"belled" poems
She had eyes like a crater,
Innocent as any girl could be.
I think she had some bruises when I met her,
But it never seemed to deter me.
I chased her like a dog chasing tails,
Was only then I started to notice her ***** nails.
And then those Yellow eyes,
Blue and Yellow never look pretty to my mind.
She belled me with croaky breathes of air,
I rushed to her house shook and scared.
She was slumped against a wall with the choker she used to wear,
Strapped around her arm and specks of ***** in her hair.
She's got track marks like a craters,
Darkness lay dormant in her soul.
A once natural and elegant Beau,
Now alone in the world of ****** and Blow.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
(for my brother, Martin)
I have sown the moon in the sky for you
so every night its there for you to see
I have stopped every clock from ticking time away
I have turned the tides back from the shore
I have stopped your world in blue belled Spring
and locked my in the falling leaves of Autumn
So now you can rewind the moments of the world
You can go back, to that one moment of choice
and never find the hose, nor set the engine deadly running
nor send those texts of fond farewells, to friends who looked away
nor write to me with love a comfort letter
for the dreadful loss.
No!
Just you:
the tufted, still blonde cowlick sticking up
the crinkled nose and cheeky smile
those sea blue eyes to drown in
strong brown arms, muscles flexed and toned
wrapped tight around me warm
and alive.
© M.L.Emmett
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
your words sound my bellsoul
a depth charge of incandescent tone
to coalesce the ground of my whisper-being
to sunder me from self-falsity
to shoe my doubting feet with fierce clarity
to walk me thus shod in cradling Truth
more deeply into the oblivion
of my ethereal dark whose web tingles and sounds
with tiny silvered bells
I am belled
sounded by Love in Love
Its deep and penetrated tone
calls back
the shards of being
I abandoned
along my lifeway
so to join me
together
c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 4:19 PM UTC
This slight bird
so oft alone except
in spring when pairs
will flightingly court
in blue-belled woods.
Passerine bird
erithacus rubecula
a thrush-like fly-catcher
diurnal except on
moon-lit nights.
Mr McGregor’s friend
and never to be harmed.
He in winter sings,
she in summer warbles;
both fiercely territorial.
Legend says its breast
was scorchéd red
when fetching water
for those poor souls
dead - in Purgatory.
When the Eternal Christ
was dying on the tree
a robin to his side flew down
and boldly sang to ease
our sweet Saviour’s pain.
And evermore retained
the mark of blood
upon its once-brown breast.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
writing a poem (on my iPod: feels like cheating)
while greyhounding back homeward---
(weekend red stripes in guelph & waterloo)
it hasn't much t'do with anything,
save perhaps this mournful banjo
in my ear and grey toronto
and the plateglass houses of the
great rich masses set back on
manicured hills. . .
. . . it is overcast again
---tho t'always is on busfilled
travel sundays---
when you've nothing else to do but
leave all the weekend's joy in the dusts.
preachers screamin' in fastidious belled churches
while my head splits (from th'very thought)
and O the women i leave behind!
the tight snaky barworn dresses,
smudges (lipsticks)
on ***** cranberries ...
ah! (ah!)
all the numbers and names half-collected,
waiting for next trip down
---or maybe just black oblivion.
. . .
but enough of cloudy thoughts!
i have Spring and all (WCW)
waiting in the pack &
afterall
... poetry
is the only thing of any importance.
the gardens of bedroom bliss
the freckled map of womankind
the rippling cascade of golden hair
must wait...
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:37 PM UTC
You hate that I wear your shirts
Specifically the ones that you got from being in the marines
Its just I don't know you
I never really did
So I wear your shirts because you've worn them
And I was hoping that the fibers would tell me who you were
The woven strands would tell me about your personality
The dyes would tell me about your past
A history written in cloth
The folded crisped sleeves
Telling me about what happened in the past ten years of not talking to each other
You see I **** at talking about what I'm feeling
The only proper way I can is spilling it through the tip of a pen
Or pouring it into a keyboard
I'm slowly reminded that your shirts don't take on a condescending tone
Telling me that I'm just a kid
Part of me was hoping that
Some kind of weird information transfer would happen
Your shirt and I would swap information
So the next time you put it on
(If I hadn't taken it with me)
Everything I've been through would swap into your head and be processed
And you'd stop calling me a little kid and you'd realize that
I **** at showing emotions and that you aren't a brother to me
You're a stranger
And you left
When you did I had to grow up because you were the first to go
Ten years ago you left and I don't hold anything against you because I don't know you
And my earlier memories are always swirling eddies
A fogged shower mirror that I can never make out
You left and when you did you left a child behind
Someone who still had chimed belled laughter
Will o the wisps smiles
Someone who treaded on pearl ingrained feet
But those pearls began to sink in and cut
Only to become blood rubies
Unforgivingly beautiful
And seductively painful
I walked back into your life on those ruby kissed feet
I stood a little taller
My shoulders a little broader
My face a bit more graced with age
Hi
I'm your slightly older younger sister
How have you faired these past ten years?
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC
Bellicose beer-belled bad-asses
Bawdily belting down brewskies
Usually, boozily, bruisily beating
On weaker, sleeker funseekers
In the bar where they are, far
From anything like maturity
Hip hip hooray for unhip USA.
Ballyhooing big screen viewing
Myopic eyes watch others exercise
Freedom-hating grouch on a couch
Itching, ******** psoriasis and sloth
Unread armchair Brother of the Cloth.
One of the minions of opinions,
Hardened against morality, reality.
Saying it every day: USA, USA, USA!
Hating, bating, aggravating, skating
Right past solutions, conclusions
Preferring propaganda, ***** Miranda,
Stop mollycoddling, bottling up anger
Christ in the manger should be law
But they guffaw at reading The Book;
They took their religion from TV.
Freedom for me, not thee, in my USA.
Got mine, ***** yours, rights immune;
That tune don’t play here. No queers
No browns, yellows, Hindus or Jews.
I’ve got news you can use, I abuse
And oppress guys in a dress, yes!
Even if he’s white, it still ain’t right.
The Constitution is old, it just teases.
Mine is Republican Jesus for the USA.
A pigeon for old time religion and God
Everyone else is odd. I saw the movie.
It was groovy and pretty. Went to the city
Saw it in Imax, no blacks in the theater
Thanks to The Creator that gave us all
The intelligence to call things right.
Hip hip hooray for being lily white.
Hip hip hooray for the KKK USA.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
A smell so delicious,
Persues the kiddies around the lounge.
Wafts from the kitchen.
Such luscious aromas.
Fresh pastry, as mince pies she's baked.
The tree pined longingly for a special relationship.
This Christmas had to find itself a home.
Where it was warm and cosy.
To stand outside no more.
Safe indoors from winter's storms.
It stood as a puff ball of needles.
Malachite and emerald.
Peridots of stars that sparkle.
Free-standing tall, stuck in a *** of soil,
Waiting to be decked in tinsel.
Let the belled garlands ******
While the tree top lights twinkle
Where peeping neighbour's could be nosy.
To spy in through the windows of the house next door.
Check out their tree and their presents for sure.
While the turkey roasted in the foil.
Smell the children's excitement.
Senses all a flare.
Sound of ripping wrapping without even a care.
Excitement of children and adults.
Ready for Christmas day!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC
Pigeons are water-birds carved from stoicism.
When feet approach, they disperse, reconnect,
and continue, leaving me completely perplexed.
I can never tell the difference
between their calling of mate
and battle for territory.
Both actions are so absurdly similar.
I watch for days, chasing them
and their thirty-yard flights with my coffee in-hand.
I've traveled to the Rockies of Colorado
from the ***** Lower East Side of Manhattan
by rusted, dring-belled and horned bicycle.
Cool winds helped sail me across forest trails
and I slept, albeit briefly, on park bench ports;
they attract my current muses and, in turn, me.
These winter-jacketed birds tend to puff up and coo and dance
in front of one another defending their plumage,
their right to be, where they are, for what fills them whole.
One will stare at another, the other never looks back.
One will bump another, the other never touches back.
One will chase the Other and then gently caress its wings,
as if to stab, "Stay a while, partake in the sidewalk feast."
One wants in, the other out; they both want in
so I'll be headed home now.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
I lay in your arms on a
Vacant bed of Poppies
Watching a midnight blue sky
As ancient ferns opened curtains wide
Cathedral upon cathedral
Passed before our vision
Each belled more splendid than the next
Slave doors were but half opened
We saw arches being lifted
Marx and Brecht nodding in agreement
We turned and rested in "I AM"
The poppies faded
Their red turning to blood
Black centres becoming
AFRIKA !
Copyright © Ghairo Daniels 2017
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 3:01 AM UTC
my fingers are scarred with the snap
of war's bitter teeth; they have
sunken in and dragged, sunken in
and dragged me out until i have
touched my heart's heels to every
battlefield-- made me a canopy to
encompass every blood-embezzled
decade. i have made myself a
hideous phantasm of Vietnam,
a tattered, frayed mountain-scape of
blue-belled America, a depthless
sea in which my brothers boiled.
i still hear bombs when i walk
sometimes, in the dripping black
of the nighttime sky i see the way the
mortars ripple and burn. but i have
never found another stretched-thin
soldier, with artillery rounds cradled
in their chests like i. i have been stumbling
and crying across the earth's crust,
screaming,
DRAFT ME
FIND ME
DRAFT ME--
finally the draft plucked me up and
brought me to you.
in you i have found the brother i lost
at sea, the lover boy of 19th century,
and the one i held close to my chest in
Vietnam. let me touch my hand to
yours and remember; i know i
will feel all our old words course through me,
all our ****** teeth and
crying eyes and
all the times we touched
brought back to
this moment.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
(for my brother, Martin)
I have sown the moon in the sky for you
so every night its there for you to see
I have stopped every clock from ticking time away
I have turned the tides back from the shore
I have stopped your world in blue belled Spring
and locked my in the falling leaves of Autumn
So now you can rewind the moments of the world
You can go back, to that one moment of choice
and never find the hose, nor set the engine deadly running
nor send those texts of fond farewells, to friends who looked away
nor write to me with love a comfort letter
for the dreadful loss.
No!
Just you:
the tufted, still blonde cowlick sticking up
the crinkled nose and cheeky smile
those sea blue eyes to drown in
strong brown arms, muscles flexed and toned
wrapped tight around me warm
and alive.
© M.L.Emmett
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
Haze scatters blue light on a planet.
Frought women, livid, made into peonies by Aphrodites that caught their men flirting and blamed the women, flushed red.
Frought women, livid, chrysanthemums, dimmed until the end of the season, exchanged and retained like property.
Blue women enter along the sides of her red Torii gates,
belayed, branded and belled,
a plangent sound.
By candles, colored lights and dried flowers,
she’s sitting inside on a concrete floor,
punctures and ruin burnished with paper,
boiling burnt lime from lime mortar.
Glass ***** on the ceiling,
she moves the beads of a Palestinian glass bead bracelet she holds in her hands.
She bends light to make shadows against thin wooden slats curved along the wall
and straight across the ceiling.
A metier, she invents tinctures,
juniper berries and cotton *****
Loamy soil in the center of the room,
a hawthorn tree stands alone,
a gateway for fairies,
large stones at the base protecting,
its branches a barrier.
Its leaves and shoots make bread and cheese.
Its berries, red skin and yellow flesh, make jam.
Green bamboo stakes for the peonies when they whither from the weight of their petals
and lime in the soil,
she adds wood chips to the burnt lime in the kiln,
unrolled paper, spools, and wire hanging.
Wood prayer beads connect her to the earth;
the tassels on the end of the beads connect her to spirit, to higher truth.
Minerals, marine mud and warm basins of seawater on a flower covered desk,
she adds slaked lime to the burnt lime and wood chips.
The lime converts to paper,
trauma victims speak,
light through butterfly wings.
She’s plumeria with curved petals, thick, holding water.
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 2:48 PM UTC
An empty urn,
the barren bowl,
a vase awaiting
one pregnant rose
A table barren
of knight's tableau,
stools surrounding
in retched repose
An earthen mug,
Pan's pool in spring,
a coin no longer
worth its weight
Each grounded in its
reason, spherically
precluding its sin—
That ringing at the gate
A life-lived-not falters,
yet blindly clings to fate,
blind Themis holds in
balance still, the cup—
She chose too late
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
I have the world on my thigh-
Studded black and blue and purple.
I have some ideas in my head and color in my eyes.
I have a house full; a home, with belled lights and painted frames.
I have a future, a voice, an opinion to make, warmth and kindness and ears to hear.
Yes, there are stars in the sky and leaves on trees, freckles and smiles and art.
I have bricks to stack and bridges to burn...
Oh darling,
if I only had you.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 3:49 AM UTC
How I loved your mouth
the way your words belled forth
rang in soothing song
your lips and all the rest
days of coming home
in meadows or prairie suns
by love's fiery field
how we were
consumed
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
A drop of water falls from a leaf
Splashing to the ground
To set off the fliers in their game
They rocket forward
Their dangling feet graze the dew-soaked grass
And a tiger-cat chases their toes
Her belled collar makes sweet noises
In the crisp morning air
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 10:46 AM UTC
~
The swelling brooks, so clear toned,
Rolling rounds over musical stones,
That unveil the rushed veins of May,
Race in wide cool stills, freshnesses,
Of the moistened soils overturning
And the chimes in the belled leaves,
Before they shout from buds keyed,
To syncopate in sun by bopping bees
Who buzz with jazzy pillowing waft,
Of daisy downs, in mid air to reeds,
Lips newly sprouted, banding green,
Groove myriad symphonies of colour
And the roots of trees tempo tapping,
Into waters plucked, earthy sounding,
All voice, with woodland birds, in joys
Do trumpet, O what new life to come.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
In early morning,
Mist revolving joys,
Everything so glorious,
The grey fox on the shores,
The great blue herons,
Light houses of dawn,
Arching into heavens,
Overlooking all souls,
Such colours by the sounds,
Lilting in the scores of clover,
Of bees notating and staffs,
Sway of staved dragonflies,
Dropped dew belled in petals
And whole world lathed
With harmonious light.
Across the silvered pond
Were deep woods without name,
For journeys into wrested sleep
And light poured, raining
Through the spring leaves,
Staining the glass of the sky,
Ordaining the stationed hearts,
Held by the still deer, who walked
On waters, wading into sun,
Each night destroyed
By freshness and rays,
The mottled waking meadows,
Green as ever growing,
More alive then old legend,
O to be a pilgrim with eyes,
Opening!
To be shy lord in the fortresses
Of fallen trees and savour such
Piney sense as rooted sassafras,
The smells of mosses and leaf,
On the shores of the painted
Turtles, shaded by lurching trees
Mushroomed over shallows, sunning
And hear the foghorned frogs
Alerting the dark gleeming, red-
Winged blackbirds to their reeds
Among the rocks a child
Skips, hums upon.
So breaking was the boy
In the hood of the pond,
More alive, golden, than a star,
Round that very crested shire,
In the berry vines of ripeness,
Winding marshes at play,
Where blush of wild ducks
Endlessly saunter and rooks
Dot the airs circling eternal.
Now in ages past,
After, pond enameled
So far away still sings
Of childhood to come,
For any lost soul who waits,
Beyond cries, a warbles lulling,
What songbirds might ring,
For newborns who break,
Into some future paradise,
Births of new days dawning,
Dominions of the sun.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 3:44 AM UTC
.
The swelling brooks, so clear toned,
Rolling rounds over musical stones,
That unveil the rushed veins of May,
Race in wide cool stills, freshnesses,
Of the moistened soils overturning
And the chimes in the belled leaves,
Before they shout from buds keyed,
To syncopate in sun by bopping bees
Who buzz with jazzy pillowing waft,
Of daisy downs, in mid air to reeds,
Lips newly sprouted, banding green,
Groove myriad symphonies of colour
And the roots of trees tempo tapping,
Into waters plucked, earthy sounding,
All voice in joys with woodland birds,
Do trumpet, O what new life to come.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC