"brindled" poems - Hello Poetry

Waters waltz land dancing, Dragon flies flutter a buzz, Cat-o'-nines torching tales, Where beavers are logging Time with fresh water fish Who breach as they mouth, Fly catching in a casted sea, Mossy and bogged with peat, And the colours, mottled, fey, Brindled, brim, know they say, There are lessons, hear stillness, Punctuations in the spry singings Of the never tardy larks, windrous Riddles ripe rushing through reeds.

Meadow

14

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

0

Apr 5, 2013

Apr 5, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

0

Sep 27, 2012

Sep 27, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

0

Jun 4, 2012

Jun 4, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

0

Jan 26, 2013

Jan 26, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

0

Sep 22, 2014

Sep 22, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

0

Oct 14, 2013

Oct 14, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond. Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove And fern in my bed, I rose to greet The song-splayed sounds of light And work, I made it dropping slow Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down, Brambled in bay, garland in violet When blades could ***** and not make bleed, And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss In that glow, once knighted we must serve Wood, let me comb in peace! Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer- Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite And the vernal song sang lowly Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream. At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings Brown as the yellowed beech Colored in sounds that beat the heart. And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond, Bullied by the har-umph of frogs I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes. Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up! Damp fires hailed the rising Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

Soar with me, the young we are a flock of marvels roaring vertical claiming it, the laughter and so years go running around the sturdy, brindled narra, trilling of birds, existence born from

0

Nov 2, 2015

Nov 2, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC

Soar with me, the young we are a flock of marvels roaring vertical claiming it, the laughter and so years go running around the sturdy, brindled narra, trilling of birds, existence born from

Narra

7

carve your heart in me, love. deeper and away, our tender kisses bid the full moon farewell. the pungent swelter of breath and the verdure of leaving furiously sway in attendance. i can see you now through the pane of the next minute, moving near with a moment's fervent undulation. together with anonymous eyes, the stars watch in glee unsheathing the night, flayed like a bare bone. your thigh's silken river, brindled and flowing like words from any loose tongue fragile enough to break. my shaking hands tremble with a fresh fruit's succulent emergence, rid of alarms, wringing the wine out of it for mine to drink. chanting the mellow, the bed whirls with noise when all of these volumes slither back to their caves, i will touch with my territorial hands, your body's ample darkness and choke its depth, concluding the sepulcher with the lightsome fire of my kiss and its workmanship. all the things we once left trilling marks on remain stilled, watching at the edge of the pantheon, our souls unashamedly admitting that we are uncertain with ourselves. i can hardly surrender fears to your brazen feelingfulness yet as your fingers try to unclose what the winter of living has hidden in the shroud of cold, i find in me that we are each to ourselves like autumn's tawny daughters. the gentle ray of your wyes searches me underneath the tumble of virginal sheets. your ******* tingling fleshly in the sharp stab of the air's crisp arrival through the windows. going down and finding myself in you (my tongue breaking free from my mouth's dungeon leaving all words and soldering this avid yearning) dancing inside you in sempiternal motion, i can feel the sweetness at the verge of breaking like the length of words reduced to all-telling moans. rising and falling in the stillness is the aftertaste, leaving me bright in youngness, laughing freely behind whose flumine hair sleeps in the eventide far from ending as my hand still roams like a starved beast in the jungle of slackening breaths and gushes of blood, hunting for something still, drunk in believing that this moist venture will lead me to an unfaltering belief that it was your heart that i have had in my hands, forever to endure— these moments and their stark absences.

0

Oct 16, 2015

Oct 16, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC

carve your heart in me, love. deeper and away, our tender kisses bid the full moon farewell. the pungent swelter of breath and the verdure of leaving furiously sway in attendance. i can see you now through the pane of the next minute, moving near with a moment's fervent undulation. together with anonymous eyes, the stars watch in glee unsheathing the night, flayed like a bare bone. your thigh's silken river, brindled and flowing like words from any loose tongue fragile enough to break. my shaking hands tremble with a fresh fruit's succulent emergence, rid of alarms, wringing the wine out of it for mine to drink. chanting the mellow, the bed whirls with noise when all of these volumes slither back to their caves, i will touch with my territorial hands, your body's ample darkness and choke its depth, concluding the sepulcher with the lightsome fire of my kiss and its workmanship. all the things we once left trilling marks on remain stilled, watching at the edge of the pantheon, our souls unashamedly admitting that we are uncertain with ourselves. i can hardly surrender fears to your brazen feelingfulness yet as your fingers try to unclose what the winter of living has hidden in the shroud of cold, i find in me that we are each to ourselves like autumn's tawny daughters. the gentle ray of your wyes searches me underneath the tumble of virginal sheets. your ******* tingling fleshly in the sharp stab of the air's crisp arrival through the windows. going down and finding myself in you (my tongue breaking free from my mouth's dungeon leaving all words and soldering this avid yearning) dancing inside you in sempiternal motion, i can feel the sweetness at the verge of breaking like the length of words reduced to all-telling moans. rising and falling in the stillness is the aftertaste, leaving me bright in youngness, laughing freely behind whose flumine hair sleeps in the eventide far from ending as my hand still roams like a starved beast in the jungle of slackening breaths and gushes of blood, hunting for something still, drunk in believing that this moist venture will lead me to an unfaltering belief that it was your heart that i have had in my hands, forever to endure— these moments and their stark absences.

Autumn's Tawny Daughter

50

Baby's breath kisses the merlot tide of disease, A brindled sea holds the white orchid of blanched dittany's. Moonflowers scintillate with each cradle of dusk, While Stars marl the sky, veiling over in cosmic musk. During quietude, swans tread the ichor in a pearlesque flotilla, The poison ripples beneath them as they thread between silk lilies and ivory scilla. The gore strewn water continues to fester with pulsating, ripe, bile, Despite all, the huddle of infancy will remain ever fertile.

0

Dec 14, 2024

Dec 14, 2024 at 9:31 AM UTC

datura

Fruitful decay

Baby's breath kisses the merlot tide of disease, A brindled sea holds the white orchid of blanched dittany's. Moonflowers scintillate with each cradle of dusk, While Stars marl the sky, veiling over in cosmic musk. During quietude, swans tread the ichor in a pearlesque flotilla, The poison ripples beneath them as they thread between silk lilies and ivory scilla. The gore strewn water continues to fester with pulsating, ripe, bile, Despite all, the huddle of infancy will remain ever fertile.

8

Eros: the days leap as they should, over serrated blades of grass: brightly, transcendentally. i open the voluminous page of the twilight: it is October bruised with brindled water. white is the color of your laughter, nourishing the noise of heart, crumpled over the virginal sheet. in the staring mirror dizzy with life, shining with a sudden image in sempiternal fume: both of us, twining, entering each other even before the world was complete, heavy with your hair, lithe with your embrace, eyes gorged with naked visions, hands flayed, full of hours— i make your ample sea my scarce wave's anchorage, erasing the twinge by habit of shores. i weep: you are filling the world with your own light now drowning the shadows in the depths of their caves, choking the silence, wringing out the leafage of your body's inflorescence. in vivid decree of your smile, you have made me the cargo of minutes rummaging across the dunes of lust: the tousled sheets, nearing, coming to me, swarming soft body: we fell into the hollow of sleep. Thanatos: here at the lip of the bed receiving our smallness, the days— felled into the night, stilled, in this finite hour a darker blue is given; i speak not of love. how are we alive here? raining inward, above the brim of an open window, do you wind-hover? your voice has escaped the dungeon of my mouth, and the twining of our fingers give birth to a forest of specters and a moonless love demanded. i beat through your harsh curve; i go tracing your eyebrow engulfed in the festering fever of half-light marches and the faint spark of autumn leaving no tawny scent— there is only silence peregrinating in the room before you and after I, it began to pour in our room, both of us struck down to mortals together with a feint recall i cannot parry: we fell into a bottomless hollow of eyes, chasing our chained breaths, wordless.

0

Oct 19, 2015

Oct 19, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC

Eros: the days leap as they should, over serrated blades of grass: brightly, transcendentally. i open the voluminous page of the twilight: it is October bruised with brindled water. white is the color of your laughter, nourishing the noise of heart, crumpled over the virginal sheet. in the staring mirror dizzy with life, shining with a sudden image in sempiternal fume: both of us, twining, entering each other even before the world was complete, heavy with your hair, lithe with your embrace, eyes gorged with naked visions, hands flayed, full of hours— i make your ample sea my scarce wave's anchorage, erasing the twinge by habit of shores. i weep: you are filling the world with your own light now drowning the shadows in the depths of their caves, choking the silence, wringing out the leafage of your body's inflorescence. in vivid decree of your smile, you have made me the cargo of minutes rummaging across the dunes of lust: the tousled sheets, nearing, coming to me, swarming soft body: we fell into the hollow of sleep. Thanatos: here at the lip of the bed receiving our smallness, the days— felled into the night, stilled, in this finite hour a darker blue is given; i speak not of love. how are we alive here? raining inward, above the brim of an open window, do you wind-hover? your voice has escaped the dungeon of my mouth, and the twining of our fingers give birth to a forest of specters and a moonless love demanded. i beat through your harsh curve; i go tracing your eyebrow engulfed in the festering fever of half-light marches and the faint spark of autumn leaving no tawny scent— there is only silence peregrinating in the room before you and after I, it began to pour in our room, both of us struck down to mortals together with a feint recall i cannot parry: we fell into a bottomless hollow of eyes, chasing our chained breaths, wordless.

Eros | Thanatos

56

taut the barb which my heart flung away and adorned – such language is black while many others have their places that silence had fractured. the punctual shadow of the night, I converse in them through the pulse of the roots and their consistent counter-beats. the many others, whose centers encircle heavy in their viscera: enisled as a conference of birds in plenitudes of brindled mouths – the augury that sees itself, my full being – this nocturne of stone-flight. the cosmic working of the sky that hands me, a necklace of stars which implausible pearls simmer in fond gleaming: these foundlings that are dreamt away, and named innumerably across many other anonymities we recall with a throng of sound. in my hands the night folds like an origami conscious of its florid ikebana, as there could be another splendid thing like the calm: glimpsed, coveted like the light of all things grave in darkness.

0

Jan 8, 2016

Jan 8, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC

taut the barb which my heart flung away and adorned – such language is black while many others have their places that silence had fractured. the punctual shadow of the night, I converse in them through the pulse of the roots and their consistent counter-beats. the many others, whose centers encircle heavy in their viscera: enisled as a conference of birds in plenitudes of brindled mouths – the augury that sees itself, my full being – this nocturne of stone-flight. the cosmic working of the sky that hands me, a necklace of stars which implausible pearls simmer in fond gleaming: these foundlings that are dreamt away, and named innumerably across many other anonymities we recall with a throng of sound. in my hands the night folds like an origami conscious of its florid ikebana, as there could be another splendid thing like the calm: glimpsed, coveted like the light of all things grave in darkness.

Ikebana

23

Sketch a diary in autumn frost leave behind a sorrow lost. A night beneath whispering stars and listen to their voices afar for they may drift in colossal numbers yet their words speak - the words of the wise and the words of the weak for there lies a thousand wishes so hopeful in brindled streaks And at last they remain - captured by the stars, but freed from the night. gd

0

Mar 2, 2014

Mar 2, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC

gd

Purple sky.

Sketch a diary in autumn frost leave behind a sorrow lost. A night beneath whispering stars and listen to their voices afar for they may drift in colossal numbers yet their words speak - the words of the wise and the words of the weak for there lies a thousand wishes so hopeful in brindled streaks And at last they remain - captured by the stars, but freed from the night. gd

14

I, whose sleep gloats searching for answers, steering for a dream I take my place amongst men in parks, in alleys, in trains, and the Sun unmasks itself like timeworn skies of linoleum. trees their bulwarks realize such oneness and birds start to rain where time wounds all feelings and lovers innumerably lay flat on their bellies. mountains ***** as tall as truths, and the sleuth more than my body’s engine turns less than a seraphim – dizzy with the night’s utmost haranguing. I, whose soul returns not with garlands but with chains as my phantoms go with them swimmingly across the blue Earth and a man brindled, tussled against space that so distant the star becomes so near and all sleep lose names of dreams.

0

Dec 18, 2015

Dec 18, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC

I, whose sleep gloats searching for answers, steering for a dream I take my place amongst men in parks, in alleys, in trains, and the Sun unmasks itself like timeworn skies of linoleum. trees their bulwarks realize such oneness and birds start to rain where time wounds all feelings and lovers innumerably lay flat on their bellies. mountains ***** as tall as truths, and the sleuth more than my body’s engine turns less than a seraphim – dizzy with the night’s utmost haranguing. I, whose soul returns not with garlands but with chains as my phantoms go with them swimmingly across the blue Earth and a man brindled, tussled against space that so distant the star becomes so near and all sleep lose names of dreams.

Blue Earth, Brindled Man

20

I know the world has only space for a woman and her heart, her ******* emblazoned in the trees, her depths in voluminous books – let only the saltine water touch her brindled body atilt amongst the lilies in the silver dawn and that her cusped hands demand a softer hue of love whereas the salacious wind continues its grasp championing things both fragile and sturdy: the world slides in the coloured curve of a woman and the men dare too, follow the road where they meet first with death sitting still with the roses like a splendid fragrance stilled in the mind leading you to a garden which thorns are ensconced in a smoothness that sings salutations to love – as I remain to be nose-deep sheath after sheath, **** after **** stalking the perfume of the world a woman owns.

0

Jan 16, 2016

Jan 16, 2016 at 4:07 AM UTC

I know the world has only space for a woman and her heart, her ******* emblazoned in the trees, her depths in voluminous books – let only the saltine water touch her brindled body atilt amongst the lilies in the silver dawn and that her cusped hands demand a softer hue of love whereas the salacious wind continues its grasp championing things both fragile and sturdy: the world slides in the coloured curve of a woman and the men dare too, follow the road where they meet first with death sitting still with the roses like a splendid fragrance stilled in the mind leading you to a garden which thorns are ensconced in a smoothness that sings salutations to love – as I remain to be nose-deep sheath after sheath, **** after **** stalking the perfume of the world a woman owns.

Womanearth

13

Sometimes we are a foggy day a brindled mist that hangs like a beaded curtain across the doorway of the altered bikers from down the street and walking through us requires a machete of caution and silence and a flashlight of sixty-percent honesty Sometimes we are a Thanksgiving break a respite from the weight of responsibility and a monster dustbunny of anticipation that tumbles from beneath the bed requiring a broom of clarity and Potter-esque frenzy and a damp paper towel of decisiveness. Sometimes we are a banana Spring-green on the precipice of perfection only to tumble into the ravine of only good for banana bread or compost a sliceable bite of tropical gratitude and a sticky sweet batter of hostage taking. Sometimes, not often enough, I reflect upon the void you fill which I never imagined existed until it was filled like concrete between flagstones Grand Canyons made plateaus by a surprise and a sigh and a homecoming.

0

Aug 21, 2014

Aug 21, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC

suzanne-wilson-regalia

Sometimes

Sometimes we are a foggy day a brindled mist that hangs like a beaded curtain across the doorway of the altered bikers from down the street and walking through us requires a machete of caution and silence and a flashlight of sixty-percent honesty Sometimes we are a Thanksgiving break a respite from the weight of responsibility and a monster dustbunny of anticipation that tumbles from beneath the bed requiring a broom of clarity and Potter-esque frenzy and a damp paper towel of decisiveness. Sometimes we are a banana Spring-green on the precipice of perfection only to tumble into the ravine of only good for banana bread or compost a sliceable bite of tropical gratitude and a sticky sweet batter of hostage taking. Sometimes, not often enough, I reflect upon the void you fill which I never imagined existed until it was filled like concrete between flagstones Grand Canyons made plateaus by a surprise and a sigh and a homecoming.

24

To watch with intent but not desire, his life passed him on as he tries to explain which one he would take to the afterlife if there is such, like a convergence at the tip of the horizon or a humid evening in Pasay as pyrotechnics scrape sky fashioned like acrobats. The breeze he needs no longer. And then begins to disquiet the quiet with the heavy burden of which he will then forget when he starts to move all of a sudden in space, capitulating afterlife again if there is such, and if everything takes a sojourn into the bleakness, must I remind you that you are all variations of the same absence. Remember when you had your name carved on wood as attendance but not for long. You have escaped, locked in the arms of a life that you thought was yours but still isn't, leashed under the Sun. Bodies pulse then fluctuate but not a sign of life. Words function more in stillbirth. Never forget, as a dandelion hovers and puts a smile on your dreary face, and a question in search for all available and naked answers. Principles undermine caprice. Do not adhere. Must I remind you that you are someone else apart from who you think you are. You have yourself straightened, tucked safely like intent, not desire in all its voluminous and vehement speeches annotating something unknown to the behest of ourselves. If I were a house, I am gratified by windows -- your mirage there transfixed in a secluded spot, looking out brimming with life as curtains oscillate as the Earth breathes with you. If I were a house, you would ransack everything with a sly mouth packed with powerful narrative. How you have done over, leaving everything undone, moved off-tangent, under impossibly gray skies, brindled in prayer. If I were a house, doors slammed, speculative fabrications sleep through evenings and mornings until no difference is met -- you meant a word as if it had a lock and the key, somewhere cold in the air of sleuthing pains making me so, less than this and more of a fractured house.

0

Apr 15, 2016

Apr 15, 2016 at 7:43 AM UTC

If I am gratified by windows

To watch with intent but not desire, his life passed him on as he tries to explain which one he would take to the afterlife if there is such, like a convergence at the tip of the horizon or a humid evening in Pasay as pyrotechnics scrape sky fashioned like acrobats. The breeze he needs no longer. And then begins to disquiet the quiet with the heavy burden of which he will then forget when he starts to move all of a sudden in space, capitulating afterlife again if there is such, and if everything takes a sojourn into the bleakness, must I remind you that you are all variations of the same absence. Remember when you had your name carved on wood as attendance but not for long. You have escaped, locked in the arms of a life that you thought was yours but still isn't, leashed under the Sun. Bodies pulse then fluctuate but not a sign of life. Words function more in stillbirth. Never forget, as a dandelion hovers and puts a smile on your dreary face, and a question in search for all available and naked answers. Principles undermine caprice. Do not adhere. Must I remind you that you are someone else apart from who you think you are. You have yourself straightened, tucked safely like intent, not desire in all its voluminous and vehement speeches annotating something unknown to the behest of ourselves. If I were a house, I am gratified by windows -- your mirage there transfixed in a secluded spot, looking out brimming with life as curtains oscillate as the Earth breathes with you. If I were a house, you would ransack everything with a sly mouth packed with powerful narrative. How you have done over, leaving everything undone, moved off-tangent, under impossibly gray skies, brindled in prayer. If I were a house, doors slammed, speculative fabrications sleep through evenings and mornings until no difference is met -- you meant a word as if it had a lock and the key, somewhere cold in the air of sleuthing pains making me so, less than this and more of a fractured house.

42

How in that timed instant all was brown: I look at my hand, the world outside the lens, the river, town when after April then crossing May, how everything went brindled, cut, and broken – housed in that fragmentation are so many lives: I, awash in the many a breaking and passing of things. You remember her weight to doubt and begin she was not there, for whose security she was being filmed but my own sake, from all the appearances the distance switched to fog as I remain in immense debt to time from the then and now which made no difference, and how I associate all the hollow to a hue I fear not black, but brown in this setting – how to straighten when found in the orientation bent already to begin with and is deadened by a refusal, how once again, in the hollow of, are unexpected blurs of your own skin color echoing outside then in, in which all the trembling made you sure-footed, changed nothing in you, insult I took when I see your laughter or in lotus positions there is something you ought to give me, but didn’t.

0

Jun 6, 2016

Jun 6, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC

How in that timed instant all was brown: I look at my hand, the world outside the lens, the river, town when after April then crossing May, how everything went brindled, cut, and broken – housed in that fragmentation are so many lives: I, awash in the many a breaking and passing of things. You remember her weight to doubt and begin she was not there, for whose security she was being filmed but my own sake, from all the appearances the distance switched to fog as I remain in immense debt to time from the then and now which made no difference, and how I associate all the hollow to a hue I fear not black, but brown in this setting – how to straighten when found in the orientation bent already to begin with and is deadened by a refusal, how once again, in the hollow of, are unexpected blurs of your own skin color echoing outside then in, in which all the trembling made you sure-footed, changed nothing in you, insult I took when I see your laughter or in lotus positions there is something you ought to give me, but didn’t.

Locale

1

it is not that we are far away but there is this stilled candor that there are spaces, gaps, turns and swerves that we cannot close. as in a star in its throne will remain to be lit in diadem of white, cannot be touched or you in your silence with the drone of such tired machine: moon's all round and all i saw, yet not always the visible, encircled in flesh and without so much question, the mind's a quicksilver marauding to motion all things except your own parasols bending to such airlessness, and to make tractable, this unstable mirage of you, fulminating in such bright auroras persisting within the day when you arrive not with hands but with chains, machineries and not bones, no such lissomeness of skin love-hewn but walls, not the earthen night but only brindled silence like the world whispering ssmething close to the ear not love but pain.

0

Jan 6, 2016

Jan 6, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC

Motions To All Things She Is Not

it is not that we are far away but there is this stilled candor that there are spaces, gaps, turns and swerves that we cannot close. as in a star in its throne will remain to be lit in diadem of white, cannot be touched or you in your silence with the drone of such tired machine: moon's all round and all i saw, yet not always the visible, encircled in flesh and without so much question, the mind's a quicksilver marauding to motion all things except your own parasols bending to such airlessness, and to make tractable, this unstable mirage of you, fulminating in such bright auroras persisting within the day when you arrive not with hands but with chains, machineries and not bones, no such lissomeness of skin love-hewn but walls, not the earthen night but only brindled silence like the world whispering ssmething close to the ear not love but pain.

17

in my side of the Earth I was not tilted, realized and emptied my eyes are spigots my mother left open to thaw the glaciers of supper zenith visits the Summer most often than the wind blowing through the curtain of my eyes where I always see the dead smidgen flowers all over the ricefields this measure of tomorrow – to have been incarcerated in the past that bears no arms to this very Saturday afternoon fish breathe now in enigmatic means pulses of rivers tangle joys with naked boys of brindled youth see once they jackknife into a memorized depth pellucid like my memory of uncollected afternoons

0

Mar 25, 2016

Mar 25, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC