"blueish" poems
you left your blueish dress
twisted by the pool’s edge
like a cold monument
to every single misstep
and my heart is overwhelmed
with visions of a dancing grave
via crucis in the morning
carry me to our palisade
while these tiny arcs of light
leave my eyes, breaking easily
and your voice keeps me awake
i believe that i need this
you were wrong
i am nothing
but one more familiar face
amid the pageantry
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 2:42 PM UTC
The tavern roof was smokey
with a pall of blueish ash.
The juke box was a- booming
as it played "The Monster Mash".
A giant puffed a burning witch
whilst smoke rings he exhaled....
While victims of our neighbor,
Vlad...on stakes were all impaled.
The Faceless Man was grinning...
from ear to missing ear.
The hanged man turned his twisted neck
to sip a mug of beer.
The Headless Horseman shouted
for an aspirin or three.
He popped them down his gullet
where his head was meant to be.
The zombies waited tables
and the werewolf tended bar.
Mothra was the carhop
and took orders car to car.
Godzilla worked the griddle
and served burgers ala carte.
Dracula complained about the steak
caught in his heart.
Ghosts and ghouls were dancing
with abandon on the stage
While cyborgs did "the robot"
'cause they thought it was the rage.
The mummy came unraveled
as we took him for a "spin"
As Frankenstein played tuba
to contribute to the din.
Igor brought "the monster"
and then Freddie brought his claw.
Jason brought his butcher knife
and his buddy from "The Saw".
The guillotine was working
and the raven refereed
So nevermore would pardons
be
allowed to intercede.
The pendulum was swinging
to the beating of my heart.
I hoped that I would wake up soon...
then did so...with a START!
Halloween is coming. So, I guess
I should prepare.
Watch out for bars with men from Mars...
'cause BEASTIES party there!
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC
Gazing through the tallest
green nettles
I realized they do
not bite me
Cause it was not the day
for stings and aching
Cause i had the black
mountain boots
and a heart
on my
dim
dark
sport gown
My hands reached
upwards
the Heavens
towards
the white yello
Crown
of
Elder's Abundance
Where Scented Blossoms
Coloured my skin
And exposed my life lines
After
The coolest tangerine
Lemonade
I sat on the black soil
squished young grasses
and found the
tiniest
snail
baby
My palm was a giant Plato
For it's snailish leg
On the left one
he was without weight
portruding forth
to his destination
Is it possible that
his house was
3,5 mm
long
Isn't it cute
that when streched
was 7 mm
at lenght
Visible horns
like 1 mm
and half of it
The upper
The downward
Twotwo
Four
What are you looking at
My lines or me
If he climbs from my
left palm on the right one
It's ment to be
I'll visit the seaside
Fibbonacci House Spiralled
Inner layers with colours
outer still
and translucent
Is it possible
this tiny snail
thinks about me
It didn't work
It remained
on my heart's side
Then I moved this
cutest creature
on my right palm
Little little snail
you're not a match
to squeeze
From the right to the left
I thought to myself
he is she
i don't know
snail's so young
for sure it doesn't seek another snail
To cherrish and love
Yet
It
Climbed on my left thumb
Beautiful in motion
As a revolution
For better days
It is my heart's side
My vision became
Sharp
Clouds
Waffed all around on the deepest blue
White and puffy
Magickal
Metallic
Dragonfly
Emerged out of
Nowhere
Had landed on a spider web
cocoon
on the Verge
of Enchanted Forest
Where grave monument resides
Dragonfly
was in the air
the invisible wings fluttered
My sharp vision
focused on
another three
Blueish
camerades
They don't need los zapatos
They are not obsessed as
Imelda was
And i wasn't thinking
about that at all
This words are for you:
thank you for the music
but the dragonflies
buterflies I love
most.
They were near my
heart,
one caressed among
tall grasses
one butterfly
also
not in oslo
and
Fibbonnaci Friend
who gave me this
Sharp vision
To see the magic
revealing all
around.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
crisp atmosphere, special ordered
for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking,
stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky,
orange 'n red leaves delivered on time
the old uber-man-grand-pa,
hired as a day driver,
saddles them up,
three generations all tucked in a
repeating mise en scène
a replay of some thirty years earlier,
when the now-father
was about the same age,
as his boy, three years aged
and yet so impatient
asking the same question
his father perfected,
in the same sweet voice,
at about the same time,
in the same way,
a little voice from deep in
the cavernous back seat,
sighing, squeaking with an
I've-seen-it-all ennui,
some mere five minutes into
the hour's plus journey
to the 'country' bound
"are we there yet?"
titters 'n snickers from assorted adults,
but grandpa weeps words with composition instant,
so many answers to such an important question,
so serious that an admission, confession
required, due you,
grandpa still asks the same question
every day of his life
it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman,
strictly verboten,
God knows there's an essay unwritten
as the answer, a symphonette with
a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire,
a pumpkin for every patch,
some answers that even may be a
young prince's carriage in hiding
but for now let this suffice,
sometimes yes, sometimes no,
and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya
so with utmost seriousness
a purposed thoughtfulness proposed,
posing said inquiry knows no age limitation,
if you have not asked of yourself this day,
"are we there yet?”
then the answer is surely,
not yet
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Deep, somber, reflective pools.
Stirring by an ocean of blueish gray.
Vast as the mountain and all of its roots,
Clear and deceptive as the piercing light on a cloudy day.
Not flustered by the coming storm,
But troubled instead when it is blown off its course and swept away.
Unshaken by the torrential downpour of warming rain.
For cool inside they will ever stay.
Such pools as these are ripples away from some escape.
Yet when all other pools would've walked away,
They stir themselves and still remain.
Fixed and introspective.
Much like the tides which arrive anew with each coming day.
These waters rise and though they reach,
The wonder and bewilderment is never washed away.
From within such pools.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
I am alive & just barely;
my throat is closing off
with hard, precious cancer eggs
tucked safely where my tonsils
are supposed to sit.
my fingernails this lovely
shade of purple, a deeply
blueish tint influencing them
almost indigo. They tattle,
silently proclaim my complacent
malnutrition. the moons of my manicure
have sunk backwards, eve
returns to dusk, my favorite
time of day, where the quiet
begins, the candle may be lit,
& the eyes I always feel on me
are at least shadowed from my vision.
the coffee is so black
pulsing through my shrunken veins
that my tears are caffeinated.
even when I don't hold a cigarette,
I see the smoke under my breath.
my hands & feet are always cold,
my muscles tremble & I swoon
when we try to stand strong together.
there is turmoil
constant static
in the fissures of the grey matter.
well? tell me! does it really matter?
my bones ache
my face breaks
oh, this Exist Contemplate.
my government has always
been corrupt; the city walls
are finally wearing, having
borne the onslaught for decade
& decade. oh, the Burn & Blister.
I crawl to my coffin without your permission;
Where are you, my Handsome Benediction?
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
Night 1:
I spend my last, and hurting days
Attempting to erase your face,
And the memory of your last hug:
Fingers tugging on the lace
of my dress,
and the purple velvet of the blanket,
Covering both our skins,
Our vulnerability,
And passion.
Night 2:
I am trying to forget,
But you stained me like ashes from a cigarette
On the white fabric you used to wear.
Or still do... who knows?
You haunt me, but I come to trace your silhouette,
And **** you’re gone again—
Maybe protected in the shadows.
Night 3:
Where are you today, my joy?
Where am I?
I hopelessly wander the empty, sandy dunes,
Watching the full infinite moons
Pass by.
Night 4:
I never thought I would be the one to leave you—
I always thought it would be the other way around.
I am truly lost...
The sandy dunes are, in fact, hills of beige frost,
And I am scared;
I am scarred.
You’re an irreplaceable piece of art,
And I’m too far from where you are.
Night 5:
My hands are shaken, and are bruised.
I am ashamed; I am confused.
Clearly, the only way to **** off a memory is through abuse.
I learned to take a pill—
It does claim to have my pain reduced!
And the velvet,
And the lace,
Are appearing to erase.
Then goes a smudge of colour;
Next, leaves a seraphic face...
What was the purpose of a greyish-blueish gaze?
Who knows?
Who am I?
Who are you?
Who is who?
I am no one anymore;
For there is no one to adore.
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 4:43 PM UTC
sweaty forehead, a gory past
wildly glowing eyes of oblivion
shivering hands, sirens, bars
freedom, imprisonment, razor blades
peru, coca farmers, chemicals
smuggler channels, route 36
franklin's face on crumpled-up paper
rattling coins, benjamins, stacks
gotta make it or take it
gotta sell or abuse it
flashing louis, abundant future
sweaty forehead, ****** present
biker chapters, brothers, funerals
tommy hauled jim's coffin
rick carried tommy to his grave
cut-offs, gats, one call: ******
despair, hatred, vengeance, omerta
mortals remain silent, angels don't
rain of blood, a puddle of codes
turf, plots, streets, blocks, gangs
cults **** cultures, weapons replace
shelter in a group home; the stabbing
"shaun got heart, he a furious one --
can use dat dude, pay him up"
black, white, african-american, chechens
territories of unspoken laws
intimidated witnesses, gay mobsters
lured teenagers, deadly magic of power
the old ones impress the new ones
newbies will turn into soldiers
**** or get killed; headshots of fear
numbers on the forehead, blueish
unwritten are the rules of some
bribed politicians, skippers, knockos
the one who wets, will be wetted
others prefer the clarity of faith
organized crime, rats and kingpins
multilevel marketing, elevators
glass towers, late and secret meetings
route 36, the white magic of death
it's all in the game
"The only thing that burns in hell is the part of you that won't let go of your life.
Your memories, your attachments, they burn 'em all away. But they're not punishing you, they say. They freeing yourself.
Relax."
(Quote from the film "Jacob's Ladder")
Dec 26, 2020
Dec 26, 2020 at 4:06 AM UTC
there may
or may not
exist
certain colours
that the human eye
is unable
to see
an insipid
blueish-yellow
an unpalatable
greenish-red
each said
to be impossible
for our eyes
to process;
if seen
it could appear
in all manner
of forms
but would remain
indescribable
they say that
butterflies can see
the ultraviolet spectrum
and that
the honey bee
sees in infrared;
and so
it would not
be too absurd
for a person
to dismiss
the "impossible"
to believe
in the possibility
of the as-yet
unseen
although
scientifically
the only way
to perceive
these "forbidden" hues
is through trickery
and constraint
by forcing the brain
into seeing both
antagonistic colours
simultaneously
and
without reprieve
until the border
between
the opposing shades
finally dissolves
there may be
a truth
but it is hidden
somewhere between
the plausible
yet impalpable
and the proven
yet proselytised
May 2, 2022
May 2, 2022 at 11:30 AM UTC
wake up from your adventures, and take a dab.
don't take it far, thats not your job
the dab will take you as far as needed
and you're blankets will resurface.
put on your garments, and take a dab.
the day is new, and its age unknown
its crispy mood has woken your hairs.
You'll need to wear those socks.
Have a potato, and take a dab.
theres plenty more, so don't rush
the savory maple cloud, of pancake.
the coffee is void of the cow milk.
greet your neighbor, and take a dab.
His dog will have a bath, the cat
the rabbit, the finch, the turtle, the mouse,
they will all be thinking about oats.
Hop off your bike, and take a dab.
the ocean left you clean, the sun
a blueish green shade of wandering.
you're a person, in their shoes.
put on some tunes, and take a dab.
the day was tall, hungry and sharp.
the yellow sky fogged with milk
is calling you from your bed.
open the drapes, and take a dab.
the dancing wind will have its supper
and your nose will get to drink.
the green air finds your shirt.
Its been a long life of living
so take a dab
and wake up in a new one
to take more dabs.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
Glittery, jittery raindrops.
An old, long lost friend turned cold.
Beckoning to move faster, and rush
Until out of the wet, and onto the damp cotton jump-seat
Faked bliss, but still happiness edges nearer
And nearer.
Little green bells of our lady of artistic inspiration
Observation and fresh vegetable
Graveyard maintenance.
The mundane.
Frog-legs dance on their tip toes.
Buttery biscuits and the sound of gagging from the stall--
Instantly gratified.
Small child-stares, and alone in a fantastic universe.
Melodies cease, imagination deflates
The mundane.
Sticky leaves stuck on black and white cats.
Voracious, they ravage the tall grass.
Passive-aggressive sunshine sprinkles now, and burns later.
Fortifying iced drinks, and pinkish, blueish, purplish
Does the sun go down?
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
i’m looking at myself in the cracked mirror of the gas station’s toilet, smiling at the light rippling from the cavities of my body. some days i feel as fragile as porcelain and others as unfeeling as concrete, and age has become but a number on the candles i blow out every year. some days i crave a breathing object to surround my words with and others, i weep for more letters from the milky way. i settle back into my skin and wonder how to overcome the hurdles― airplane phobia; academic failure; life vision blurring. my days are filled with wandering through empty halls of dead museums pondering over the meaning of HER expressionless features, as i fill my brain with aimless trains that wreck my sanity. these make me want to lie in the pond and allow the moss to seep into my lungs; i want to play tag in a cramped store selling China and glass and even more, i want to feel what it’s like to feel the dandelions under my toes as we dance to music only we can hear. we will smear the blood on our lips to our cheeks and laugh at the prim and proper girls. we will occasionally come apart and put each other back together, leaving a few pieces out. we will trespass into abandoned carparks and lie there waiting for a car to run over us, until our vision turns blueish grey. this is how we will slowly acquire the lost fragments and this is how i will write myself a new body.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
fresh cut apple tree sawdust
light as duckling down
rests beneath late March blossoms
fragrances mingle
with the first buzzing bees –
songbirds perched
search for the perfect note
greeting the sunshine
springtime finally granting the Pacific Northwest
postcard mornings
and stress free
smiles
while driving –
arriving at Prison
the daybreak starlight
casts orange shadows
on pale blue walls
cobwebs flutter in soft breezes
and three blueish pigeons
coo their 'Hello' as I pass –
pleasantries and handshakes
at daybreak
warm sun and warmer greetings
as the education floor
buzzes
like the bees in the orchard –
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
Rake in the leaves
Sweep out the memories
Exhale out the dust
Take in the reveries
I love the swaying of the trees
In my summer sunshine
The gusts of winter courting the scent of lime.
Acres of yellow
Flocks of the white
Greeting yards of children all in plain sight.
Wonders of the ocean
Salt and water and sky
Blueish like the reflection of the clouds in your eye.
Rise of the light
In the glory of the gods
Singing in the full expanse of the prairies of love.
Empirical quests
In the burst of the works
Inhaling in the gorgeous yuletide of the earth.
Time in the nothing
Worries of the trite
Enbosom me in the absence of the darkness of the night.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 7:44 PM UTC
A mug of camomile tea is best accompanied
By the gloam of a late summer's day and
The distant bleats of young sheep,
I find. Peace lies between
Two silhouetted trees, black
Against a blueish sky.
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC
god created the sun
god created rain
rain and sun slept together
a rainbow evolved
every being has a double, somewhen
i'm half gipsy and jewish
bleedin' blueish
wise man told me lies about trueness
smell the fragrance of ghosts
relax, feel, love yourself
i will be praying for you
in rainbows
Dec 25, 2020
Dec 25, 2020 at 3:18 PM UTC
With fickle Freddy Frosts first showing
and the rising of ******* and
limbs fine tactile hairs, laguna,
filaments of sensation *****
quivering and striving
stretching toward a now absent warmth,
she always did have her sunny side showing, bare legs tucked under her
buttocks, leaning back on her hands
under that big Totara tree, face tilting
skyward and sandals kicked aside,
searching out her brighter sunny day
even now, with leaves falling down
the autumnal mix of ambers
Loamy greens and wooded browns
the earth cool and damp underfoot
her naked legs, arms defiant, barely crying for freedom!
Shivered morn's and eve's descend quickly
winters first indicators bringing
a refusal to employ blankets
hope tightly clinging to summers
silk sheets from Portugal,
feather light, soft as air,
just how she likes her thread count
high and expensive, sumptous,
(her pedantic obsession with fine linens)
totally ineffectual as calefactor,
so, she shivers on stubborn as ever,
Stay summer! Stay!
Even her loyal steadfast cicadas
have fallen silent now, summers last guard fallen to shortened days
and longer lonelier cool nights,
it is now she starts to miss a warm body
companionship, a worthy bedfellow
one who will not protest her cold toes
vicious advances on their warmer flesh
The sacrifice well worth the reward
of her warmest, ardent affections
tender embraces and softly spoken
murmurings of love and passion,
her full surrender to your body
with hers, she gives good, good love,
both body and mined soul deep too.
The countdown to clocks pushed onwards
pulls a wustful sigh from blueish lips
she is underdressed, flimsy chiffon
on a day made for heavier cloths
persists with summer daydreaming
of warm strong hands restoring her joy
under cold nights cloaked bed covers,
hot stolen kisses from a winter lover.
J.C. "littlebird" 05/04/2019.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 5:19 PM UTC
Im not an alcoholic
I just like to drink
Sometimes morning
Noon and night
When i remember moments
I've forgotten i think
But it's the amber
Colored cool
An essence up under
The senses
Dipping beneath wounds
Molding into
As Mr.Daniels
Shapes itself gainst ice
I've drank once before
Much
So much i doubled over...
Twice
But it moves
Shakes n shivers
Caressing heated blood
Sexing blueish veins
Im not an alcoholic
It's just
Beautiful Brandy
Coos n calls
My name
I've barely known
I've continuously shook
From dreams
Taking another hit
Brutal punch
Stroking the skin
Call me fein
No im not an alcoholic
But Brandy made me do
Yes my lips
Kissed Mr.Daniels
Brandy too
They are lovers
Of the sickest kind
Tantalizing flesh
Taking time
Glass is full
Cup runneth over
Turning corners
Lucky me
Four leaf clover
I said im not an alcoholic
Sipping elixir
What a d..n shame
I've brought champagne fame
Im not an alcoholic
Must I say it
Once again??
Murray
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
Deep as the motives of an empire,
his chest rises and falls
as quickly as kings through centuries.
---
You may be marooned in my bed,
but of all the boys that have been lost
in the blueish depths left on my neck,
I'm glad you lingered there
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 11:16 AM UTC
1. Stuck in a room built by terrifying numbers – big numbers. The front door marked 130, 125, 120, 115… Mom’s hand reaches and pulls the door open. Twenty seven bones shut it tight.
2. Blueish glow from a sticker encrusted Dell. 500 sit ups documented on screen. Twenty four ribs transferred into megapixels. Hundreds, thousands, millions of skeleton sisters silently screaming. Intertwined by sharp edges.
3. One pile of 206 bones fast asleep under a magenta comforter. Three sets of arms pulling the bones back to Earth. Too many tears to keep track of.
4. Zero smiles at the breakfast table. There is a 92% chance of precipitation by the looks of moms quivering lip.
5. One fiery ball of hot gas. 206 bones soaking in the ultraviolet rays. Nineteen ribs poke through a white Hanes t-shirt. One wrist full of red shadows. Only one scar remains and I can’t even remember it.
6. 52 bones- three steps forward, two steps back. Forward, forward, keep moving forward.
7. 1 New York style cheesecake. 707 calories. 117 per slice.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
And so the children danced by the seashore
At the break of dawn with
The sun not quite up,
But its radiance illuminating
The sky in a breath-taking
Blueish hue, that one could not
Distinguish from the tone of the
Infinite sea beyond the horizon.
They held each other's tiny hands,
Soft, for they were never
Exposed to the hardships of life.
Tender as silk with hopes and
Dreams of a brighter day.
The children jumped from puddle to puddle,
Splashing around the residue of yesterday's rain.
One girl with golden curls and a long
Sleeveless red dress danced around
In circles, stomping her feet in the water,
Her laugh sounding more like a squeak.
One boy with short brown hair and
Nothing but his underpants on
Leapt in the air arching his back
Wearing a glee-filled smile twinkling on his face.
The children heard a noise echoing
From afar;
They turned their heads to the source
Of the sound, and saw a bird in the distant.
"One, two, three, four birds!"
The girl counted on her petite fingers.
"Five, six, seven, eight birds!"
The boy yelled, showing off.
The birds got closer, but the children
Only knew how to count till ten.
They looked up with eyes and mouths wide open
As the huge metal birds roared past
With their giant wings and blasting sound.
The children froze with their hands
On their ears watching curiously as the birds began
To drop dark objects, hundreds of them.
The objects hit the ground where
The children stood, blowing away
All hopes of a better day.
O' the age of innocence is long lost.
She could've been an artist;
He could've found a scientist,
But greed got in the way,
For the fate of these innocent children
Lay in the palm of some fool's hand.
But dry your eyes my love,
For our children will hold hands at
That same spot someday, one day.
They will dance and splash,
Laugh with joy for there is hope.
There is hope in the resurrection of
The age of innocence.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 7:34 PM UTC
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCCXLIII)
So, if I wait until the morrow, pale
As aught excuse, we might continue thence
This theme: I meant to scribble--for intents.
Espresso. With sweet conversation, bail
For many years, passe, lost in betrayl
Since April was't? This morning likeas hence
We'd never ceased, I sip with Dad, a sense
Of sweeter hours in tow as if t'avail.
And Wordsworth oer last bits of coffee, to
Effect where Sunday afternoon in tour
Could don a sense of happier years we knew
When Mum was still with us. O tis a poor
Suggestion. I cooked lunch with mishaps fer
Reminders of the LORD's great mercies: new.
24Jun18
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
You stand in front of me, eyes wide.
Those eyes stare at me.
Big and bulging yet beautiful nonetheless.
Eyes that describe a thousand words in a look.
They can describe pain and misery through their greyish blue colour with a piercing stab straight into my heart making me question what it is they want, and why I’m scared.
Or, the blue colour comes to life and you tell me stories of the sky, the sky that resembles the colour of your eyes. Happy tales of a better time or a bright future.
or the scariest of them all.
they say nothing
there is no blue
there is no light
it’s grey
and you’re done looking at me
But for now, your eyes stare at me.
It isn’t a blue,
or a grey
Or even a blueish grey.
It’s just your eyes staring at me, and I stare back.
There aren’t a thousand words.
There isn’t a story.
It’s just you,
and it’s just me.
It’s a nice feeling.
You blink.
I blink back.
Apr 15, 2021
Apr 15, 2021 at 11:41 AM UTC