"blindingly" poems
Speaking of broken hearts
and mended fenced in mem'ries
I am painting skies
of tangerine, saffron
& an illuminated lilac hue
against the starkly contrasted crisp cornflower blue, stretching canvas that is
along with all the
other blindingly beautiful colors of a twilight sky
And those dripping cotton candy stratospheric clouds
Ice crystals freezing into supercooled
water droplets
Streaking the sky in cirrus whispers
..I hear them whisper, "hello"...
Blinding beauty
through unadulterated sunlight
I am fleeced like a lamb
watching in awe,
..in wonder
then stomping sounds
of coming thunder,
Finding depth and height
out in the stratosphere
Blinded by the
After Light
or afterglow
affected by the amount of haze
I'm in a daze
...as I am reaching
High above the fading light
of a brilliant early fall sunset
I take a big breath
of that sumptuous air
and twirl my skirted legs
my painted toes
where I know
I am back
to solid ground
Appreciating the last time
I say sleep well
to you my dear
summertimes sweet mem'ries
and the fun we had this year.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
Touch it: it won't shrink like an eyeball,
This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.
Here's yesterday, last year ---
Palm-spear and lily distinct as flora in the vast
Windless threadwork of a tapestry.
Flick the glass with your fingernail:
It will ping like a Chinese chime in the slightest air stir
Though nobody in there looks up or bothers to answer.
The inhabitants are light as cork,
Every one of them permanently busy.
At their feet, the sea waves bow in single file.
Never trespassing in bad temper:
Stalling in midair,
Short-reined, pawing like paradeground horses.
Overhead, the clouds sit tasseled and fancy
As Victorian cushions. This family
Of valentine faces might please a collector:
They ring true, like good china.
Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.
The light falls without letup, blindingly.
A woman is dragging her shadow in a circle
About a bald hospital saucer.
It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper
And appears to have suffered a sort of private blitzkrieg.
She lives quietly
With no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle,
The obsolete house, the sea, flattened to a picture
She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Grief and anger, exorcised,
Leave her alone now.
The future is a grey seagull
Tattling in its cat-voice of departure.
Age and terror, like nurses, attend her,
And a drowned man, complaining of the great cold,
Crawls up out of the sea.
41.9k
The smile of iceboxes annihilates me.
Such blue currents in the veins of my loved one!
I hear her great heart purr.
From her lips ampersands and percent signs
Exit like kisses.
It is Monday in her mind: morals
Launder and present themselves.
What am I to make of these contradictions?
I wear white cuffs, I bow.
Is this love then, this red material
Issuing from the steele needle that flies so blindingly?
It will make little dresses and coats,
It will cover a dynasty.
How her body opens and shuts --
A Swiss watch, jeweled in the hinges!
O heart, such disorganization!
The stars are flashing like terrible numerals.
ABC, her eyelids say.
11k
The cherry blossoms, pink and luscious, in full bloom.
Below the koi fish swim round, round in circles.
The sun reflects off silk kimonos with a shine radiant, dazzling,
With red lips against painted white skin, blindingly beautiful.
A walk like unraveling ribbon,
And hair like ink, bound tightly a few strands bound for escape.
Untouched skin tainted by stares, clipped wings useless for an escape,
Freedom comes in the hope of riding a cherry blossom, swelling in bloom.
The leaves swirl to the ground, spiraling in nature’s ribbon.
The glares of tigers ********** her, kimono falling to her feet in circles,
Eyes of blue, green, never turning away, trapping those beautiful,
The nature of a hidden world, shaming and stunning, confining yet so dazzling.
The snap of the gold-trimmed fan weaving in and out, dazzling
The crowd with effortless twists and turns; clenched tightly, no room for escape.
A dance of untamed water in a disturbingly beautiful
Unity of desire and fright. A young bud not on the verge of bloom
Thrown into a crowd of tigers to be spun in uncontrollable circles
And entrapped by the unflinching gazes in silk ribbon.
The game is simple: mesmerize a pack with grace of ribbon,
Attend engagements that ask for a dance, tea pouring, but never dazzling
That pure smile too brightly. Fool the ***** tigers to follow in circles,
But never trust a tiger that promises a chance of escape.
Never fall for love’s first bloom,
Never become the next to lose the light. Stay pure and stay beautiful.
A kimono is only as pure and as beautiful
As the woman underneath. By cutting the ribbon
Of virginity by a friendly lamb, instead of tiger’s bidding for the bloom,
Only leads to the fall of a shooting star, gracing the sky with its dazzling
Beauty, and the hope and wish of an everlasting escape
Is crushed by the weight of a soapy rag, washing away the hope in circles.
Though the pain of the cage binds the mind in endless circles,
Though tigers ignored the aching backs and blistered feet, staring at only the beautiful,
It is better, safer to stay in the hidden world, banishing all thoughts of an escape.
Keep the tigers in a tight ribbon,
Stay young, fresh, never letting the mind wander away from dazzling,
And never fall like a cherry blossom after its first bloom.
A walk like unraveling ribbon,
The sun reflects off the silk kimono with a shine that never ceases from dazzling,
And forever watching the cherry blossoms, pink and luscious, fall in full bloom.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
Nothing is not black
It has no colour.
The blackness of space is black
But nothing is nothing.
No light or dark,
No taste or smell
Or touch.
Nothing cannot know it is nothing
No more than we can know
When we are gone.
Our transient existence is a blessing
Here on Earth, beneath the Sun.
Sunshine shining, blindingly bright
Upon the foliage
Of Paradise bathed in light.
Paul Butters
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
In days dead and burried in time,
In a very far away enchanted clime,
In the mighty kingdom of Nineva
Where there fairly shone forever,
There once was a strange lonely wood
That ever in fairest robes of green stood
By the edge of a fair shoreline of pearl,
Whose mystery none may tell nor unfurl.
For akin to the most effulgent yonder star
That forevermore scintillates from afar
In a splendiferous novelty golden cluster,
So thrice scintillated the gem's luster.
And 'tis for this that as we all truly know,
All mortals, I say, all mortals of long ago
Gravitated from corners of distant lands
On the quest for riches by those strands.
Once, sweltering was the noontide
When upon a violent lonely rolling tide
A bunch of desperate pirates were seen
Nearing that wood of emerald sheen.
In a while, they'd gathered all they could,
Leaving not a single gem in the wood.
Alas! A wind murmured upon the skies
In faint whispers: "Woods have eyes"
So muttered all birds - all birds of the air,
All creatures in caverns desolate yet fair,
All leaves upon strange shadowy trees,
And all - all creatures of wild lonely seas.
But, despite the looming dark omen,
Swifter than plummeting drops of rain,
So hastily dashed every single pirate
Blindingly minding not about their fate.
They raised their silvery sails to take sail
But hark! All this - all this was to no avail;
For upon the skies no wind was seen
To render them across so wide a sea.
In a jiffy, louder than birds of the skies
All gems whispered, "Woods have eyes."
From that moment on, all lost their sight,
Doomed never to behold the sun's light.
And now, upon those murky restless seas
They dost weep but no plea can please,
For they were doomed to rove evermore
In search of their long forgotten shore.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 29th.July.2018.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC
On autumns ground I walk,
As winters snow sky blindingly glows.
In the thylacines footsteps i tread,
On a path the future presents.
Sitting in a cafe, I realise,
The tea I have just had, was built from a billion lives.
Who tasted the leaves.
Who told the others.
Who invented the farm.
Who planted the leaves.
Who planted the seeds.
Who made them grow.
Who picked them.
Who told the nation.
Who created the plough, made the grow more effectively, created the axe, learned to chop a tree, learned to shape it, learned wood floated, came up with the ships, made the first boat, made it sail, told the others, discovered nations, learned their language, spoke it, found what they wanted, got tea, got it back, gave birth to 200,000 generations who split off as cup makers, baristas, cow farmers, milkmen, sugar farmers, sugar packers, cafe owners and tea farmers.
'CHEERS!'
We are indeed standing on the shoulders of giants, but the weight will build on ours.
Swimming the route laid out by the Baiji.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
"The thought of the future we will never have was pollinating foul fuzzy particles in the air, slowly following the wake of all those tasseled dreams I had held onto for all those years but had to let go."
The most intimate revelations can often expose plagiaristic suppressions that we've most likely tried to already forget. Suggesting to anyone on the outside looking in, that there is a rancid cowardice secreting from the pores of all those who would deny the most basic of fundamental decencies to their fellow man.
All the while, boasting a loud tolerance that would be found on the very last Autumn-the very last colorful arrangements of watering oranges and smothered reds our world was ever going to be privileged to witness again.
The thundering drumming of my own beating heart gave my freshly dead and bland reaction a neon personality, with a few extra ********* lingering, successful gestures that reflected a sparkly prism of tracers.
Tracers that were birthed from the most brilliant of lasers, as I was radiating something that was blindingly gorgeous, something that was heightened with more sensitivity as it shadowed over the complexity of every kiss that I had ever been given in my life..
Spinning a silk and gold web around me that was almost as intricate as an alarm sounding earth quake.
This flaccidly tight response came at a price, leaving nothing but whispers and the wrong kind of impressions at the sight of it's unwanted face..
The time of dignity and grace felt decades away as your tiny little temperaments began to attempt to soothe me into a very still silence.
"Wooing" me and "seducing" me with such a strong touch of romantic readiness, I knew it would never be matched or found again causing me to feel a stroke of sadness at the single sentiment.
This dramatic departure killed any interest that might have supported the abortive sorrows and short winded elation’s of men, but instead the idea of a possibly new tasseled dream, sparked me into a shimmering prism bouncing glittering, glimmering, glowing rays off my skin, as I put the shine in the sun.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
Aye, Vladimir, just before I met thee
I hath been sure I hath loved him-
no matter as queer as it may hath seemed!
Thou knowest not, how much tears I hath shredded
and noticest not, how t'eir vanity made me look dead!
But why-why then didst thou appear-
and wokest within me t'is secret fear-
with understanding in thy eyes,
and with a love t'at is to me so dear.
Why-why t'en thou left me, left me again!
Whenst I got to knowest thou but for a moment,
ah, with not so much of an endearment-
afforded ourselves only t'at streak of lovely,
but still weak of too a bond,
or any pact, of young novelty.
And everything was corrupt
As soon as thou re-released me
into t'ese qualms of insincerity
wherest I am still tossed about, guilty.
And hushed, hushed always,
like a trivial, parallel wind!
As though my dear heart's bathed in sin
and of a soul t'at is so thin
So worthy not of thy soulfulness
and sweet dreams of many happinesses.
Ah, Vladimir! If only thou could knowest
T'is thread of passion thou hath sowed
and how my entirety seekest being loved
By thee, and only by thee, o my rain!
As thou art but king to my sneaky moon
and my very own kingdom of stars
Not him-not him, o t'is I entreat,
albeit his wits hath been but to me so sweet.
Still he be a mistake, ah, a chilly autumn mistake
to me, from whom I didst just turn awake.
Probably thou would hath loved me;
imperishably and blindingly,
until all thy superb charms and wit
t'at wert but tortured and unbending
shalt be left within me lit;
and thus leaving our fiery souls entwined
with winds t'at art even sweeter
yet might be torturously everlasting.
Vladimir, Vladimir, oh my only Vladimir!
Thou altogether belongst with me; here,
so unjustly yet heavenly
And in our hands is cherished
our love, o, so wickedly-but fatefully!
How I longst to be thy lover, dearest-
and be so comely as thy only flower;
which ripens thickly in thy winter
and blooms robustly, in thy summer.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
I am clueless as to how I have dug a hole in this concrete ground, 60 feet deep. The dust I’ve been choking on does not bother me no more, layers piling upon my lungs like snow upon an exposed carcass. The slightest upheaval of my chest and tingling in my lungs reminds me that I still breathe. I’ve met scaffolds of bones down here. As I stare into their hollow sockets, I could never figure if they were ever esurient for something I held. They taught me how the ocean is never blue but only a de facto reflection of the sky. They said many mistook the sea for the sky, but never once mentioned the salt that contaminated their lungs- the impetus that drove their feet 60 steps into the waves. A reconciliation it must have been. I doubt it made any difference, when their hearts were bleeding out; a pity it doesn’t make it any lighter. Down they sank.
I wonder if I mistook these soils for the sky. As I looked up, I realised that the sky only seemed further away. There’s something peculiarly comfortable down here, the little bumps on the walls and contours of the craters looked like jawlines of a new-found friend. The sun is so blindingly high in the sky. I preferred how sometimes I could see the man in the moon- shadows cast by imperfections on the moon’s surface. In the vague moonlight and scrawny silhouettes, the fact that the moon always has a dark side makes it tangible a thousand miles away. Sometimes, I lay on this wooden receptacle discovered upon excavation and gaze at the empty skies with my friend as he tells me what lies outside this trough. Happiness is a pack of hungry wolves and when they are done, you are left with only your marrows. I see things clearer down here, than above where they are smothered by smoke from the trees they burned to the ground. Sometimes the skies are dark with no hint of dusk, sometimes the sky is filled with white nebula; but most of the times, the days are shorter than the nights. But it never gets any darker down here.
I figured I could never mistake this hole for the sky. I was just chasing these broken pieces like I used to chase happiness. I have no idea how I’ve gotten this deep while trying to pick up these pieces that I don’t recognise. But the struggle tells me it’s real, and the pain keeps me awake. They say if you spend enough time with someone, you will fall in love. I guess that’s what happened between sadness and me.
I’m staying here.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
Skinhead
super short
military hair
with a strong jawline
jutting out
I saw you
One random
blindingly hot afternoon
In a jeep
I tried to squeeze in
the small space so the two guys
could scoot over
You’re the guy to my right
Reluctant to pass to the driver
my exact change
You sat upright
Your right arm lifted, hand
closed on the security rail
I could only see your profile
Your jawline and Aviators
Mouth set in a deadpan line
Lean, quietly confident
Dressed casually and carefully
Odd eggplant-colored shirt over
whitewashed jeans
You turned slightly,
your nose strong
chin dignified
skin clean, with slight
blemishes of stress
Pretty eyes
That never landed on me
Your lips slightly curved
as if remembering something
You are beautiful
Arrogant-looking
Bored
Worldly
You’re not from here
Not from common places
Not from this wretched community I belong to
Then my eyes traveled to the back of your head,
An inscription was tattooed
at the back of your skull.
Your hair growing, beginning to cover up
the past?
A dangerous past?
New life?
A mere change of look?
Where are you going?
Where are you from?
Why are you taking this route
to and from common places?
What is your agenda
on this high afternoon?
Are you a rockstar?
Are you a poet
A gangster?
Then finally it’s my stop.
I got up and wished you
were following behind
That we have the same destination
Just so I could look at you
in full view
I stepped into
the sad, bright afternoon
Then I turned around
You’re not there
You sped away
To some place
Some life
With your Aviators
And your principles
And it hurt
That I never even
knew what
your tattoo meant
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
I have beautiful nightmares still to this day of our times together.
I see her face, of which I do not like to recall but nevertheless, blindingly unforgettable.
Just the burning ashes and shadowy silhouettes that dance in the corridors of my mind between darkened doorways and buzzing lights.
No wind, growing still air and a stench of old sketch books and burning lighters.
Some things you wish you could forget, while others, you wish you could remember.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
In outer space, there are 10 particular stars that are the brightest. They are part of important constellations that people search for their whole life by name. The brightest star is Sirius, because of its magnitude.
You are my Sirius.
I searched and searched and searched millions of constellations, looking for the brightest star and I found you.
I am like the regular stars of the universe which do not contain such a spectacular magnitude and would never be able to reach the superiority of Sirius.
You Sirius, are the kind of boy someone would write a book or produce a movie about, because you are literally a star.
At least ten girls in school admire you because of your magnitude and your being, and maybe they sit there and write about you too.
I've been searching for you my whole life and here you are in front of me, for at least two hours of a day.
I don't know what to do now that you're so close and I don't want to ***** up. I wish my intelligence could be enough for you, but Sirius, you are the brightest of them all, and there are brighter stars out there that admire you.
there are less skinny,less lankier stars that stare at you
there are more brilliant, smarter stars that yearn for you
there are stars that don't laugh like an asthmatic,
there are stars that have themselves in order and know where they are going and what scholarships they will receive because of their brilliance.
man, i may be the most annoying, stick skinny, unintelligent, asthmatic star out there, but at least i perceive you as my Sirius. no other star sees you brighter than how blindingly bright i see you.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would spend countless hours writing poems for you.
I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would perform seppuku so not only I could remove the pain of you being with another man,
but I could show you all of the scars in me that you left behind.
I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would construct convoluted, conniving catastrophes in which every man that hurts you gets the plague.
I would spend hours on your facebook hoping for a hint that you still care,
And not care that the amount of time spent thinking about the idea I have of you could be used to possibly pursue another,
Though all I want is to be wrapped in beautiful white cloth with you,
Swinging slowly in the warming sunlight and talking about nothing but everything is felt instead of heard and the intentions of what is said become blindingly more important than what is heard.
I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would hold it deep inside, though the sight of your car outside his house at three in the morning and the news of your new job and new tattoos drive pins covered in ‘I love you’ into the pit of my stomach, promptly followed by bowling ball to knock them down.
I don’t love you…
…but if I did, I would pretend that I don’t.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 7:46 AM UTC
Once upon a solitude night in September
I caught the shadow of a stranger
It left me with a puzzled mind and a puzzled heart
Trying to figure it all at once
I kept questioning "Who is he? Is he real? Is he just a lie I make for myself?"
Clueless me, with a soul of a centaur, seeking for a truth
I walked into his shadow, slowly
Didn't know it'll take me to the real shape of someone, someone real
I looked at him
And it felt like epiphany
Once upon an ineffable day in October
The sun was shining and setting blissfully
We talked, he looked at me right in my soul
What a familiar stranger you were
Such a perfect contradiction
Dark and bright
Cold and warm
A serious man and a playful child
I felt like I don't know him but yet it felt like I knew him from the start
He rescued me from deserted, hopeless space where I once belong
And he was no more a stranger to me
Once upon a day in mid-November
The lightning strucked from every stance
Everything seemed to have fallen apart
and the darkest past still run to chase both of us
That's when I knew, even before I realized
that maybe I fell for him
with every pieces that remains
And now, in the end of cold December
I will ask him
To consider being my partner in crime
to help me continue writing our story
It might be blindingly beautiful
It could also be terribly tragic
but maybe
We will be some of the lucky ones
who will one day find a true bliss
Hopefully
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 12:18 AM UTC
a gentle patter of rain
tapping politely
at the window
not tempestuously
but imposing enough
in its constancy
a passive aggressive reminder
from the heavens
of our ultimate
lack of control
such a minor obstacle
and yet it tips
the scales of
what was planned
or hoped for
to something perhaps
unforeseen
not yet considered
i thought i had
no intention of
leaving the house
but find myself
rolling my eyes
with huff and sigh
cursing the grey
for ruining
that potential
by lunchtime
windscreens glisten with
newly welcomed sunlight
reflected blindingly
from droplets that linger
despite the fresh warmth
carried in the convective air
it no longer appears
to be "coat weather"
though the ground
is still puddled
to squelch or
splash underfoot
perhaps i could venture
outside after all
with a motivation
fuelled by this
latest change
but for all the blue
stretching the sky
there is still that
darkened mass of cloud
hanging heavy in the distance
unable to tell if it has
been weathered already
or is another downpour
yet to come
Apr 18, 2023
Apr 18, 2023 at 9:43 AM UTC
Blindingly obvious to all but me
Momentous moments don’t come free.
To make decisions raise your hand
Then, thick or thin, you make a stand.
Make decisions, make ‘em right
Wear the consequences and/or fight.
Own 'em big, own 'em strong
For on your back they now belong...
**Commit, my friend, to make it tight
Then wear decision's lead weight right!**
Marshalg
(Helping him out)
25 August 2011
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 7:27 PM UTC
The Sun’s beaming smile
Bathes the plains with gold.
Lord of the heavens,
Circled by your sons
We call planets,
Your searing heat
Keeps us warm
And well.
I love the summer
With those shiny beaches:
Radiant reflections
Kissed by sky-blue surf.
Sun, you are a surge of nuclear bombs
Devastating the darkness,
Destroying the frosts of outer space.
Blindingly beautiful
Yet you redden evening clouds:
Red sky at night delight
Indeed.
Ball, orb, sphere, call you what you will,
Sol if you prefer.
The pale moon mimics you
Even blocks you at times,
But you are never eclipsed for long.
The sky is your playing field
Though the starry crowd is hidden
From your fiery light.
See the sky brighten
Just before dawn,
Then witness the birth
Of another fine day.
Paul Butters
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
In the midnight of our days
there is no moon
for me to gaze upon
No whispering willows
or symphonies of the night
Just the blaring days sun
blindingly bright
In the midnight of our days,
there is no quiet of the night
The silent hue of stars
no where in sight
The humdrum of the day
becomes wrapped
like a regifted package;
boring and forgotten
passed on
like one moment to the next
In the midnight of our days
I day dream
of chirping crickets
and hooting owls
of whispering willows
and lone wolf howls
In the midnight of our days
I ache for the peacefulness
of the night
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
While I gaze in your eyes, cool cerulean blue,
Sifting night, straining stars through morning’s sweet dew,
I can fathom the depths of empyreal skies,
Angels fluttering by, riding wild butterflies
While I gaze in your eyes, changing, aqua-blue greening,
I’m ****** into chasms, cascading, careening,
And yield to enticements which meekly disarm,
Seeping virtuous beauty, sad sensuous charm
While I gaze in your eyes, bleeding fiery blue
Ever tempting with treasures, with pleasures for two,
Being caught at the core of a blazing sapphire
Possessing, enthralling, aflame with desire
While I gaze in your eyes, misty emeralds, deep green,
Veiling laughter and banter, and echoes between,
Then I dream, so it seems, in whatever the place,
Of your scent, of your breath, of your radiant face
While I gaze in your eyes, at times placidly blue,
Near’ as calm as the weirs in the woods all bedewed,
Forty winks relegate to a shimmering lake,
Gently floating on lilies, while waiting to wake
While I gaze in your eyes, caught engulfed in the greens
And consigning my fate unto verdant ravines,
My reactions, at length, become shyer and shyer
Reminiscent of ravens at risk in the briar
While I gaze in your eyes, restless, hesitant blues
Overwhelming sensations with turbulent hues,
I’m succumbing to waves of a storm battered sea,
Being cast like a plank, never meant to be free
While I gaze in your eyes, shadowed, Midnight Lake green
Glowing hazy with dreams, misty thoughts so serene,
Sudden silence befalls me, a fast sinking stone,
Looming lost in your eyes, I am never alone
While I gaze in your eyes, saddened, lachrymal blue,
Spilling trickles of rain, pearls obscuring your view,
I’ll attend to your anguish and feelings morose,
Lightly kissing your tears, touching, holding you close
While I gaze in your eyes, pulsing infinite green
Of the earth and of heaven and all in between,
It is simple to see that my hands can hold all
Of the treasures I find which so humbly enthral
While I gaze in your eyes, when they’re bountifully blue,
I’m reminded, love’s lightning is granted to few...
While I gaze in your eyes, when they’re blindingly green,
I’m reminded, love’s lightning cannot be foreseen...
Yet I hope... and I wait...
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC
Mie Takuye Oyasin
A Poem by Eclipsing Moon-blood red
we are all related in NA sioux language.transcendental look at relationships...
Words of the creation, softly ,jaggedly, tumbled from my mouth...
Blindingly Lit by the Cosmotic forces, thunderingly struck ...
As a two headed drum of goatskin, beats the primal rhythm...
Twump...pa Thump...resoundingly beckoning all spirit matter to proclaim....
I am worthy ...We are worthy ..We are all related in creation..
.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 3:53 PM UTC
sirens blare and shutters close,
we sit calmly in our humble abode
until we smell the smell I’ve smelled
a thousand times and going strong.
we joke and skip idly around the stairs
in a fashionably orderly manner,
like in an empty amusement park.
“the fire smells good”, says someone,
and i nearly choke at the absurdity,
but i have to agree, it smells like
nostalgia, the plumes of charred plastic
filaments, remnants of 3d printers
bringing me back to better days.
as the chaos rolls along in the background,
we order truffle pasta from the vending machine,
giggle at the firemen who lost their way
and watch the sorry-excuse of a smoke
trailing away into the blindingly blue sky
as the exhausted sirens blare once again.
Mar 19, 2024
Mar 19, 2024 at 9:21 AM UTC
I close my eyes and lay my ear against your chest to hear the rapid, but somehow still steady beat of your heart and the sound of the blood rushing through your veins has always made me think of sun rises, of blindingly white light and pink hues in the skies. Hearing the blood course through your body reminds me of sunrises, of another beautiful day, another day to be grateful, like somehow your existence has a correlation with the heavens and maybe you're not even aware of it. Like every battle drum song echoing in your chest signifies another beautiful day awakening in a life that could be ours. And when I finally lift my head from your chest and I see your eyes looking heavy because they carry the weight of every sunset that you've sworn wouldn't be washed out by the vibrant crimson of the insides of your wrists. Like every time you blink you hold the power of every moon phase in that one simple movement, and isnt it funny how that one simple movement is so powerful, do you even realize how powerful you are even in your simplicity? But then again Mother Nature never stops to admire herself, but then again do we ever give her the chance? We always twist the beauty she gives us into acts against our humanity, we always turn the failing of our ozone layer into a crime instead of an act of loneliness. Mother Nature wants to show us all the warmth she has to offer, Mother Nature wants to shower us in the warmth that our kind has always been lacking. We always turn the rare colors of the sea into an act of violence, when all the waves wanted to do was show us how beautiful they are when they try to cleanse something so impure. They never meant to harm us, but my dear take a leaf from their book and do not ever forget, do not ever apologize for being so beautiful while still remaining so powerful.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
blisteringly cold, blindingly bright, beautifully bountiful, snow drift white.
I stand in the snow freezing my toe.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC
And then he didn't come back
The summers passed, autumns faded, winters roared, and springs bloomed but he's nowhere to be seen.
As she made her way to the shore, she felt the gentle breeze and the embrace of the waves and as she looked up; she saw the moon alone in the vast nothingness of the sky with no star to keep her company.
She remembered him, thinking that maybe the stars are gone for the moon is too broken and is not as illuminated as it was the first time.
Then she remembered the first time he laid eyes on her. His eyes shone so bright, held much admiration in his gaze that she couldn't understand for she is nothing sort of a goddess the moon had blessed.
None of her poems caught the light and the life in his eyes when they first met: of how it looked silver and storm that reflects his turbulent emotions, of how his eyes reached the depths of her soul with his gaze, of how he saw her as his moon.
None of them could ever describe how his eyes demand to be stared at. None of them.
But then, he was a fleeting light like a poem you will only read once for it is blindingly painful that it hurts looking the second time.
And now, she feels a part of her is missing as she search for the stars up above.
And then she fixed her gaze, closing her eyes to the moon: wishing that when he said "It's because of you." He doesn't mean goodbye. Wishing he doesn't mean she's the reason why he's gone. Wishing that dreams aren't supposed to be just dreams for when they become reality, they take away the magical feeling.
A few tears escaped her closed lids and glistened as they bathe on the light of the moon as she thought of the last poem she'll ever write to him.
And then she finally whispered hoping the wind will bring it to him:
" And maybe,
paintings and poetry
couldn't hold a candle
To every emotion
we once had.
You
hold a key
when we
first met.
I should've known
that that key
is not for me
For I
was never
your home. "
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC