.
people.
people in my head.
voices loud as they scream profanities,
soft as they whisper lullabies,
stern as they bellow punishments.
i can’t make sense
of those who twist and tug on my heart strings
and those who wish to elongate them.
i need out.
mom? dad?
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
bitter white pills
stolen from the nurses office
crushed on the rocks,
merciless shores
of my craggy, gnashing teeth.
swallow it down
with purple liquid and
gag at the crude
astringent taste
like a fine powder
of dandelion leaf
burdock root
twisted hell.
floating down the hallway,
words jumbled and crumpled
thrown away paper
lodged in the crevices of my throat,
hacking it out with a nicotine
kissed cough.
i've got four more pills in my pocket,
but i'm craving ten.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
Some people think they know what pain is.
I'll tell you what pain is.
Pain is accidentally using your astringent instead of your eye makeup remover.
Pain is stepping on a lego barefoot.
Pain is stubbing your pinky toe on the same table leg for the 50th time.
Pain is taking responsibility for something that wasn't your fault simply because you're an "adult."
Pain is shedding a tear for the close friend who committed suicide over a year ago.
Pain is thinking about the last look of recognition before your grandfather's death.
Pain is feeling like you can never be honest with anyone about what you are truly feeling.
Pain is the fear that you may not ever find "the one."
Pain is caring too much for people who will never love you.
Pain is realizing that everything you believed in might be false.
Pain is knowing that the people you trusted have lied to you.
Pain is understanding that they were only doing what they thought was right.
This is my pain.
What's yours?
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
i know
that it is easy
to feel mediocre
and alone.
but at 30,000 feet
the world is so small
that you can count
the waves of the ocean on your fingers.
do you know
that it is hard
to let you see
what i've found?
breathing is easy
when you are above the clouds.
our love is trapped in the clutches of time-
seized in a moment,
lost in my windpipes,
i am busy catching your breath.
we can cut through the atmosphere.
meet me by the moon
to listen to the morning murmur.
i can only offer you so many escapes.
it's too hard to fix you.
why shouldn't i hide
if i am the bad guy?
and all you want to do
is say goodbye.
i etched eternity into your cracked skin.
i traced familiarity into your bruised bones.
but i am not a savior
nor an angel, it was
merely good timing.
atlas did nothing to deserve this.
even the divine must suffer
even the divine must fall
under the weight of the world.
all we have is each other.
asphyxiated and astringent,
each kiss is an exchanging exhale,
and our lungs convicts.
we'll dig our way out together.
i have only hurt you in secret.
i have only hurt myself in stupor.
but i tried, at least i tried.
i am trying.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
The flicker of a cigarette lighter
cheap cardboard against each other
it ignites, radiating warmth and danger simultaneously
lit up this whole world to display it's true colors
ones that are astringent and brusque
colder than what our eyes absorb in the darkness
Seconds dwindle and off it goes
extinguished in facades of shame
a smug expression it leaves behind
knowing that it has escaped.
However the wisps of smoke breeze past
as evidence of it's felony.
| felonies - m.m |
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
Considering the concept of getting ready
is to appreciate
mundane as ritual.
A prima appliqué of mud and essential oils
in a 6 inch
by 8 inch
circular backlit mirror.
Piece by piece
assemblage by both brush and
blade, moving intimacy beneath the
surface. Planting highlighted foot forward.
Astringent, cotton swabs, dissolving wipes, Naked 2 palette, tweezers, contact solution, foundation, liquid liner, pencil, pen, powder, and brush.
Trying,
trying to be an old self
and do the things you used to love,
Not just sitting in a big
pile of failures,
every day on that couch.
The ache of hurt. We idolize it,
twist it,
build it into something less ugly.
See love where there is none.
Worship the air and ask it to do the same.
After the highlight blend is complete,
there follows a pause of about a thousand years.
By the time you say what you mean,
I will be long gone.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 1:14 AM UTC
Two hearts astringent
as one love combined
two souls emerging
grasping to get entwined
Solid love connected
sadness can't break through
as one memory imprinted
the thought of me and you
After many amorous years
our hearts still beat as one
Two folded loving feelings
the day our lives begun
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 9:53 AM UTC
A lofty elevation,
A plumose cowl,
An irrefutable will.
Discretion: his calling card,
A birch-white arrow through
Viscous mauve shadows.
The strigine thief
Who appropriates your form
From the ground upward.
Predacious eyes perceive flesh and bone,
Discarded like chaff
Upon autumns threshing floor.
His talons disclosed,
Your legs shrouded
By his imperious wing.
Vaporous, you stand,
Your torso drawn ambiguous,
Upon the horizons ochre fabric.
Silken hair falls
Obliquely around your shoulders
Coalescing with the gathering mist.
Like the astringent hues in your puerile eyes,
I will fade from this night.
The evidence etched, evermore
Inside two darkling vessels.
I witnessed it all.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
The acid
Slipped in between
Those innumerable thoughts
And collided with
The astringent taste
Of those bitter sweet words
Trying to find a way out
With modesty
The insipid semblance
On its way
To destroy the
Sanctity of the place
From both ways
It's just the pretence
Which is allowing
The situation to be
Handled fluidly
We're both equally intoxicated.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 5:56 AM UTC