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Ben Sep 2013
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air
samhain sacrifice for the coming night
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare

arcane characters for the fair
symbols ward them till distant light
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air

offered to old gods in ritual prayer
last colors of autumn before winter's white
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare

an iron will to survive, they do declare
a solemn pact and a sacred rite
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air

herald the end of summer's affair
golden head bowed to geimhreadh's might
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare

still stand proud they do, with defiant glare
the trees of the forrest an enchanting sight
scarlet, vermillion, saffron, in air
brushstrokes 'cross limbs soon laid bare
Cné Jun 2018

paint me
with the wet tickle
of your tongue
lingering with affection
savoring my fervent flavor
in bold strokes
of your obsession

color my essence
in heated hues
sending shivers
down my spine
in anticipation
of your warm breath
against my flesh
with every blissful caress
to ensue painted petals
of animation

with your supple lips
gently blur the lines
of my curved hips
softly stroking
the subtle shadows
of warm depth,
blushing
quivering thighs
as I gasp
of breath

plunge in
a primer coated palette
dipping your stiff paintbrush
deep within
the folds of my blanket
manipulating
a trembling image
of your voracious lust.

craze me
again and again
in breathless
****** glow,
your sensual brushstrokes
gently murmuring
layer on layer
in alla prima flow

delve deep
into my eyes
paint splattering
the passion
of my soul
drizzling silken strands
of love
in their entirety,
polishing me whole

and then
in blissful backwash
admire
the tangled limbs
interposed
of your
completed masterpiece
in smiling
sated repose

TheRhymeRenegade Jul 2018
Can't talk about, can't write about, a single thing but loving you
Don't mean to schmooze, my shameless muse, always down for aimless cruise
stare through window glass at tunnel lights that zoom straight past our heads
I walk on air, dodge solar flares, ignites my mind when I'm in bed

I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way

And I feel a nostalgia a sense of old security
the same I got when I was young and fell asleep to the TV
underneath the afghan with unwravled threads and fraying ends
hold onto me while I nitpick the same old **** inside my head

I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way

Tell me baby is it true?
Should I ride or die for you?
can I be your passenger?
or do you find me lackluster?
I can't let it be the thought of you and me
scared that our future is tragic history
and every time I find myself ready to shift gears
something holds me back, some aching type of fear

I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way
Leigh Aug 2015
Slick grass glistened heavy
After summer showers fell before a sun
That trickled veiled toward transcendent trees
Towered on the outskirts of the demesne - It unsheathed
A pearlescent canvas for a dreamer who paints ideals;

A reader finding signs in smiles and glances
Strolling paths free of fear to free imagination;
Summoning hopes against a fresh red/orange
Backdrop, and ignoring perilous heights to cast
A thought to moments yet unlived -
This fool's masterpiece.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
.i. if Kant could have his von Kleist... well... who else to juggle juggernauts if not me? as a task of redeeming that poor soul who succumbed to the terminator of all poetic ambitions, with his systematisation off-the-page, as eccentric and punctual as a sunset on a sundial at 16:11... and in case either the spring of sunrise, or the autumn of sunset... but so many hours after exacting a sunset... that gluttony of the eyes to stare at it... 16:11 is the zenith of a sunset in november the 15th... much prolonged when warmer... supersized sun when setting in summer, and all that whiskey-copper wiring for the eyes to stare at it: oh for goodness sake, who really cares for Ikea likened assembling of words... we're not putting together a coffee table, we're looking for Darwinistic entrapment, we're scared of the aeons and yawns... we're trying to create a Darwinistic entrapment saying what segregates us from apes! that's how anti-Darwinism works - if they can easily call you a poet and a technophobe... then that hardly makes you a merchant with a Quran... to encapsulate the language of our modernity we're doing everything against writing the onomatopoeia of our beginning... monkey ooo! monkey ooo ah ah! or a gorilla grunting and then snorkeling... we're encapsulating our language more and more... because beginning with ape and then looking at history, and then looking at the consensus of the contemporary: Darwinism's greatest enemy is not theology... it's history... Darwinism and history are not compatible... oddly enough Darwinism and theology are compatible, simply because they are dynamically equal for the case of furthering both arguments in debate... but Darwinism is an odd starting point to argue, given that physicists argue from the perspective of prior to dinosaurs, prior to all things formed.

how can i begin this? it will leave me having to
write it for two days,
the anti-narrative sketch first, then filling in
the gaps sober... just to get second opinions...
i might have to cook a quasi-Hungarian borscht
and fry up a few potato flattenings to a crispy
yum... first the narrator comes in to describe what's
in store, a bit like a translator comes in and says
of Joyce: that's Irish... well, yeah.
               hence the italic preface...
as some would say, the person who wrote these
sketches worked quicker that an algorithm in asking
and also quicker to copy & paste the required
atomic encoding... e.g. ч and ch
                   э and euro and epsilon...
      once upon a time there was nothing prior
to Copernicus, then the somersaults came,
    h ч y        what coordinates where?
    well of course perfecting the encoding of something,
if things weren't stated awry there would be
no optometrists either...
                  it's not hard to read, it's hard to
remember how to read, given that being literate reached
the omnipresent velocity, the new powers had to
include some new power struggle...
mingling Latin and Runes, Greek and Cyrillic...
     and the proto-Latin of additional diacritical marks...
they exposed the entirety of humanity to literacy
within the framework of post-industrial society,
after hitchhiking a ride on the 19th century donkeys
they suddenly had to reveal their power-secret of
being literate, and by the account of women:
corset bound and bored in salons...
      but something else appeared that didn't really fascinate
them: that over-complication of Latin with
punctuation marks above letters: or diacritical
distinction, crowns over letters, subatomic particularisation
of once favoured: universal applicability...
as a narrator? i have to make a complicated
introduction, the sketch lends itself to do so,
it suggests that not all writing can be as simple as
a nursery rhyme, not all writing can actually
    **** memory, not all writing desires being remembered,
not all writing can be remembered,
                in the mediation of the two chiral opposites
there's fiction, which is suspended in an armchair of
pleasurability... but on the opposite side of a nursery rhyme
or a well versed poem? writing akin to arithmetic...
  something truly painful for those competent with
lettering, but not really competent with ten digits...
      as a narrator who has already read the sketch,
i'm trying to not write a "filling in the gaps" to the sketch
like an art-critic might do to a painting deviating from:
brushstrokes were employed. well... d'uh!
variation of italics as in transcending the pause that
implies a condescending variation of taking a pause,
also excluded are: dot, comma, hyphen, semicolon
and colon.                         dot-dot-dot is not joining up
the dots: it implies a variation of how to anticipate
a punchline: drummed: tu-dum wet snare!
     i am actually a narrator who is trying to find
that other part of me that might digest this sketch properly,
     and return fully competent to pick up another
sketch... if ever there was a narrator in this sketch,
it has to be me, after the sketch has been scripted,
and i am left to suggest a need for a dot-dot-dot connectivity
of the strokes of the pen...
i warned myself: do not overdo the introduction in italics,
you know how picky people are...
whether pickled pineapple of cucumber...
i swear Turks invented pickling chillies...
         oh look! an inflatable gazebo filled with helium!
no one's laughing: only because i didn't mention vegina.
narrative puritanism? you get distracted a lot...
but this sketch is really a thesis for narration,
all i have to do is find the antithesis of narration in it:
an actual narrative!          it stretches for ~30 pages...
   well that's me turned archaeologist with a Grecian urn
with a snap of the finger... because that's how this
sketch looks like: ancient -
                         but understandably modern.
              so .  ,  - and ;
        were racing... out came the world record
             9.58(0)         the full-stop is the bracket-bound
0... i.e. it actually happened: hence the pinpoint...
or in Formula 1 a timed nonsense of ave. m/ph
     noted to three decimal points: 130.703...
                                    or chicane cha chicane cha cha!
as said, this is an actual representation of a narrator
encountering this sketch: so before you lose your head...
i've lost mine!
  look at the correlation though!
we've gone way past atoms with the atomic bomb
and encountered subatomic particles...
    we're not going to get beyond subatomic particles
because we're going to encounter the already apparent
reality of obatomic particle: namely our bodies,
   the perceived ******* (ob- is the antonym
                                                  prefixation of sub-):
             that's were the microscope adventure ends,
    and this is parallel to cutting up a second with
three decimal points, as the safetynet suggests:
                                                              π / 3.14;
yep, the obstructive - hence we can't spontaneously
combust... but then again Goethe's Werther did:
  out of love... down the spiral: you sweet little *******.

~ii. i'm actually too lazy to write the sketch and fill
in the blanks... so i'm going to fill in the blanks as i go along,
  or that's what's called the rebellious stance of narrator: mmm,
work in progress, could you see that coming?


ii. a beer in between glugs of whiskey - runes
combined in the ******* / sigma, variant of agliz or
the rune-zeta extended toward a dark shadow of the rebirth
of Ishrael: zoological enclosure; sigma *******
sigma ******* sigma *******, sigma *******...
rune-zeta... we cannot say there are ******
mathematicians and poets akin,
not then one optic encoding states
     a b c d e
         another states f u þ a r
yet another а б (ρ) в г
  α β γ δ:
for worth of gamma into a trill only because of
   a wave, that's ~ approx. on the side of the letter
   e.g. г & r.
   or rho upside down? what the ****?
did Voltaire write this? reading Candide,
i hope he ****** did!
you the problem is pixelated paper? if you know
how you enter a deciphering mode...
                    but you require a personal library to boot,
all that dos formatting,
                       well there's formatting in the humanity
outstretch of this white medium too...
after it isn't all ******* white when all the psychiatric
pills are white too... i have really found something better
than the Bermuda Δ...
       Greek, Latin, Cyrillic and Runes...
i could say neo or proto otherwise,
but i still haven't unearthed the sketch, that
is probably puzzling the Danes, with Cnut on the forefront...
                    but the arrangement of numbers is universal,
but it's not universal, given the particularity of
how language is encoded and why some people are
richer than others...
            but it's still a beer between glugs of whiskey that
makes more sense...
i said, retype the sketch and go to bed...
and i figured: that's probably the wisest of all possible
events stemming from this...
    that's ~27 pages of notes to retype... and i'm already
in a disclosure mode as to expect what's to be jargoned...


p. 1        cкεтч       /      σкεтχ
   necessity of                        (acute
a-       -the           (ism)
is that of language structure,
          only from the use of one's language does
a deity present itself: from within the noumenon
ground work, not the reverse, as in from
(pp. 2, 3)
                 a phenomenological exercise in
the use of language: Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, (etc.)...
       e.g. Islam is a phenomenon,
  it's not a noumenon: or a thing-in-itself...
  for the Islamic god to emerge from Islam's-in-itself
Islam will have to prevent itself from being-outside-itself...
or overpowering other in-itself contentions
but still: to no apparent success narrative of true intention
as satisfactory appropriation and hence lending itself
to a widespread nod of approval.
  challenging space: word compounding, or the space
between conjunctional deficiencies: nod-of-approval (e.g.).

p. 2    concussion (great film, Alec and Will, 2015, NFL)
concussion... Blitzkrieg Alzheimer's....
brain is fat.... dementia = attacking proteins...
  steroids... the noumenological use of language:
e.g. that ****** is an enigma,
therefore his views will not go viral,
and he'll not become fashion trendy...
it's not individualistic idealism, it's reality.
as will die sonne satan - orbis reach more than 5K
views... so... clap clap... clap, clap.
           what i meant about the a-     and -the
and the ism is following a sentence that sort of
does away with conjunctional fluidity,
apart from the big words, i treat all minor words as
categorically conunctional... and, the, a, is, to, too...
given the sentence: brain fatty *****,
brian organic giraffe wall... ******* hieroglyphic...
           stood above the rest, rest assured.
  dementia: invading protein cells
   (bulging prune of the opportune: purely
digestion?) no thought to eat or eat itself like,
cannibalistically. the brain is fatty...
not fat in muscle for mmm, schmile and flex
for the selfie. how about a protein inhibitor?
(by now, rewriting the sketch, i've lost the page count,
it's actually p. 5 of note paged toward 27).
how about the explanation that we're living in
times of post-industrialisation and thanksgiving
feminism? to me post-industrialisation has created
a class of meaningless white-collar workers
and no blues... it's what the Chinese blues call
the Amazonian nomads: ******* happy...
no amount of crosswords or sudoku will exert
your body to do things for others...
   no amount of mind games will actually tell your
brain to be equipped with: a bunch of hyenas... run!
dementia is a result of creating too many
white-collar jobs (thanks to feminism)
and exporting the blues to China (thanks to feminism
and: oh i broke a nail, can i get a Ching plumber to
fix my heating while i get a ****** to **** me up my
****?!) - maybe i'm just dreaming...
it's great to censor dreaming, i mean: you stop dreaming,
you get to see reality, and you don't even need to
read Proust on a ricochet.
  - so we have brain as fat, and invader cells as protein...
protein digests fat... and creates cucumbers out
of people... where do the carbohydrates come into play?
it can't be at the point of a.d.h.d., can it?
     i'm blaming post-industrialisation, the complete
disappearance of the blues (formerly known as the reds,
in the east) for the whites...
or that old chestnut of: my god you're goon'ah luv it!
   to till for worth from the sweat of yer brow -
funny funny funny... to earn your loaf of bread
you will toil...
                   and toil until you are physically assured
that not ghostly / mental life can enter your world /
books... that went well... didn't it?
   i should be tilling a potato plateau rather than
be bound to be writing this epic (by modern standards)
poem...
             but that's the curse of exporting all the blue
collar jobs to China, then importing mindless
white collar jobs to the west, what the hell do you think
would happen, not the pandemic of dementia?
if you do not exert the body, and then you do not
exert / exhaust the mind... do you think
you can secure a narrative with a post-industrial
westerner on the premise of that person simply being
able to solve a crossword? well... i believe in santa
claus too... but i don't believe in him giving out
presents... because to me, in my oh-so-called maturity
that's called an anagram of satan's clause: which is a legal
term for: i can turn civilisation into shrapnel
of what's said and what's to be said: and what's not to be
said. people can't expect to turn honest labour
for the recreational run on the treadmill in a gym...
and they can't expect photocopying in an office space
to replace Newton's curiosity, and then compensate
all this distraction with mind-games...
          can they? well... they did!

poets are gagged by writers of prose,
no wonder they write so sparingly,
      they are gagged in the sense that they write
as if asphyxiated: they need breathing room.


well sure, if he can revive the Polish steel industry
and i can go back to steel plates and pillars,
then the rust belt will get a polishing also.

or what's called: shrapnel before the waterfall of
narration: darting eyes, and poncy **** all the way through...

     muse... muse...

        well, how about we take the fluidity out of language?
declassify certain words into one grammatical broth,
say words like i and they
                              a  and the    are all conjunctions?
how about that? let's strip it bare, after all: what categories
of words exist for us to primarily speak (let alone think)?
     nouns, verbs, adjectives... adverbs?
       but all those words in between are so jungly classified
into a tangle that i'm about to sprout a handshake
          of a Japanese vine grip: and never let go...

an actual extract from the sketch:

      https that doesn't recognise UCS
                   and insists on IPA cannot be deemed
       encyclopaedic


              i need runes for this! i need runes for this idea!
i don't need transliteration right now...
                but hey! that's an idea, etymological transliteration...
bugly term, sure, but the previous night i was thinking
  of transcendental etymology, as you do, likened to
carbohydrates... so it was transliteration after all...
but a dead end when it comes to geometry and Pythagoras...
      
    three words... and they are computerised (i guess you
have to buy a decent book to decode this), a bit like
buying paint in a d.i.y. shop...
       16DE (dagaz / d) 16DC (ingwaz / ŋ / grapheme of n & j)
                  16DF (ōþala / Valhalla / o / ō = oo),
in total d'njoo / d'nyoo - even i concede the fact that this
is a ******* mind-******... it's a ****** congregation of
four optic encodings of phonos... i moved away from
the ancient greek fetish for the logos... i'm looking at
the phonos... not the logos with Heraclitus et al.
               φº θ þ фª f

ªgreek
  ºcyrillic                ever see a prettier pentagram?
                      i haven't.

(false original title:
škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic - pending)

looking at the phonos is painful, actually painful,
it's like reading a book with a myopic pair of glasses:
a ******* aquarium blurry right there, befor...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'e'? were you: was i, looking for an 'e'?

i can say this much...
what do you get when you mix a shot
of whiskey with a shot of bourbon:
i'm moving between bottles...
it's nearing christmas eve and i'm a ripe
taoist... i.e. i better this world:
by not having the world mind me...
on the odd occasion: oh... you're still here?!

yeah... i'm still here... i have glued-to-fascination
with my shadow... i'm just waiting
for the atom bomb to relieve me of a body
but ensuring my shadow is kept intact...
as if it were a Monet signature on a wall...

but i lament... the momentum has vanished...
i don't even know why i'm so idiotic as
to presume that: from the hour 22:00GMT
to the hours 00:00 circa 00:30GMT...
something will land into my lap,
my lisp... my cranium the oyster shell
my tongue the oyster...

it will not... i can't simply **** anything into
an existence that doesn't want to exist...
perhaps lurking in a canvas of:
"lost luggage" in an airport...
perhaps "there"...
i could be excused my... lethargy...

when was this written? back in 2018?
so i was thinking about teasing cyrillic even then?
wasn't i?
sketch cкэтч or?

what do you get when you mix a shot of whiskey
with some bourbon?
a Burguandian whisker...
i am not going to sound witty...
Ron's key...

that's still a cyrillic "or"... isn't it?
шкиц: škic...

i'm... deflated... nothing "new" has come my way...
i would have thought that...
reading some Knausgård would have /
could have... invigorated me:
reading him was supposed to be my:
dialysis my transfusion!
my zombie-go-to-literature...
it has proven an exhaustive enterprise
to begin writing again:
i became too comfortable
in reading - i almost forgot
the agony of writing...

alas... a contemporary of mine...
and someone well adjusted to prose...

notably: who would have thought
that death in june - the calling (MK II)
was something to be recorded in 1985...
for one: i wouldn't...

but i did begin: back in november 2016...
begin what? to tickle the cyrillic alphabet...
which is way before i discovered my reply
to the runes... to the ancient greek...
and this... "ancient", ahem... still in use...
latin script...

that script that went into the molloch couldron
of being invested in to code...
pristine as the hebrews cited:
how many holes in it?
to write onto a canvas of 0?
q Q R O o p P A a D d g b B...
which leaves...
W E T Y U I S F H J K L
Z X C V N and M "out of the equation"...

škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic (pending):
i better rename it as... circa 2016...
that's way before i even acknowledged
the cyrillic text applying diacritical markers...
i thought them too crude at the time...

beside borrowing outright from greek...
the already at hand oddities of glagolitic,
notably: Ⱎ...Ⱋ...

it's only a single word i'm using...
i have abandoned all notions of metaphysics
in favor for orthography...
i'm not going to burden myself
with: what's after the physics...
i'm after: what's now...
in the respective tongues...
2 tongue deviations from
the original latin and greek...

what came with the runes and what
came with the glagolitic scripts...
what was ****** and had to succumb
to inter-breeding...

come 2020... i will have one clarification
to base my existence on...
pronouncing the growth of my ****** hair...
i will hope to aim at a length of beard
that will forever hide the neck...
i will aim at... somewhere to the level
of my heart... when i will then manage
to turn my beard into an orchestra's
nieche of violins when i procrastinate with it...

since 2016...
i have identified russian in ******...
i've seen it... finally!
зъaрт... i.e. żart
and the "hard sign" becoming a "soft sign"
in źrenica: зьрeницa...

i still think the russian orthography
is... as... primitive as the western slavic...

after all... зъ = ż...
зь = ź...
the balkan slavs have a caron...
which is neither a hard or a soft sign / acute...

their caron is... ч (č) or cz...
CHeaper in english...
and their caron is ш (š) or sz...
SHeep...
or the two together...
and always шч (šč): szczekam...
i'm barking...

pu-shch-air... a rare example in english
of the puщair...
but then lookie lookie 'ere:

CZACHA... skull...
ЧAХA...

perhaps this is my "revenge ****" on russia?
hey! boris the kremlin mascoot...
come and 'ave a look...
with how i disect your orthography
on the / with the language that asks
too many metaphysical questions and no
orthographic curiosities!

i'll meet you in Warsaw... given that you're
probably moving from Novosibirsk...
and i'm either in Stockholm...
Edinburgh or the outskirts of London:
Warsaw will be halfway for both of us...
you don't have to like Warsaw...
i only like it when the Ukrainian smugglers
and the Mongols appear
in the West Warsaw coach station...

smart as who? i am discovering this for
the first time myself...
i was only teasing it back in 2016...
way before i found the right sort of accents
in mother russian...

i do know that that crescent oddity:
above the ja: йa... is what it is...
if you only cut off the head in english... ȷ...
again: it's я given that most russians
are pulled toward an anglophile world-view...
they all see the window to europe...
the baltic and st. petersburg is somehow...
London... and the atlantic...
like hell it is...

i guess i feel it was a waste of time to
have re(a)d Kant, simply because:
i'm not here for the schematics...
i want to know how my thought my labyrinth
building architecture is coming along...
but with no one to talk to about it?

i found the categorical imperative most
dissatisfying... i didn't want to abide by universal laws...
poetry is already shoved out of waiting room
of the republic...
if my "poetry" is not a categorical imperative...
and it's not quiet a a hypothetical imperative...
it needs to be sharpened on a thesaurus
and some grammar...

categorical (adjective)... imperative (adjective)...
well two adjectives never imply much
if there's no noun involved...
and i'm pretty sure that... if i sharpen
the next word i'll compound with categorical-
in that hyphen construct that's only
allowed in oxford dictionary english:
since it's not: propergermannonhyphenfaustian:
i.e. carboxylic (carbo-xylic) acidity...

poetry doesn't belong in either
the categorical imperative focus...
nor the hypothetical imperative focus...

i.e. i must write a poem... to feel better...
i must write a poem... to organise my thoughts...
no! a poem is not a maxim is not a categorical
imperative! a language of poetry is not
a language of morality: it's a language
of experience - or a lack / a lackey's "sentiment"...

i need a... categorical: impetus!
it's not enough to have read kant's critique of pure
reason... it must also involved
having re(a)d the: groundwork of
the metaphysics of morals...
but i'm a democratic reader...
i need to hear the other voices...
i can't be a kantian scholar...
a snippet 'ere, a snippet v'ere (funny how
THETA disappears when making the posit:
THERE - ver!)

who needs metaphysical absolutes...
when orthography (or a lack of it)
in english... spreads open its legs...
and the tongue remembers its tongue-brain-phallus
stage of co-existence in the oyster?!

i'm pretty sure that a categorical imperative
is by no means a categorical impetus...
this had to be written,
but it had to be written in order to disregard
anything a priori... prior to it...
a poem is a shady concern for action or inaction...
it's a deviation from the cartesian crux:
res cogitans (thinking thing)...
into the cartesian levy (res extensa)...
it's an action of inactivity...
as much as it's an inactive activity...
"the rest"...

impetus is not an imperative...
an impetus sources its meaning in a per se
investement... of itself - in itself - for itself...
an imperative?
in pronouns... impetus: i want... i will...
imperative? you want... you will...

an impetus is self-dictative...
an imperative is: indicative...
someone would rightly claim...
those that mourn indicatively...
will don the right garments for the process
of mourning...
which is indicative and devoid of
the per se manifestation of mourning...
it is an imperative when compared to
the impetus to mourn -
which is self-dictative...
which does now shallow itself in
grief by making a socially agreed to fiasco
of a very specific choice of wardrobe...

basically: however you like it...
an IMPERATIVE ≠ IMPETUS...
the year is almost over and i want to break-off
the dust from the thoughts that fudge-packed themselves
as worthy of occupying the minor instance
of having to count a depth of:
not dead within the year of being written.
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
When Zuo Fen woke day was well advanced into the Horse hour. In her darkened room a frame of the brightest light pulsed around the shuttered window. A breeze of scents from her herb garden brought sage, motherwort and lovage to cleanse the confined air, what remained of his visit, those rare aromatic oils from a body freed from its robes. Turning her head into the pillow that odour of him embraced her once more as in the deepest and most prolonged kiss , when with no space to breathe passion displaces reason in the mind.
 
The goat cart had brought him silently to her court in the Tiger hour, as was his custom in these summer days when, tired of his women’s attention, he seeks her company. In the vestibule her maid leaves a bowl of fresh water scented with lemon juice, a towel, her late uncle’s comb, a salve for his hands. Without removing his shoes, an Emperor’s privilege, he enters her study pausing momentarily while Xi-Lu removes himself from the exalted presence, his long tail *****, his walk provocative, dismissive. Zuo Fen is at her desk, brush in hand she finishes a copy of  ‘A Rhapsody for my Lord’. She has submitted herself to enter yet again that persona of the young concubine taken from her family to serve that community from which there seems no escape.
 
I was born in a humble, isolated, thatched house,
And was never well-versed in writing.
I never saw the marvellous pictures of books,
Nor had I heard of the classics of ancient sages.
I am dim-witted, humble and ignorant,
But was mistakenly placed in the Purple Palace . . .

 
He loves to hear her read such words, to imagine this fragile girl, and see her life at court described in the poet’s elegant characters. Zuo Fen’s scrolls lie on his second desk. Touching them, as he does frequently, is to touch her, is to feel mystery of her long body with its disregard of the courtly customs of his many, many women; the soft hair on her legs, the deep forest guarding her hidden ***, her peasant feet, her long fingers with their scent of ink and herbs.
 
He kneels beside her, gradually opening his ringed hand wide on her gowned thigh, then closing, then opening. A habit: an affectation. His head is bent in an obeisance he has no need to make, only, as he desires her he does this, so she knows this is so. She is prepared, as always, to act the part, or be this self she has opened to him, in all innocence at first, then in quiet delight that this is so and no more.
 
‘A rhapsody for me perhaps?’
‘What does Liu Xie say? The rhapsody is a fork in the road . . .
‘ . . . a different line’, he interrupts and quotes,’ it describes people and objects. It pictures appearance with a brilliance akin to sculpture or painting.’
‘What is clogged and confined it invariably opens. It depicts the commonplace with unbounded charm.’
‘But the goal of the form is beauty well-ordered . . . . as you are, dearest poet.’
‘You spoilt the richness of Lui Xie’s ending . . .’
‘I would rather speak of your beauty than Xie’s talk of gardening.’
‘Weeding is not gardening my Lord.’
 
And with that he summons her to read her rhapsody whilst his hands part her gown . . .
 
Over the years since he took her maidenhead, brusquely, with the impatience of his station, and she, on their second encounter deflowered him in turn with her poem about the pleasure due to woman, they had become as one branch on the same tree. She sought to be, and was, his equal in the prowess of scholastic memory. She had honed such facility with the word: years of training from her father in the palace archives and later in the mind games invented by and played with her brother. Then, as she entered womanhood and feared oblivion in an arranged marriage, she invented the persona of the pale girl, a fiction, who, with great gentleness and poetry, guided the male reader into the secrets of a woman’s ****** pleasure and fulfilment. In disguise, and with her brother’s help, she had sought those outside concubinage - for whom the congress of the male and female is rarely negotiable. She listened and transcribed, then gradually drew the Emperor into a web of new experience to which he readily succumbed, and the like of which he could have hardly imagined. He wished to promote her to the first lady of his Purple Chamber. She declined, insisting he provide her with a court distant from his palace rooms, yet close to the Zu-lin gardens, a place of quiet, meditation and the study of astronomy.
 
But today, this hot summer’s day, she had reckoned to be her birthday. She expected due recognition for one whose days moved closer to that age when a birthday is traditionally and lavishly celebrated. Her maid Mei-Lim would have already prepared the egg dishes associated with this special day. Her brother Zuo-Si may have penned a celebratory ode, and later would visit her with his lute to caress his subtle words of invention.
 
Your green eyes reflect a world apart
Where into silence words are formed dew-like,
Glistening as the sun rises on this precious day.
As a stony spring washes over precious jade,
delicate fishes swim in its depths
dancing to your reflection on the cool surface.
No need of strings, or bamboo instruments
When mountains and waters give forth their pure notes . . .

 
Her lord had left on her desk his own Confucian-led offering, in brushstrokes of his time-stretched hand, but his own hand nevertheless, and then in salutation the flower-like character leh (joy)
 
‘Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart’.
 
Meanwhile Xi-Lu stirred on the coverlet reminding Zuo Fen that the day was advancing and he had received no attention or conversation. It was whispered abroad that this lady spoke with her cat whom each afternoon would accompany his mistress on a walk through the adjacent gardens. It was true, Zuo Fen had taught Xi-Lu to converse in the dialect of her late mother’s province, but that is another story.
 
Lying on her back, eyes firmly shut, Zuo Fen surveyed the past year, a year of her brother’s pilgrimage to the Tai Mountains, his subsequent disappearance at the onset of winter, her Lord’s anger then indulgence as he allowed her to seek Zuo Si’s whereabouts. She thought of her sojourn in Ryzoki, the village of stone, where she discovered the blind servant girl who had revealed not only her brother’s whereabouts but her undying love for this strange, ungainly, uncomfortably ugly man who, with the experience gained from his sister’s persistent research had finally learned to love and be loved in equal measure for his gentle and tender actions. And together, their triumph: in ‘summoning the recluse’, and not one alone but a community of five living harmoniously in caves of the limestone heights. Now returned they had worked in ever secret ways to serve their Emperor in his conflict against the war-lord Tang.
 
She now resolved to take a brief holiday from this espionage, her stroking of the Emperor’s mind and body, and those caring sisterly duties she so readily performed. She would remove herself and her maid to a forest cabin: to lie in the dry mottled grass of summer and listen to the rustle of leaves, the chatter of birds, the sounds of insects and the creak-crack of the forest in the summer heat. She would plan a new chapter in her work as a poet and writer: she would be the pale girl no longer but a woman of strength and confidence made beautiful by good fortune, wise management and a generosity of spirit. She needed to prepare herself for her Lord’s demise, when their joyful hours living the lives of Prince and Lady of Xiang, he with his stallion gathering galingales, she with her dreams of an underwater house, would no longer be. She would study the ways of the old. She would seek to learn how peace and serenity might overcome those afflictions of age and circumstance, and when it is said that love’s chemistry distils pure joy through the intense refinement of memory.
This short story with poetry introduces the world of Zuo Fen, one of the first female poets of Chinese antiquity.
Peppyraindrop Jul 2018
Colors mix in the vainest of ways,
in the strangest of states.

A sunset makes sense
blue, pink and yellow shine soft,
exchanging compliments.

but if a bird shares his view
blue is how to fly, how to wash,
and how to feed.

What does that mean?

Pastels know how to dance.
Have you watched them before?
They lift hearts and tickle hairs.
They don't care what's on your mind,
but give each thought a chair.
It's a world of wonder through
their eyes. Let us explore.
Let us try.

If you’re feeling bold,
mix in some orange, wild green,
rich plum.
Ramble and embrace and relish
in the present tick of the clock,
before the paint dries
and we‘re back to the start.

When we're curious,
change the palette to gold.
Add some earth to the mix,
browns and tans to keep us grounded.
Canary to teach us courage,
honey to give us a hold.
You are every shade of yellow,
all at once, never cold.

Can I tell you a secret?

There is wonder in the deep hues.
Magic in the woods.
The night sky is brilliant
if you think to look,
look up,
with purple swirls
and silver ideals.
Mystery fills the lavenders
and the periwinkles and the crystal cyans
and whimsical teals.
There is uncertainty in the depth.
The ocean waves are fierce,
hard to control,
the dreams free,
the souls impossible to mold.
There is extraordinary wisdom,
Every heartbeat a way to pray
new ways to see in the twilight,
perspectives that are invisible in the day.

Is that what scared you away?

For I am the blue,
the cornflower petals
far from the path
the space between the sky
and the world
when the sun goes down
the sapphire glints floating far from the learned,
from what you know.

When I asked you to stay,
and you promised me time,
I thought it was in our shade
it was yours, not mine.
Do you mind?
Being stuck, dried up in the fear of it all?
Yes. You can stay in the hues
you know all too well.
Maybe ask amber for a dance,
have coffee with cream,
snuggle close to mustard,
hold on to bronze's warmth.
Don't mix too carelessly,
Be careful the paints don’t touch,
the brushstrokes don’t show
It could ruin the lines.
Remember your lines.
Stay safe. Stay yellow.

What if we turned the wheel?
There is curiosity in your blood,
I can feel it waiting to bleed.
Like watercolor,
Searching for the canvas to accept its gift.
You are eager to skip into another palette
you are ready to see another world.
Let's feel all the hues,
use every shade,
dance with the primaries,
one two step, one two.
Mix up the tone with their creations,
until we invent new pigments,
until we run out of names
for all our formulations and hues
Let us walk the rainbow.
Turning light to color
Back to light again
Let me show you my view.

I know. You know.
You never know
what you'll get.
Painting with the rain
instead of an arranged set
can lead to a storm, nothing but grey,
nothing but dark,
but at least even then
there's no regret.

Yes, colors mix in the vainest of ways, the strangest of states.

And perhaps yellow and blue don't have any more skies to paint.
Ashley Chapman Sep 2018
Past our past,
Yours and mine,
My soul yearns,
As I walk by silver clad trees; 
A favourite parked orange vintage Saab;
And memories newly raw, too.


I

Then quite extraordinarily,
The Cosmic Whale,
Stirs in my solar-plexus,
And my objectivity dissolves,
As conscious consciously hears:
The song of my inner Gypsy,
And look!
My Narwhal,
Up among the stars,
Beyond days and nights,
Roaming free,
Scything milky ways in half,
Fireballs disrupting,
In infinite timelessness,
Beyond the pull of gravity,
Where no vortex holds:
The 'othering' whirlpool,
That keeps us compressed
- as a collapsed star -
Gone!
At last my Cosmic Leviathan blows
- ALL is released and falls away.

II

Such is my Cosmic Behemoth:
The funnel *****
And inside out,
Is turned.
As at last on course;
Whoo! Whoo! Whoo?
But no-one replies!
The navigation station is empty:
This is motion without traction,
And no acceleration,
Slipping atoms would only slow!
The flow,
No windows either on the view,
As even visual truths are but fleeting,
And words muddy the clear unconscious streaming,
As the journey beyond mind begins.

III

The worldly maze recedes,
A bird's-eye vision steers the empty ship;
No harbours are plotted,
From here on
- endless flight in night,
Without end,
Wings blaze occasionally nearby,
A host of fireflies pattern the cosmic pool,
A whole immensity in which to dance.
Space,
Growing,
Stretching,
Expanding outward,
Not as we would have it, but as it is beyond our eyes.
Where space is born,
Again and again,
And so!
Exults in nothing,
A self beyond understanding,
In silence thrives,
Where sense logic makes no waves.

IV

The Cosmic Whale is off,
All attachments gone,
Like a flake of skin,
A fold in time -
Falls off.
The anchor dropped,
Is not retrieved,
What use is I -
When the clock's monotony no longer counts!

V

The surface disappears,
The ocean depth submerges,
In the cabin
The lights are dimmed to monochrome,
As navigators know,
Blind sees the furthest.
Charts are soon forgotten,
The imagination leads:
Ueah, the Cosmic Mind,
Vast and free
In all directions!
No need to plot a line,
Instead like the humble earthworm,
Who in darkness fertilises:
Beauty, how unimaginable, how unknowingly,
Is by all that envelopes guided,
As from the cracked ***!
Which in Reality was suffocated,
The source is nourished.

VI

As my Cosmic Whale plunges the deeps,
Look to the expanse:

     The eternal behemoth whose flight
     Everywhere provides,
     Guileless and unobjectified.
     A subjectivity that knows no
     bounds,
     Is unto itself unknowable.

In brushstrokes.
The universe,
Is as it rolls Created.
Where logic has little to do,
As all,
Already simply is.
This poem is actually about the ego's death. How I will mourne it, and how the fight to let it go will be immense as it is for us all. Death in life comes in many shapes, not ultimate death, but our relationships, *le petite mort*. Of course, there is life beyond relationship death. Beyond a sense of end; and yes, ultimately all is good preparation for that all consuming final death. This poem was inspired by untenable love for another; by the paintings in bold, almost lurid, but zen-like brushstrokes of a fellow Tunnel member, Genevieve Leavold; and by my mate Chris Godber who alluded to whales. It also has to do with my Gypsy heart and Celine's Salon, in Soho at Troy 22, where we celebrated the traveller's soul. Finally, a YouTube clip of a talk given by Guru Mooji in which awareness is being conscious of conscious.

Bon Voyage!
Donall Dempsey Mar 2019
BRUSHSTROKES

Her voice
caresses him in Japanese

the syllables
of his name

enacted out
by the brushstrokes

of her
voice

as if she drew him
in mid-air

and he
hung there

alive in the calligraphy
of her

love.
Where Shelter May 2018
trigger warning:
Hate long poems?  move on.
Love words?  pleasure your self

<=>

drought and famine of the spirit,
over-staying summer
house guests in an overly sun blanched,
voided, white outed, mental abode.

faculties parched,
overly starched,
compositions lost in transition,
why can't they make it ashore?

It's after 2 AM, and though
ferries have stopped running,
mainland hangover hangerons are
working overtime to prevent
"author"izations, so all I get
when I press send is a whole lot of
"permission to cross," denied!

causes of vexation undisguised,
dual natured and manifold,
luxuriating and drowning in home grown,
city organic insipid,
makes one quick to blame
nobody in particular,
but yourself, repeatedly.

reasons many, the distractions of
rustling contradictions populate,
another life road fork looming,
a track record for choosing badly,
colors the blacktop even blacker and
ramps up desires for a janitorial,
but first do no harm, status quo.

Need a beer.
Need a distraction.
Need a homework assignment,
which I buy at the IGA market:

obey the eleventh commandment
which every writer knows;
you think you're Mr. Bigshot,
so pudding prove it,
write it,
one true sentence,
let it be a constitution for all,
with the lengthy consistency,
of a Hemingwayesque,
one true sentence.

dearth to riches occurs
as fast as a basketball
three second violation,
inspiration dripping like
windshield condensation,
got so many true sentences,
how ya gonna choose,

O sinner man?

sadly you don't hear or feel
my background music,
stringed surf sounds playing
Perlman's Mozart low to
the thunderous, sweltering,
swells of applause of
90+ degree heat
w/o a Crescent Beach breeze
to console the disowned

these superheated thoughts
now focused,
emerges a bill of sight,
lading my heart's many heresies,
staccato thoughts now,
rapid fire rebel,
a pre-discourse insurrection,
voices of words lash out -

pick me - immortalize me,
I wanna be,
a constitution for one,
one true sentence.

The Moment of Ownership.

Hillel did it,
standing on one leg,
a Sanskrit mantra,
not by me,
not for me,
not through me,
even more succinct.

full clarity unobtainable,
begin when fighting thru
the static of each nerve,
knowing that
each thought,
each emotion,
is a constitution
of sorts,
recognizing life is a series of
moments of ownership,
but that are truly ours
only when relinquished.

each one, a true sentence
when writ, spoke,
but only when disabused
of notions of possession
only true, when gifted away.

Lucian Freud painted those whom
he knew best, their portraits,
fully clothed but wholly naked,
a painter of revelation
thru the skin tones of the flesh.

exposeur of skins interior
displayer of old and ungainly,
left us eyesight more true
than an honest mirror,
with poetic brushstrokes overlay,
gained entry to what his
grandfather named id and ego,
artist's superego, his reflections,
a continuous judgment
on a pool of stretched canvas
that makes me despair that:

I will ere succeed
to cross the borderline
that modernity insists upon,
self preservation, neurotic fears,
impositions on my psyche and
that my moments of ownership
will be n'ere be stamped "transferred."

I take back my life,
by giving it away
this alphabetized self portrait,
a wrinkled sketch of me,
my ownings, undertakings
needs taking by you
so I can disown it.

these words are my own,
their conjunction is a
junction to you,
and a constitution for me.

once this expiation
is in your purview by the voted
election of Send,
bonded by a mutual
Moment of Ownership?

so net net,
bottom line,
these are my
one true sentences,
summarized, constitutionalized:
I am yours, for the taking,        
so come by, for and through me,
in many moments of ownership.


p.s. let us shelter together in place, an island growing
lost for many years; for Mary Winslow
Debanjana Saha Jan 2018
My kisses will be

the droplets of the mists

All over you

Sugary and sweet

like the honey dew.


A kiss, before the sun kissed ray's

falls over you.

In the morning or at night,

No barriers

Just me and you

Inventing new ways of

loving each other

With each passing dawn.


And

I fall in love with you

Everyday, more than

Yesterday. 
A love expressed to a beloved, a poetry always helps. 2am poetry
Janette Aug 2012
Touch me...
Beyond the blue silhouette of still shadows,
Press against this body, that shivers
Beneath your journey
To find me...




Shadows sleep beneath dream,
lingering
Where darkness surrenders to wind plows
That pulse and surge, purl-binding; moon gold
Upon midnight's breeze...his name
whispered in silk, hushed;
Hollow and waiting...




See me...




Whispers wrap satin strands across heartbeats
Flowing to islands found within his sepia pools,
Where my soul's veil falls,
And shadows splinter shards of ebony, banking
The creek of my desire;
Breath escapes, a slow push past lips that bite back a whimper;
A voice under my tongue; tastes release...Swallowing his darkness
In liquid heat, taking him deep, body, to body, raw into the recess of moan...




Touch me...



Falling ****** on  goose-bumped flesh;
His deep mocha voice,
Suckles sweet, words flow
And the flesh of his tongue,
Lingers on the breath scent of a rose,
Pulling petals,
Painting my flesh blush-traced...
I breathe ache,  exhale his name, breathe, his taste, as
Pulse quickens tasting the storm of embrace
Beneath fingers, painting subtle brushstrokes
Upon a pool of liquid moonbeams, his tongue,
Hotly insistent, lathes upon waiting skin, where
Veins pulsate isolated desires;
Flesh upon flesh, whisper wetness to oblivion....



Reach for me...


Desire resounds from lips that ache to taste
His love against my heated skin;
My tongue remembers the flavour of his ***,
The familiar of it's heat,
The Smoothness of its slide;
My pout mouth sounds, beg with woman/child sighs,
Laying whispers of my confession, softly
Against his skin, drowning his face where
He is bent to taste;
The glistened spell,
Provoking, unceasingly...lacing through
Soft down to the blossom plundered;
The trickle, of trailing beads devoured, like the restless wind, rendering me breathless without pause,
Stroking tempest against skin, lingering, claiming....



Find me...


The moist of fingertips glide,
The meridian between here and ecstasy,
Lending the pulse of grasp, as I am
Held down hard to
Curve where pearled puddles moan incessantly..
"More! More!" my silent scream;
Melding tight, the succulent berry stirs;
Lifted high above lust, to where the moon sleeps,
And passion's breath dwells,
Lost in a slow dance, surrendered to untamed tides...



Awaken me..


A sharp exhale of breath
Precludes the pleasure-pain
Arcing down swiftly,
My flesh between his lips;
"Oh touch me, kiss me, stroke me,
Keep me here beneath these masterful hands,
While I succumb
To moans within the slide of tongue;
Sipping my mounting desire"...
Arched across the canopy of my offering,
Sighs, etch, beneath the surface of hushed colour
Bleeding need, through cascading hair,
Scarlet passion lit between thighs,
Greeting his touch, lavishing the breath of want....



Spill me...


Oh the heated cry that rushes past these
Trembling lips; the
Tremor trail beneath touches...lingering
For just a moment to capture heart sighs
Awaiting the soft gel of weeping submission,
Brushstrokes, excite, incite, the
Moist rivulets, where musk lies indolent;
Arching beneath sumptuous urgency;
His softly scented slow kiss, wet with my taste....



Bleed me...


I am, outstretched in a questing mark against the moon,
Tumultuous desires
Slaked....oblivious to this milky harvest,
Slipping the crimson unlit depths
Of wet petals;
I embrace and tremble amidst the melt of limbs tossed and spent,
Unveiling whispers and whimpers, as we love in ways that breach the starving soul;

This night is for you..........
Sky Jan 2016
(1)
Gentle
(2)
strokes
(3)
Golden
(4)
strands
(5)
Smooth
(6)
the tangles
(7)
away
(8)
As
(9)
the sun
(10)
betrays
(11)
the day
(12)
Eyes
(13)
shut
(14)
tight
(15)
Mind
(16)
flown
(17)
away­
(18)
Soul
(19)
mate’s
(20)
kiss
(21)
will
(22)
save
(23)
the day
(24)
Hush
(25)
little
(26)
demons
(27)
I’m not
(28)
listening
(29)
to you
(30)
today
(31)
As
(32)
golden
(33)
strands
(34)
are soothed
(35)
My
(36)
thoughts
(37)
slip
(38)
away
(39)
Already
(40)
dreaming
(41)
of the
(42)
next
(43)
day
(44)
The light
(45)
reveals
(46)
the scars
(47)
of yesterday
(48)
but I
(49)
just
(50)
smile
(51)
Because
(52)
I
(53)
bore
(54)
the
(55­)
pain
(56)
and I
(57)
survived
(58)
to love
(59)
another
(60)
day
(61)
I save
(62)
my
(63)
kiss
(64)
for someone
(65)
who
(66)
deserves it
(67)
not for
(68)
someone
(69)
who
(70)
will
(71)
only
(72)
bring
(73)
me
­(74)
more
(75)
pain
(76)
So
(77)
go
(78)
away
(79)
ghosts
(80)
I have
(81)
found
(82)
my
(83)
soul
(84)
mate
(85)
and
(86)
he
(87)
has
(88)
­found
(89)
me
(90)
As the
(91)
day
(92)
fades
(93)
gentle
(94)
brushstrokes
(95)
send
(­96)
me
(97)
blissfully
(98)
to
(99)
sleep.
(100)
Stu Harley Oct 2015
the
soul
of sky
brushstrokes of
mustard yellow
sunset
Nigel Finn Mar 2016
Our words have power. Our story is important. I think it's important to remember that, and I know people forget it sometimes (I certainly did), and some people don't believe it at all, but I believe that even if nobody is listening, even if there's no-one to tell your story to; it is still important.

Sometimes it's all we're left with and we have to cling to it with all our might. We're lucky enough to be main characters in a lot of other peoples stories and that's a hell of an achievement. We get the chance to influence other peoples stories,and they in turn influence even more peoples stories. Without us, everyone elses stories get shortened and there ends up being less variation in the story-telling world. If we don't add to the storytelling process then the whole world slows down.
Every single relationship we establish with someone gives them more of a story to tell. Even if you don't make a story of your own you're still a vessel for other peoples stories to travel through, and that's amazing in itself.

The tiniest detail can change everything - the memory of holding a hand, a snippet of information, recommending a favourite ice-cream, falling over in a hilarious manner - it travels through other peoples stories, and without you that story doesn't get told, or gets told at a later time by someone else, by which time the person you could've shared your story with has missed out on the chance to pass that story on to a whole host of other people. That changes the whole storytelling world. Every future chain of events in which you could have, but didn't, tell your story becomes different - there's less of a story, it's not as full as it could have been, and everyone, albeit unknowingly, suffers a little more for it.

Most of us aren't wise enough or powerful enough to be the true "wise man" that our speices name **** sapians implies, changing the world in a dramatic way in one fell swoop with a single action or in the course of our lifetime, but we're certainly capable of being pans narrans (story-telling apes) and injecting a bit more variety in the lives of others. I can't think of a better reason to exist other than mattering so much that the whole future of the world becomes less varied, and slightly less impressive, if we simply cease to be.

Every moment of joy, every moment of anger, rage, suffering, jealousy, euphoria and even numbness contributes to the stories we end up telling other people, even if we're not talking about those moments specifically. We learn from them, we change because of them, and the stories we tell evolve with each new experience.

You don't even need to write yourself, sooner or later, somewhere down the line, someone will write something that never would have been written if you had not existed, and their work will be all the more glorious for the stories you helped to pass on. You are literally part of a bunch of great works yet to be written. You are a poem. You are a play. You are the beginning, middle and end of several bestselling novels. You are the first sentence in a book that grabs a publishers attention and the last in one that spawns a whole franchise. You are important and without you the whole literary world loses a masterpiece that would make a whole bunch of people feel like they weren't alone in the universe. You are their comfort as they lie awake at night with nothing but a book, and the inspiration that causes a child to believe in themselves. I can't think of anything more important than your words, your thoughts and the story you have to tell, but I know that, without them, the world never becomes as glorious as it could have been.

I love you, I know that others love you as well, and I'm certain that a part of the love that people feel for you will travel throughout the stories they tell, eventually end up in a famous book, song, or an artists brushstrokes and cause someone else to love that piece of a story you helped create.

And then they'll pass it on...
A note I wrote to a friend.
Jade Melrose Feb 2015
I’ll paint the colour of your eyes
toffee brown
contrasting the crinkles beside
that always appear when you lie

I’ll paint the blue of your smile
the corners of your mouth
slightly upturned
with a quirk of your brow

I’ll paint the yellow in your laugh
your cheeks slightly tinged pink
the way your eyes twinkle
without uncertainty

Every tone and every hue
captured in brushstrokes that end too soon
But darling
I’ll always draw you gently, like a soft croon
Here is the finished
portrait of you.
Brycical Feb 2012
I bleed letters, breathe words--
lived in utero with a pen.
Creative gypsies & outcasts
are brethren.
I will die
for their plaid sky brushstrokes
&/or verbal slip-bang poetry.
That's my religion.

Self-doubt is my sin.
I have a habit of overstaying my welcome,
another is coming on a little strong.

Communication is my mantra,
my philosophy is intelectual stimulation.  

Putting up with "****"
    is second nature.
Spit in my face.
         Call me names.
   Don't give me that promotion.
I'll survive--
       probably even laugh about it later...

But...
take advantage of me--
or those I hold close--
     if I even see a glint
     of the knife
            you're going to put in my back
I promise--
    I promise
the pain you will feel
        leaves a scar much worse
than whatever could happen to me.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2015
Her voice
caresses him in Japanese

the syllables
of his name

enacted out
by the brushstrokes

of her
voice

as if she drew him
in mid-air

and he
hung there

alive in the calligraphy
of her

Love.
Jamie L Cantore Feb 2017
I ne'er half thought of you as best
Painted/ frozen on canvas/ still /set/
Static / unmoving...  but I do rest
In my bet you feign'd it. The man thus,
He is as a criminal! If hold he must
You as possession -Beauty's Pageant.
A sun proving to ne'er grow stagnant.
Go'th then, swept in wind, smooth &
Seminole, with no frame to so seal in
YOUth within his lines -rather reel in
Lines of my rhymes to sustain YOU ever,
Both A's & Q's. No pause, Sure Forever.

Inks/links rather than oils soon cracked/
Dried out /faded with careless Neglect/
And old Time/ proving Spell Checked
Words, ripen'd on a vine, (freely repro-
Duced,) is better than stretchers 2 show
In one place, wired/hooked on a dim wall
Of your captor. His penchant 2 refuse call,
Or to face, why your smile wert so small.
Unbeknownst to the brushed up painter,
Who with gobbledygook stained your
Heart, but took you as his Sitter bitterly.
So if your Silence art your bitter Mystery,
Then book Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall
As my pen chants only 4u -a wonderwall.
Wonderwall- Barrier which separates the mundane from a transcendent Reality which has a slit where the observer catches a glimpse of what lies beyond.

Not a reference to an imaginary friend who saves you from yourself.


A's=Answers Q's=Questions or (Cues.)

The Argument: Writing is a better way to sustain a person, because when copies are made of the original words, they still have the same value as opposed to copies of a painting. Also, a portrait locks the Sitter within the parameters of the frame, whereas the lines of verses set the subject free.

Or perhaps she is better painted now that I put things in perspective, if she is both the canvas and the paint -I will let that sink in for a while. Update* Did anyone fig it out? I  half-implied she is self absorbed... Lol
Donall Dempsey Mar 2018
BRUSHSTROKES

Her voice
caresses him in Japanese

the syllables
of his name

enacted out
by the brushstrokes

of her
voice

as if she drew him
in mid-air

and he
hung there

alive in the calligraphy
of her

love.
k-s-h Jul 2013
So the clever artist manages to push all her friends away,
And the clever artist decides to distract herself from her plight.
The clever artist goes outside to paint
In the rain.
In the middle of the night.
The clever artist crafts damaged brushstrokes.
And the very clever artist watches them wash away.

The clever artist sends herself mostly blind
As she watches her foggy breath over a flashlight.
The clever artist thinks about the silence that blares,
Despite the music coming from everywhere.
And oh the clever artist!--
Dropped her brush in the dirt.
But she still managed to disguise her hurt..
The artist cleverly insulted the paintbrush in hand;
Clever words, metaphorically meant.

It was then the clever artist ran inside
Her hair dripping from the rain, tangled and wild.
The stupid artist sits down before a page,
Taking her favourite seat.
And writes the worst excuse of a poem ever made.
Becoming the least worthy poet you'll ever meet
The stupid artist can't write,
Nor paint for ****.
And of her friendship skills?
Well, **** it.
margotskidder Feb 2018
I never knew the wall of silence was you protecting us from what you went through

I never knew you not wanting to help me with my homework was your inability to read and write

I didn’t know the drink was your way of sounding out the voices

I didn’t know your prejudice was a result of you quitting school at thirteen and having to provide for your brothers and sisters

You never said much, faded into the sofa you slept on for your last fifteen years

I only realised after, that your odd comical moments were your way of saying sorry for being serious all the time

We called you the quiet man, it wasn’t so quiet up there, was it, Dad?

I now know it wasn’t me, us and them

And I now understand your rage whenever anyone had the nerve to use the word ******* around you and the way your body would shudder and catapult you into your mute state

Your automatic drill sergeant bellow that time I accidentally fell down the stairs

The odd tenner you’d slide into my hand on the quiet for pocket money when I knew that was the only money you had in the world

That pained look you had in your face at us judging you and you not being able to articulate the reason why you would be violent as you didn’t know why

Your gripe with the neighbours that consumed you, that made you want to do unspeakable things

Your feelings of loneliness, hopelessness, self loathing and misunderstandings in a home full of life, laughter and growth that you were unable to get involved in and embrace

I wasn’t there for you, the last few weeks, even when you were in hospital, I put my lust, my education, me first

I am just so grateful that my intuition kicked in on your last day here, I just knew I had to get that bus to see you

We didn’t speak for four hours, not a word passed but I listened to you take your last breaths and tell the dog “get down, I haven’t got it in me”

You left your last mark in the brushstrokes of paint on the walls in the back garden

Brushstrokes which were wavy, imperfect, rough around the edges but beautiful. Just like you, Dad
Fah Oct 2013
Afternoon light cascades onto ocean skin ,
momentarily turning the water a fine gold shimmer -
light dances merrily , shifting as the plane turns southwards - Equator barrier broken

Welcome to the Southern Hemisphere !

Cloud islands mirror
ground islands .

Puff ***** create architectural feats not known to humanity.  
Flowing with the wind , creating substance out of thin air
the ultimate magicians trick ,
Above , thin wisps of stratus clouds brushstrokes seamless onto sky glaringly iridescent and soft all at once.....hey look! ..... way out in the distance , towering cumulus on their way to becoming cumulonimbus thunderstorms , steady growth of stacks even out when a cold air bank has been reached....the sky writes love letters to the earth

in his cloud postcard snapshots , yet - it is a serenade from them both

Earth offers the waters , the dust needed for the molecules to bind together -  sky transmutes them in his belly - with shifting winds and earth curvature the color palate spectrum .

the offspring , playing in between two worlds
belonging to no one arriving and departing , shape shifters

whole landscapes whirling in amongst themselves , remain unseen,  save for the few souls in tin machines hurtling along in the presence of natures finest high sky views.

Azure crisscrossed with opaque whites and rapidly turning dusk eggplant purples , wild and free form mingle with voluptuous orange streams of liquid light , hiding in the shadows the ‘day’ comes to an end ...

Does natures delicate hands sculpt the static water molecules knowing that there is beauty there ,


i have yet to fathom how such a gracious glory goes un noticed by many ,

luckily , for us , as we destroy every other aspect of earths eco system - the bold sky still remains ,

In the city doldrums and slums high rises
or slums on ground
or mansion view

the sky still bears dow the art works of sunset and rise ,
of cloud shifters and shapers , movers and shakers
still offers a connection to natures heart to remind us , of the magnificence that is our world. That is our home,

although - i have been told - under the surface or in this case , above the surface , here too has been attacked , pumping deadly toxic fumes into water ways
and lung ways

knowing all the whilst that this will do more harm than good

and here is where i , still struggle - i’m writing this on the plane -

a carbon dioxide emitting , fossil fuel guzzling , corporate ******* of a business .

but i need to get places , and go long distances in the shortest amount of time possible ..
Ian Cairns Jan 2014
I see you

I've seen those eyes before
Drowning in patched-up paddle boats
With promises of tomorrow slipping down your face
Like saline shipwrecks fleeing harbor
And greeting the ocean floor with damaged handshakes
And now you're hopeless
Focused on could have been's and maybe one day's
Knowing one day
Swelled up storm clouds
Could slide through your cheek bones
Like sunshowers preventing your skyline parades
But I see you still searching for rainbows
Covering your face with two handfuls of imagination
Daydreaming of days where technicolor dreamcoats
Become wrapped around your soul
Like tuxedos for the bold

I've seen those arms before
Deafeated willow branches in the moonlight
Rebellious to rise upright
And now you're tired
Only fired up when your flesh
Converts to kindling on a campfire
Building sparks that shimmer for seconds
When your light deserves a lifetime
But I see you still inclined to shine brightly
Trying to assign meaning to your life with two inspired limbs
That can freely build bridges or climb mountaintops
Clinging onto hope with sturdy fists
Exploring the peaks of your potential

I've seen those legs before
Tattered toothpicks on prom night
Frozen in stage fright on the dance floor
Pressing muted prayers with each footstep
Into creaky floorboards waiting for silence to ensue
And now you're nervous
You're certain those two left feet can't possibly find the rhythm
So your shoes are the victims of bashfulness
Fearing one false step will uproot your jitterbugs
And place them alongside the butterflies in your stomach
But I see you still owning your insecurities
Because you know you're alive just fine

I see you
You are who I envisioned you to be
I see you
Brushstrokes of imperfections shaded in perfectly
I see you
It's more than just your typical hello
It's a phrase for all of us to speak solely with our souls
It can make you feel at home at the center of your bones
When all your hope is lost and there's no where left to go
So when I greet you
Listen carefully
This is a reminder that your eyes can be thunderous
Your arms can be victorious
And your legs can be ambitious
Your presence is necessary for this discussion
And your essence is accepted here
Let me speak your spirit into existence
Seeing is believing
And believe me
I see you
Poetic T Mar 2015
She was like art still and silent
Beauty in the water, like a mirror
The essence of her shone from the
Halogen lights above.

She was like a picture, motionless
But still, her brushstrokes were
Grace upon skin, her moment
Was in this place, pictures taken
Of her pose of her posture frozen
in this place.

She was a beauty in the bath tub,
Her face in this lake of red, hiding
The deed, buried in temped water,
No longer pure, tainted by a final
Motion, claiming a last breath.

She was a beauty of refined allure,
But now her crimson glistened, refracted
Upon the light shining down a rainbow
Of shaded reds now greets all through
The heaven white doors.

She is the bath tub beauty now dead..
Stu Harley Jun 2016
what
make
poetry
paintings
are
the
tantalizing
brushstrokes of
the
soul
ana f Jul 2014
paint all over me with your tears and let
them wash away the dirt and grime left
by the people that once muttered the deadly
words "i love you"

paint me with the brush you used to reinvent yourself
i want to become a better me too, and honey
if you accomplished the impossible
than you can give hope to the hopeless.

so will you paint over me?
or will you let the dirt destroy who you
once knew.
Travis Green Nov 2018
It was the day before Thanksgiving
and we stood outside across the street
from my home.  The sun was shining
in the distance and the deep solid
clouds were frozen in silence.  I
lit my cigarette with a lighter
and tried to breathe in the words
that were running out of your mouth.

You were tired of being with me.
The love that we had was running
it's course.  You were losing your
balance and creativity.  I paused
with each breathless beat, letting
the diction rise in the shadows
and fall upon my chest, letting
its existence settle inside
my veins, as I flicked the
embers on the gray pavement.

My soul was fading yellow with
scarred and stretched surfaces,
aching brushstrokes beginning
with no meaning, while I shook
my head and turned away towards
the silent trees.  A part of me wanted
it back, the tender love that we used
to share over midnight poetry, the
******* we used to do over
R. Kelly's song, Bump and Grind.

But I knew that we were too far
gone across the distant seas.  
And as you kissed me on my cheeks
one last time, I knew I would never
see you again.  I watched you walk
away in the distance, a smoky love
diminishing in the ashes.
Hana Gabrielle Dec 2013
This block that’s been haunting me
I finally know what it is
It’s not that my thoughts have ever ceased to exist
(no matter how hard I wish)
My truth
Has never been poetic.
My 4 shots of honesty
Are tucked under unclean bed-sheets
Collecting dust
Because I haven’t found a soul
With good enough reason to trust

I work with formulated brushstrokes
My polished softer madness
Because I’ve been told that
This much eye contact makes you
Uncomfortable
That sometimes
I say the things
that you didn't
want to (or know how)
to hear
not sweet enough
for you to swallow
So shove it down my throat
with a gleam in your eye
you gloat
like you actually think
you’ve solved my mystery

I
have covered up
every last shadow
of sincerity
every vicious glimmer
of your fingerprints
marring the fabric
of my skin
my canvas
my natural form
is your sin

I shudder to think
That I’m waiting
For my censored text to be read
Waiting for repercussions
Of wounds that I’ve already bled
My truth
Is that I blurred through the boundaries
Between memories and lies
That I often can’t remember
What I made up and why
there was so much to
cover up
with false nostalgia

my heartache
is
that there’s no logic behind that
no reason to
forget how to feel
to go three days
with my eyes glazed
until I can grasp on
to what's real
a patched up framework of sane
and I want to see blood
to feel purpose for pain

Every time my tremors
Shake in new directions
I want to cry because
That’s just one step further away
from perfection
Playing pretend
Was just imagination
until it was dysfunction
and I set fire to my lungs
Because no matter what
I was never good enough

I choke on my breath
And the burn of swallowed blood
too warm
out of place
like a breeze to the bone
Dripping past the place that
Your name once called home
I still visit
The grave of a legend
In my body
So heavy with the weight
Of lives I never lived

It was never like
The words I so hopefully drowned in
The promises that
my fears were unfounded
That no one could really
Be alone
Not like this
Not like
Being left to remember your kiss
Not like
Nail marks in the palms of clenched fists
Not like fading in and out of dreams
Asking myself
Which reality is this?
Untangling from cold sweats
With the ringing in my ears
Reminding me ruthlessly
That god ****** I’m still here
And you’re gone

I hate that “I miss you”
Is mistaken for cliché
But it’s my truth
It’s my indescribable
My engulfing
My around every corner
Over and over
Your absence impacts like a train
stolen months
dripping in honey sweet
hope
we were my first us
it's hard to find salvation
when your
foundation gives up

My anger
Is sharp breaths
It tastes like
***** coming out my nose
Splashing against my skin
It burns a little like
Bee stings
Coming up my throat
And a whole lot less
Than the loneliness

That vacant isolation
That booms so stubborn
Trying to heal
from numb
Reminding me that
Summer by summer
I become something
That I wont
be willing to save.
At this point
I'm not sure what I crave.
it feels like thunder
on the horizon
of my intangible
you are so much more
than a metaphor
for how perspective
is flammable
but my story
was never about you

birthed from ashes
I am
your favourite taboo
unfinished work
rachel g Sep 2014
yesterday my feet rested comfortably on the bar of someone else's chair
and my eyelids slid heavy and the world seemed slow
a graph of survivorship curves glowing blurry on the whiteboard
and then words slid from behind a neatly trimmed white beard
". . . .as our bodies are programmed to die."

as our bodies are programmed to die.

thousands of miles away
one gleaming thought against a murky sky
(that's how i imagine it anyway--murky, cold,
stagnant air)
a frantic explosion of lean muscle power
and a body launching into the lake.

he was 17 and in that moment gears somewhere in this world shifted,
numbers were crunched and
some profound device processed the seconds, linking and unlinking them with an automatic, well-oiled certainty

he was 17 and the number on his football jersey suited him like wool socks on winter feet
his stride under the lights a weekly prize to all hungry, bleacher-ed, washed-up life-hunters bundled against october-night chill-streaked skies
they drank hot cocoa and he took three sips of gatorade

he was 17 and his smile
and his curls

and we all hear about hospitals but
this feels different because
he was 17 and suddenly,
instantaneously
his body was just a beep
and his skin turned the color of the walls

first the ICU painted quick brushstrokes across his wrists
then it stopped giving a **** at all

and the water rushed endlessly, heartlessly.

when I shift through memories and
find his seven-year old face in my mind, i remember a gap
where he'd lost a front tooth and i remember sunlight streaming behind his hair
it was valentine's day and he gave me a small smile and a silver charm bracelet in a powder blue box.


i shifted my feet
heard the snap of a binder closing
and all i could think about was
the oversimplification of words
and survivorship curves
and 17 years


and
and

piles of numbers spurting from a computer

and an echo of a splash.
this felt strange for me but for some reason i needed to write it. and though i don't like dedicating or even offering any explanation of my poems, this one's different, so i'd like to say that
this one's for MC.  he was a boy that glowed--so bright that even elementary-school me, who didn't know a ******* thing about glowing, figured it out.

they're right, man. they aren't bullshitting anyone when they say you were a selfless hero--you were the minute you entered this world, and even though you moved away years ago i remember you with this strange pang somewhere inside. i wonder if you'd remember me too.
Carly Salzberg Jan 2012
Kiss my cheek,
Again. Tell me
I’m pretty. Whisper
to me, again
the parting of
your lips
they crack
so wicked ****.
Move my hips
they stand still
for most of the day
Let them know
Its o.k to hulahoop
A love tale. Go Ahead,
wisk by me,
Temptation works best
In brushstrokes
And dial tones.
Just don’t shun
falling tears,
they soak your face
and make it brighter
before morning coffee.
Paint me a way home
I no longer want to be alone.

Use your yellow paint
And engulf me,
Into a beautiful world
Without any restraint.

That blue can be used
As the new sea,
Full of life
and full of being.

I will no longer be afraid
Of the wideness of the sea.
I will be comforted by the brushstrokes
Of the new beginning.

Paint me a home
White, with no mistakes.
No smudges
No gray.

Most importantly
Will you paint me?
With no mistakes, no smudges
A pair of new eyes
as blue as the sea.
Paint me and my being.
Make me feel yellow.
Make me happy.

I don’t want to feel lonely.
I want to be painted lovely.
anusha Apr 2018
Tiny silver fish writhe,
pavement, iridescent brushstrokes
sun's left, this dreary city
proving visions, mere mirages
metallic bursts of light
on a rain-soaked Ave,
They're not the
only culprits, forging upstream
against nature, against reason
not knowing how or why, or
what lie can I make this time?
what can strip me
of the binds of subsistence? To
whom is this even addressed?
What fame? Glory? could be achieved
as the mire consumes me. ha. I've
been ****** into a puddle
of outbursts, deception
mere mirages,
vision swimming vision swimming vision
swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming
You sink into dust. I follow.

— The End —