"beeswax" poems
big sweaters, ghibli, acrylic paint, cafes, knit blankets and unplanned afternoon naps on the couch, gardens, bananas, vanilla almond milk, soft yarn to crochet into ****** scarves, candles after midnight, the big trees with bulky roots, patio furniture, pianos in random buildings, the internet, manatees, the boundless colours of nail polish, peanut butter & honey, rubber boots, pens that write well, fresh new notebooks, skylights, american netflix, mothers that understand, tête à têtes, one glass of sweet white wine, awkward eye contact that turns into comfortable kissing, airplanes, fresh air, baseball caps, the female collective, the really good dark chocolate, flowers, pumpkin spice lattes and ***** chai lattes, candid laughter, yoga, oceans, high waisted shorts, striped t-shirts, docile cats, playful pups, french presses, integrity, sunscreen, meerkats, penguins, chameleons, autumn leaves, fall fashion, ruby woo mac lipstick, osho, dynamic meditation, compassion, siblings, scrambled eggs, smart phones, garageband, metronomes, hot glue guns, quinoa, ferry boats, soft hands, bicycles, real people, fat snowflakes in ample, graceful ********** backpacks that don't hurt your shoulders, hair conditioner, multi-vitamins, soft sand under bare feet, people that own up to lies, clarity, samsara, satori, samasati, visions, echinacea, lavender oil and frankincense, ambrosia apples and ripe avocados, authenticity, Morgan Freeman's voice, good kissers, ******* iced tea on a hot day, curtains, the smell of beeswax, art galleries, hand massages and foot massages, reiki, plums, mild thunderstorms, soccer ***** good surprises, when birds don't **** on your head.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
*i hate to break it to you kid,
i'm not mindful of narcissus'
economics that's all oh so very modern...*
but women are their own orbit,
more chance to find a single mother
than a single father...
it's against nature to make the man
without god,
as it's against nature to make the woman
with god...
thus we have the tectonic plates
making man with god, accepting
or doubting, church or laboratory...
and woman... an eroticism of jaw eaten
faces... but a kiss to be a fingerprint
likened to erasing the dangling of the bitten
jaw... erased only once by the aphrodisiac of sirens'
wail of aquatic opera so damnable that only
one man heard it, while others scolded
being in audience with beeswax...
and by second chance, erased, indeed,
but only by the suffragettes as the new nuns...
as the new nuns dare comply to change,
like every male become female and
vice versa,
and the popes disclose their continual
loss of matrimony in their misogynistic
involvement in ****** if i'm not the pope
and do no encounter such practices,
i'm not a pope at all!
*only a ninth spoke as the necromancer,
and of the nine spoke clearest,
as it spoke, it dawned on me
that sauron was invisible for the sword
to strike, a gravity enveloping,
a gravity envelope, rather than a skin
of infinite diadem sharpenings,
for nine rigs unto men,
seven unto dwarfs, three unto elves,
but none unto the orcs... strange....
ORC ARKHAN MORDOR ARRAC!*
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
I want to be a hippie,
join a small commune,
set up my camp
way out in the woods,
near the back forty
& the railroad tracks.
I want to swim naked
with them pretty chicks,
braid natty dreads,
go tubing on the river,
make beeswax candles
& tie dyes.
I want weave dream catchers,
paint glitter on Venetian beads,
sing happy songs,
create new stars,
eat whole wheat bread
& make Tabouili salads.
I wanna dance,
circle the blazing fire,
shout out at the moon,
splash myself in patchouli,
smell weed-smoke in the air
& indulge in tantric things.
I don’t wanna
hurt anybody,
break any laws,
just wanna spread love,
blow kisses to butterflies,
ride double-rainbows
on magic carpets
& be a hippie.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
Like Oedipus I am losing my sight.
LIke Judas I have done my wrong.
Their punishment is over;
the shame and disgrace of it
are all used up.
But as for me,
look into my face
and you will know that crimes dropped upon me
as from a high building
and although I cannot speak of them
or explain the degrading details
I have remembered much
about Judas -
about Judas, the old and the famous -
that you overlooked.
The story of his life
is the story of mine.
I have one glass eye.
My nerves push against its painted surface
but the other one
waiting for judgement
continues to see . . .
Of course
the New Testament is very small.
Its mouth opens four times -
as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster,
yet somehow man-made
held together by pullies
like the stone jaw of a back-hoe.
It gouges out the Judaic ground,
taking its own backyard
like a ****** daughter.
And furthermore how did Judas come into it -
that Judas Iscariot,
belonging to the tribe of Reuben?
He should have tried to lift him up there!
His neck like an iron pole,
hard as Newcastle,
his heart as stiff as beeswax,
his legs swollen and unmarked,
his other limbs still growing.
All of it heavy!
That dead weight that would have been his fault
. He should have known!
In the first place who builds up such ugliness?
I think of this man saying . . .
Look! Here's the price to do it
plus the cost of the raw materials
and if it took him three or four days
to do it, then, they'd understand.
They figured it weighed enough
to support a man. They said,
fifteen stone is the approximate weight
of a thief.
Its ugliness is a matter of custom.
If there was a mistake made
then the Crucifix was constructed wrong . . .
not from the quality of the pine,
not from hanging a mirror,
not from dropping the studding or the drill
but from having an inspriation.
But Judas was not a genius
or under the auspices of an inspiration.
I don't know whether it was gold or silver.
I don't know why he betrayed him
other than his motives,
other than the avaricious and dishonest man.
And then there were the forbidden crimes,
those that were expressly foretold,
and then overlooked
and then forgotten
except by me . . .
Judas had a mother
just as I had a mother.
Oh! Honor and relish the facts!
Do not think of the intense sensation
I have as I tell you this
but think only . . .
Judas had a mother.
His mother had a dream.
Because of this dream
he was altogether managed by fate
and thus he ***** her.
As a crime we hear little of this.
Also he sold his God.
2.6k
I.
I used to be a crocodile.
I knew no risks, no tears, no joy
no excitement to lure me above water,
no work, for it was cut out for me
in the shallows with the small fish,
no heavens to make up for,
no hells to hope for,
no soul to shatter on mid-spring days
when all life is but a nightmare
and clouds are all but
******* on my head,
who granted to desired effect
that siren hoped for,
who sits upon the sandy shore
and whispers sweet songs to me, myself
evolved,
and repeats me back
the songs I taught her,
"Over and over again,"
she mocks.
How Neptune did churn his waters
to beach a loveless Odysseus here
shall ever be unbeknownst to me.
But
beeswax I have fixed in my ears,
but
now I cannot hear my other friends
in the trees.
but
once I make my flight from this island,
away from the crocodiles,
and starvation,
and sirens,
I will take it out, and
I will hear!
by God! I will hear
and be heard!
II.
No sound.
The siren's lips move;
the water recedes.
the sky grays.
the crocodiles come.
I am drawn near
by her lotus lips that bid me down this tree
but
I must not dismount.
but
a second siren in the trees
has been picking out my beeswax.
Two songs.
The reptiles draw ever nearer to
the siren, her song is the loudest.
The second siren sings a song
of warning and captivation.
I dismount the tree
to fight back the green menace, and save
the first siren.
I knew these fellows once.
They were my friends,
and now do I slay them.
I see only jaws and red blood now,
and now am I defeated.
The crocodile has taken her as prey,
so familiarly,
for I was a crocodile
once.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 9:06 AM UTC
i am grateful for stretch denim on days
when
**** it
is a fashion statement
for lavender laundry detergent
because that smell reminds me of the home i've built in my head
for tea at
2 a.m.
when all the things i've done race in my head
because the next morning, i usually get my **** together
for colds
because they make eating an entire roll of cinnamon buns
completely justifiable
for the mountains that surround me
for NPR and good, rated M fanfiction
for def poetry when i can't find the right words
for finding a pack of cigarettes when it is only
11:30pm on a thursday night
and i am well past drunk in a slightly damp armchair
for harry potter and neil gaiman
for when twenty dollars fills up my gas tank
for my grandma's potato salad and biscuits with honey
for feminist zines that make me want to smash the patriarchy
for burts bees chapstick and jasmine-green tea
for friends who let me cry on their
bedroom floors
for books that keep me entertained
(even if that means me crying in my bathtub while reading them)
for courtney love and joan jett because those *******
have ridden in my car with me over many
heart-breaks
for well-water and sulfate free red wine
for johnny cash and new orleans and whiskey
for salt-- because that **** can wash away anything
for farmer's markets and co-ops
for bottles of water and for cookie dough
when my mouth
is the consistency of cotton and my mind is a little bit gone
for warm days in January and cold days in September
for breakfast and for hikes that begin at five a.m.
for summer nights drunk on wine and a little too much fire
for friends who call me 'momma bear' and for friends that call me 'baby bird'
for poems that give you cold chills
and flowers stolen from my neighbor's yard
for skin that smells like the sun and sage
for beeswax candles
and the smell of clean laundry
for days when i wake up and realize
i could have died on a bathroom floor
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
a thousand restless fingers
pluck along my nerves
and crawl swarming bees
over my flesh
******* dry honey
and I as a comb am empty
waiting on the waxing moon
to bring in the tide
exposed and littered
on the cracked seabed
lighting beeswax candles
impromptu runway lights
for those aeroplanes
who always fail to land
and wasted afternoons
fade into wasted nights
tossing to and fro
I sleep
under the cupboards instead
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
The desk is a refreshing change of pace from the
uneasy comfort of the bed. I
eye the flimsy container of trail mix
lying in wait, my lightly salted prey.
rolling from beneath the body-like warmth of my
blanket cocoon,
I stumble towards nourishment.
I attack my snack,
and settle into the
beeswax halo of drunk hung Christmas lights,
mistakenly onto an uncapped felt pen,
tip bleeding into a beige throw
bought for a newly redecorated room.
Unnoticed, the stain spreads,
advancing on the threads of the throw.
I will, perhaps, see it tomorrow
and curse silently,
and wonder if it can be
hidden by rearrangement and ultimately
decide that a little folding will do the trick.
Outside, the snow freezes a fresh exoskeleton,
primed for crushing the footprints of strangers.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
Lighting a candle before my bedside,
I slip a small piece of my past
underneath the brass holder
to catch the waxy overflow.
A pink envelope addressed to
(my love)
encases the torn and tattered teardrop-filled
piece of stationery paper.
Your words mush together with the
slight scent of beeswax and sage
and my mind wanders off to an unknown place
3 am:
Awaking to the smell of
an almost-smoke
burning my nostrils
burning my curtains
Is this what it was like
loving me?
Loving you was an ongoing river
each rush getting away from me
the second I felt it
while the rocks, the biggest burdens,
stay in place,
unmoved, unsolved
The light of the candle flickers
as I watch the fiery masterpiece
flow over the room
I lit the candle before my bedside.
I knew the consequences,
repercussions
of loving you.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
She’s the spider on your shoulder
Holding you, cold and tight
She’s all eyes, slitted blue,
And the longest legs you’ve ever seen
With flaming locks of orange
Which burn brighter than the embers
Of bridges she’s destroyed in arson
And when she smiles, corner to wicked corner,
It’s not hallowed beeswax on her lips
Which gives them that crimson hue
She’s slow and steady wins the race
That your pounding heart
Is susceptible to losing to
Saccharine sweet with a smile to boot
She will have you licking hers
Steeped in honey, polite and courteous,
She spins you into her silken web
Not even of lies, but you fumble regardless
And then she eats you whole
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 8:31 AM UTC
Today I straightened all of the hairs on my head
whether they needed it or not. I like being organized.
Ironing out the kinks in my leather jacket with a baseball bat.
I try to cut the blues from the spinning record,
flicked numbered matchsticks across vinyl to
set the fleshed room on fire,
don’t touch me, I’m a real live wire.
Being on top of my **** is like handmaking
beeswax candles, I twist & turn, carving wax
in the air—There is always more to do, I
always tried to cross t’s and
sort the junk mail from the paychecks,
accidentally dropping cigarettes into the piles of post.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched you
lick postage stamps for the outgoing flood.
The laundry gets done even though I’m
too tired to pull my key out of the door.
I am in control of my own destiny.
I smoke Coca Cola & drink cigarettes for breakfast
because I don’t roll out of bed on the right side
of any given day, and
yesterday I put my foot
through the television
because tap-dancing on the shards
of the wood-paneled tube from dad’s first marriage
sings gnashed-teeth harmonies
with the microwave’s low groan at 3AM—
I used to eat cold spaghetti in torn jeans and nothing else
while you flipped through channels on basic cable
to hear the collage painting the end of the world. You were
always an empty can that year, you saved
orange peels to fill with oil to burn—
your name whispers itself into the grease hissings and
I hear it over the skyline and I cannot seem to find a match
to strike to light the last crumpled smoke in my pack—
All I want to do is send you photographs with singed corners,
photographs of your letters, attempts to burn away
any sight of you, ways to cut&bind; the flint that ignites
the only bonfire in my eye.
And sometimes I wish I could just scream at you until
the flowers crawl up the brick walls of your apartment;
my kitchen smells concrete like celluloid ashes and
if I snap my fingers to break broken promises and
floss my teeth with violin strings I might not miss you
anymore.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
Wrapped in a blanket against the cold night
Like a paper-wasps' nest
in a black-and-white birch tree
dusted with snow;
Like the wick of a hundred-times-dipped beeswax candle,
awaiting the flame.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
I roll over and pounce,
thinking of the beeswax deodorant
you bought when I said it would
smell good on you---
Bees! You've got BEES in your armpits!
And even though you're not ticklish there
you laughed.
Your mischief beard hangs
like bristle fingers from your chin
and touches my neck in a way
that keeps me between thoughts
and closed eyes.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 11:27 PM UTC
You smelled like beeswax
In your yellow sweater when I met you
On his bed
Such bright eyes
Big sister, big dreams
Told me to follow mine
So I did
And I climbed mountains
But I should have stayed behind
The coffee and the *****
Lemonade summer on your breath
I saw you waste
a w a y
with bottles in your teeth
You should be full
Like Sylvia
but-
Now everyone is skipping rope
And crossing finish lines
My sister, blonde haired beauty
She's still waiting at the gate.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
i watch
as little things
become big things.
little things
others might discard.
tiny hands
place wooden eggs
inside empty play dough cups
all in a row.
mummy which ice cream you like?
I smile before answering,
the flower and vitamin c one please
okay good he says.
i place a beeswax crayon
inside tiny hands
in exchange for
my ice cream.
i watch
as he drops
tiny, special things
inside a tiny bag.
a very hungry caterpillar bag.
a wooden tool,
a waterlemon jigsaw piece,
tiny plastic spoon
and empty tic tac boxes.
so many tic tac boxes.
i regret that
i am an impatient woman
and some days forget the beauty
in these little things.
i watch
as he takes sweet breaths
with eyes closed,
through cupid bow lips.
i am reminded
these are not the little things,
but the big things.
if there was one thing,
one big thing,
i could bless him with,
it would be that
he may never
lose his eye
for life's little things
too long.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 4:42 AM UTC
ambience and warmth
elemental, mysterious, aglow
the scent of beeswax or fragrance
mesmerizing drips and puddles
a flame’s pin point
a keyhole in the darkness
opening to another plane
where memories breathe
and flicker within the light
like an old time frame by frame movie show
playing back the details in your mind’s eye
anniversaries commemorating lost loved ones
undiminished pain sheds yesterdays tears
in the stillness of your heart
churches light candles
symbolizing God’s presence
people light candles
in memory of loss
expressing the present tense
of their love
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
give me back the days
when you’d press me like a flower
against the wall
and whisper little nothings
so cinnabon sweet
they’d swirl around
my head all day.
when we’d walk
spring streets coated
in magnolia leaves
you, mr. chivalry
curbside, protecting
every milky bone in
my body.
i crave
one more afternoon
tangled in sheets
with you,
fingers tracing
places i want
discovered by you
only.
another beeswax flavored
kiss, to get me through
the solstice
not yet gone,
already missing you.
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
It’s probably not that you were awesome
(but you were)
It’s probably not that it was worth it
(but it was)
It’s not even that you deserved it
(but you did)
It’s that your words became an apiary
And all my bees built honeycombs with the curves of your face
Now your words no longer come
nor does your smile grace me
The sweet honey has drained into the jars of my heart
And I’ve tried to forget you
but the syrup on my tongue remembers you
it puddles into the hexagons of your name
whispering like bees wings
I strengthen myself with sugar
and beeswax feeds my flame
that I harvested on a day my feelings decided to dance around you
like bees they nestled in your flowers
How long will I eat of your honey?
How long will your sweetness remain in my memory?
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 10:50 PM UTC
is like cotton twine,
if you put a match
to string, it will
burn away,
but if dipped
in beeswax
the flame will be
slow and sure.
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 8:51 AM UTC
as daylights shine wears thin
and evening is leaning on you heavy
like the engine of time has
forgotten to grease its wheel
your futility fueled smile has lost ground
in the struggle with the grin
of the man wearing a clown suit
he is a rainbow of laughs
he is the face behind the face that
you look into with approaching dread
the obvious winds of encroaching rain
tread briskly past my quiet ear
a motorcycle engine winds up its gears
in the summer like distance
like an echo in this autumn brink of evening
pretence of the storm
a few scattered cool drops of water
fall casual to the hard red surface of the patio
its faded and tattered paint beset with taint
here once sat a small brick wall
its remains scattered amongst the litter
in the overgrown weeds
as the rain begins in earnest
she leads me inside the house
and to a bedroom not used by shooters
the two of us sit in silence and listen to the passing storm
a woman without a word enters and
gathers herself in a corner
outside the window
sunlight creeps back over the world
reveals the man with the clown suit
sitting waiting for you outside the window
he had waited all his life
and he waits still
in his comfort chair
its worn plastic form strains but holds
his heavy thoughts
as the world passes in two's or threes
all the laughing faces
and the desperate lookers eyeing the safe harbour
he had waited all his life
inspite of the noise and garbage
he sits here and plays with the firebox
its heat keeps him from getting
a frozen heart
the three of us
leave the shooters house
making roads for the soothsayers den
only she can settle our earthly delemia
me, her and the clown
full on night gathers around our swift feet
the lights of the carnival
reflected in the puddles left by the last rain
the already stale the water is disturbed by our passing
the air smelled like cotton candy
and is full of noise
the soothsayer is mute
her lips sealed with beeswax
because she is mourning her camera
cause the camera was once her ticket out of town
it was gonna be a one way nonstop to hollywood
but it ended up being hollyweird and it wasn't in california
the four of us head for the interstate
if you cant solve it
run
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
i met you once
in a dream.
married for years
the pickpocket and
the traveling salesman.
fish rained down on our wedding day
and our friends released doves.
my dress was a million rose petals
and your tux dripped ink on the church's carpet.
we laughed and loved each other
chewing beeswax and
painting silly faces on our knees.
it was a lovely dream
drinking in the deepest love
and swimming through the cool waters
behind our little green house.
you told me you were afraid of the waking
i couldn't lie so i said
so do i.
we ran
but the alarm and the bright morning found us
i woke and you
were just a dream again.
no closer then a cloud.
a wish whose cologne
clings to my hair.
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 11:52 AM UTC
you say it like it's my fault
like i shook you
goddess of earthquakes
and my fault lines
etched into my face don't
give you the answer you're looking for?
you look upon me like an alien
like some creature who crawled forth
from a darkened alleyway to
burn in front of you
and pull you
a moth to the flame
Icarus flying too close to the sun
you melt
when you're in my arms
and i in yours i can see
the beeswax of your eyes
slowly turning to a viscous liquid
a rain-shower of that infernal desire
emotions that ***** like needles
piercing veins to slam home
a neon poison
higher than ******
to know my power
and hold that pulsing dripping
heart of yours
within my secret place
my holy of holies and
all i want is to tear the veil
and expose the bare truth
no more hiding in the shadows
a divine face you cannot look upon
i imagine god gets lonely
what is the meaning of a beauty
that cannot be seen?
that will consume every part of you
with a single glance
burn your eyes to charcoal
the only smoking remnants of
those bottomless brown cups of coffee
that swirl in your irises
i consume the world around me
more more more more more more
if left alone i would eat your heart
a feral animal
the pure incarnation of natural rage
thunderstorms in my eyes
and lightning bolt curls
blood-stained lips still dripping
with your 98.6 degrees
that same fluid which rushes
to your cheeks when
i shock you yet again
though you shouldn't really be surprised
anymore
if you know what's good for you
don't look at me
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
Buzzing, like bees fresh from a field of clover blooms -
The beautiful din of childhood conversation.
Sweet frosting dripping through layers of love baked cakes.
The smell of beeswax melting to puddles in flames.
Colors, akin to the late evenings proudest show,
Waiting to be ripped apart to reveal their gifts,
And streaming across the room in wisps of wishes
From family and friends making happy memories.
The jubilant ring of children singing brightly.
The sudden hush as hopes and dreams are planted.
A mighty breeze of faith, held for a year, exhaled.
Lights of age extinguished, replaced by childlike glee.
Scooped frozen cream with slices of honeyed layers -
Plated, shared, enjoyed by young and mature alike.
These, a very taste of wide-eyed innocence and sweet
Memory of bygone years spent loved and nurtured.
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 1:51 AM UTC
Not entirely crazy though a little bit insane
outside in the daylight, her mind runs as clear as rain.
I took the test they gave me
to find a compatible fellow
Roses are red, Violets are blue
but my heart is screaming yellow.
Bottled up my beeswax
showered off the gloom
drew a breath of sunshine
pouring through her room.
Talking to a stranger
not the average Joe
wait until I meet him
the only way to know.
Yarrow is a color
I heard the Asian mutter
hold the petals 'neath your chin
to see if you like butter.
An over-ripe banana
brown speckled, getting soft
waitin' for his perfect match
the others he has scoffed.
Not easily misguided
I won't buy into hype
Perfect match confided
He's not the risky type.
Yellow is not fade proof
it washes out in time
hang your heart out here to dry
wind blows it off the line.
Whatever is the point here
of how she did you wrong
your history's no matter to me
it's always the same old song
No longer scared, just waiting
been down around the block
tasted and been tested
bid farewell to bio-clock.
Today I am feeling ready
tomorrow I'm bleeding blue
orange you glad I'm yellow
a bright and crazy hue?
I don't need the internet
or men to entertain
just read my lips
and bring some chips
I'll meet you at the train
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC