"cadmium" poems
Riding down the rapidly declining slope
on the bright, soft-water day,
I imagine myself as nothing more than an animal
falling down a waterfall into a lake clear and crisp.
The wheels of my bike turn rapidly
like the a propeller of a plane,
just as powerful
and just as dangerous if I fall,
but only to me.
Catching the sea salt breeze
my blonde, sun bleached hair flies as if
it were flying on seagulls wings.
I am a cadmium yellow blur on a painting,
moving much too fast to be captured and depicted accurately.
I ride until the end of my slope this way,
finishing strong with out a hint of regret.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
Yellow, Cadmium, Aureolin, Lemon
It's the shades of your true nature.
Sheen, Spring Bud, Bitter Lime, Lime
It's the other side of you.
The day when I met you is Lemon,
Drowning me into the watery trap of yours
Lemon in Water, that's how you cast a spell on me.
Sour, it's the taste of waiting for you
Bitter, you left me rotten and lost
Sweet, it's when you smile to me
Refreshing, the reason why I look forward toward tomorrow
Plain, the black truth behind your kindness
Sour+Bitter, the days when I must forget about you
Lemon, Lime,
I got addicted to your freshness,
Lime, Lemon
You stir me up like a juice,
Lime
Those dream felt so real
Lemon
I should've known, that I never belong to you, ever.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
The wolves did not just stalk quietly through cadmium woods.
Their teeth grew madder and rose from each others throats.
The tigers did not just sleep on mossy slopes,
they colored the afternoon fushia and indigo from caladon heights,
The dragon with its terrible emerald tail and ruby glare,
did not merely threaten to incinerate everything around it.
Spiders prepare a grave.
This thing in a binding tomb.
A multitude of flames, a million orange and blue....
Tears cremating the past.
A burning snow falling everywhere.
When the darkest angel of all, sits at last upon my chest,
permanently enfolding me in its radiant wings....
A creature without a voice,
A voice without a name.
As immortal as mi life,
come here at long last to summon the wind.
© Crystal Erickson
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
we were the bomb squad
a tribe of children in
plastic crash helmets
pillows tied on
to protect our insides
holding hands to keep
from feeling lost and alone
we were the bomb squad
living like thieves in cardboard caves
beside the mine fields
hidden beneath beds of poppies
decoy explosions
in cadmium red *****
tender tongues
like kittens licking
the insides
of trembling thighs
we were the bomb squad
mucous membranes and bones
tick tock throats and veins
popped in the pyre
stomach bile and marrow
all up in the same smoke
as something that was
once smooth and sentient
we were the bomb squad
we found no time for any flag
nothing to do with kings
or foreign countries
just the knowledge
of not having known anything before
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
I want to live life in a Bob Ross painting
With serene monstrous mountains far off in the distance
The peak half covered by happy little clouds
A happy little tree and it’s many brothers and sisters
Blanketing the landscape of light snowfall and growing bushes
A small cabin bathed in melting snow rests comfortably
Next to a thawing private lake lit by a cadmium yellow sun
This is where I want to live
Swarmed in colors of titanium white,
Phthalo green and blue,
Midnight black,
Alizarin crimson,
And Indian yellow
Where there are no mistakes
Only happy accidents
Where the big decisions
And the tests of courage are
Where the next tree will go
In a Bob Ross painting
I could live peacefully
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
Naples yellow
Prussian blue
Burnt umber
Cadmium Red Deep
Napthol Red
Quinacridone
Phtalocionine Blue and Green
Portrait Pink Light
Yellow Oxide
Raw Sienna
Can you make a painting without these?
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
I'm still waiting for you to kiss me
With those crimson lips so smooth.
And I'm still waiting for us to be alone
When the pain in your bright eyes can be soothed.
I'm still waiting for you to get help
For the carmine rivers that you trace.
And I'm still waiting for a reason why
You broke the promise you put in place.
I'm still waiting for my head to stop spinning
The rose hairclip means I see you down the hall.
And I'm still waiting to tell when my stomach flips
If it's good or not at all.
I'm still waiting for my logic to return
But love gives an alazarin tint to every drama.
And I'm still waiting for a chance to talk to you
But I seem to have bad karma.
I'm still waiting for that hug you owe me
My ruby hair shoelace flopping in my eyes
And I'm still waiting to be the tall one of the pair
As I try to move on, part of me dies.
I'm still waiting for that movie date we planned
And the ketchup coloured earring you wear in the left ear
And I'm still waiting to dance and twirl you round
In my arms I could hold you near.
I'm still waiting for when you blush
Vermillion as insults are thrown across the street
And I'm still waiting for the chance to set that right
Remmembering you defending me in the stifling heat.
I'm still waiting for the time to tell you
How much you're in my thoughts
And I'm still waiting for your birthday so I can gift
The cadmium sketchbook that I bought
I'm still waiting for the coral pain to stop in my heart
It's there for you, of that I have no doubt
And I'm still waiting for the laughter to return
To my life when we sort this out
I'm still waiting for the trip to the coast
The bergundy viking boat alight
And I'm still waiting for what will never be
But then again, it might.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
boy-flesh,
death rattle,
I arise out of youth
doused in kerosene.
I bask in the sun
like an old farm
cat, illuminated--
cadmium yellow.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
's favorite meal is not children as you may expect
it is old people, the elderly near death
they taste better to him
he fantasizes their whole lives with every bite
whose heart like bottles or ransom clinks against
itself eating the useless parts of its own stomach
rotors of bone hum about revenge
the earth clones pale enigmatic cyanide
my spawn sweat bourbon and bleed sweet milk
I'm the Tower
Look Look
let us hold eachother here until the dark blossoms
into an invisible canine snarl
crushed by feathers at a
tomb-encrusted countryside
wax swans bleed from
their eyes and bulls inside run
in circles around ancient ice prisons
Look a clock
century weary mariners
gape in disbelief
at a yawning dawn
of cadmium
on the tongue of
a bristling free roaming
continent of
gothic salt
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 8:31 PM UTC
palette
russet, olive hues
yellow ochre
bird's egg blue
vastness held
within a bowl
turned over earth
to heal and hold
moisture from
the morning rain
thus the painter's
eye is trained
cadmium white
a fan-like brush
sketch mare's-tail clouds
an artist's touch
far horizon
grayish blue
a woman reclines
in the ****
her form reveals
the breasting hills
her hips the mountains
hushed and still
mid-ground
blurs of olive cacti
the saguaro
rise like hackles
Palo Verde lie in lumps
yellow flowers
bloom in clumps
point of brush
tweaks out the trees
turn of branches
stippled leaves
small are they
to catch the light
but the moisture
loss is slight
ochre foreground
brownish stones
blue-gray shadows
light source shown
grayish purple
prickly pears
ocotillo
here and there
spindly with splash of red
barrel cacti nod their heads
buff highlights
saguaro flowers
I could sit and
paint for hours
there's time to write
but now I pray
look upon these
words today
they paint the desert
you will find
If only in
the poet's mind!
SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage
2017
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 5:42 AM UTC
The willow stood flower-like as a star.
The birds were like a choir following thy
Mellowed tune
As I whistled through the light winds in the air
And the meadows were green with mint and clover.
In the center laid a carpet of buttercups
Exploding with vibrant shades
Of purple primroses.
The blue sky crawled
And dripped onto the leaves
Where the green cadmium leaves of the willow
Were lifted and bounded in my soul.
The cleavage of the hands
That sing may hold the dust
From the clouds above
But the remembered memory is left alone
As the tightening of the roots
Gathers me together;
Finding the tune that embraces him
Enfolding him into a wandering dove.
Happy thoughts I had
When I slept at night
Upon a branch
Making faces with the moon
Listening to the willow
Whistling, humming
With its harmonic beat
In G Major.
But now summer has blown away;
It is gone forever.
In deciduous opening
When leaves had fallen
Like my youth
Before it drifted away;
I had vacant memories and happy
Pictures of childhood days
Where I had been alone
And wrote swiftly with pen and paper.
©Jack Aylward
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
i smear oil paint across your lips.
your face, outlined in pale brown and
robin's egg blue and
yellow-green,
rests gently in negative space.
part of me hurts
when i look at this part of you,
this part i am
so familiar with,
in an unfamiliar way.
the lines of your eyes
(eyes i've gazed into a thousand times)
betray my secrets and my soul;
the whisper of your hair
is the same as the quiet brush of mine
on the tops of my bare shoulders;
i reach out to touch you,
and my fingers touch dried oils
in shades of raw umber and cadmium lemon;
my paintbrush still dangles, wet,
from my other hand.
the creased wax paper on the table
carries swatches of color,
the potential energy of
my pigment-smudged hands;
you are still unfinished.
i am still unfinished.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
she wanted it to be the way she felt when painting
fearless messy vivid
instead of this faded photograph of a staged existence
and click click click she winds the film
dreaming cadmium red and deep cerulean
and the tightening of drying oils on her
fingertips arm lip pulling and biting at flesh like an old lover
wet sable slides across canvas
sweet turpentine and resin saturating the room
like the smell of sweat and *** lingering over some half forgotten affair
and back to the taut fabric again
in flashes of titanium white
the intensity of vermilion
slipping with animal instinct into rich umber and raw sienna
and a final stroke of ultramarine
click
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 12:27 PM UTC
I want to see you sleeping after
tick-tocking like a wind-up clock all day,
falling like a taut of rope to the bottom of
a canyon to thud down into a pensive pile,
spreading your energy out as a silent spirit
across the dry river bed, the wind of you
whipping up sediments in the vast valleys beneath.
I want to bear witness to you catching my eye
from across the room cautiously,
covering the communion in cadmium lemonade tape,
tasty and afraid of being caught at the crime scene.
I'll throw you a line and you can come up gasping,
glorious and shining in the adolescent sun,
pulling in air where water should come.
I want to watch you write that paper you're working on.
I want to spot you screaming into oblivion,
washing over wonder with waxy fingers,
grabbing at the truth like five year olds ****** fireflies
out of a fleshy, dusk-dipped night
with mothers calling out "Come inside!" in loving, eager fright.
I want your eyes to glimmer something back at me,
meeting me in the cosmos to make the moon,
Mercury slinging stardust over his shoulder,
flirting with Venus and fighting her smolder,
meteorites crashing into each other,
creating solar systems in their wake.
I want to contemplate you on a flat plane,
feeling a frenzy of agitated hands
and fluctuating heart rate,
fault lines moving crazy,
crashing through geologic time
to make earthquakes feel human.
I want to stare at you saying things
that would color me crimson in broad daylight
as we breathe out heavy to the ancient incantations
of an early umber evening.
I want to see you
without a pocket mirror attached to my wrist,
cutting into my skin,
blood purple like lavender iced tea in the summer
and veins an undulating blue.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
In this moment,
we are all together.
In this moment,
we are healing.
In this moment,
we release our selves
Flesh bodies sizzle
cadmium red rhythms--
thunder gourdes rumble
as everyone shouts cobalt lightning!
A few stand quietly, hands
prancing in the air feeding the one
in the center of the circle a steady diet of colors.
Drums bubble & thump beat primal heart screams--
yipps & mews & prrrrr's
fill the Shipibo patterned room.
Joyous dancing scorches the floor,
tension falls away like the clothes
of lovers laying atop each other under the bed.
Here I sit,
at home amidst the somatic chaos sounds
chanting magic storm-wolf tones,
pounding away on bongos
patter-pitter jitterbug swing jungle vine jazz
as my body rocks forth and back
mountain lion paw hands tap crystals
red eagle wings flap smiles
navy ****** tail slaps bass
brown snake-eyes snap out of reality!
In this moment,
we are all together.
In this moment,
we are healing.
In this moment,
we release our selves
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
we’ve traded knowing apples with
lush green mothers of cadmium
and fiberglass
veins of copper,
silver, and gold
siliconed our brains to currents
of controlled thunder
we ****** flat breasted,
hand-sized puddles of glass like
only lesbians and lonely wives
can wish for
iron our souls out
in selfies of people
we wish we were
epoxied our hearts to
shallow resins of hope
we’ve
followed polyester roads
of truth
have we forgotten the
simple flesh of carbon?
the
naked
nitrogen
of our belly buttons?
the
happy
hydrogen
of our eye lids?
the
oxygen of ******
**** me not
with metals of progress
but with
ancient odes of
skin and calcium
teeth
i’ll take the devil of
old
over this
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 3:17 AM UTC
i.
I canst not thanketh thee enough, for assuaging mine pang's
On earth, in heaven, on the dwarf planet's, in thy kiss of leaven;
When thou art down, I'll taketh thine frown, when broken, when hopeless, I shalt giveth thee mine own gladness; lifting thy smile.
ii.
In cities, in town's, aloft the skies, on the ground, in the open, in the wild, cadmium yellow floret's, mine Asian child, in thy eye's;
In thy laugh, passed the noise, of hellish mess, passed the pain's, madness and stress; I shalt always be by thy waistside, mine pet.
iii.
In ourn life, and beyond ourn death's, we shalt meeteth at the place of holiness, tis not a place sculpted by hand's of men;
Tis a place of dominion's and kingdom's. Inside God's house wherein we shalt be in peace, the angel's shalt singeth, halo sleep.
©Brandon Nagley
©Earl jane Nagley (Pookie) dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
Ripe, bitter, sour and oh so sweet.
Dangling off of a Californian tree.
Living within peels so stringent and
containing cascading juices so pungent.
He leaves you wanting, aching to know more.
He lures you in with the irresistible sweetest of enchanting
songs and ballads.
But what you didn't know was, that the ending
melody left you in a note that made you feel as though
you were drowning in a sea of rotten,
forgotten, and lost once loved dreams.
You became addicted to his freshness,
to the zest of his scent.
You became seduced, captivated even.
You let yourself become vulnerable
and susceptible to his touch.
You slowly opened up your wounds.
You let your friable bandages flow free.
You even let him lead the grand dance.
You let him twirl and spin you to the point
of reaching a state of trance or reverie.
He took you on romantic evening picnics,
he brought you to the oldest of antique boutiques,
and he even painted you angelic
mosaics in oil.
Ones comparable to those grandiose and imposing
works' of the masters.
At last he casted you under his spell
and he enticed you once again.
He had the charm of a thousand
and he was spontaneous in all his ways.
He never failed to surprise you.
They say he had an oriental descent
and this would explain much.
But when you least expected it,
he touched your wounds.
You felt an unbearable pain,
and a strange surge flow through you.
It burned, to say the least.
You almost felt your incisions
blister under the effect of his acid.
His yellow and aureolin tint
seemed only to be a facade.
An illusion, a charade to the naked eye.
But in that moment you could see through it.
You looked at him with pain-struck eyes,
full of confusion and disappointment.
You couldn't really identify the look in his.
You realized that he really had nothing to do
with his cadmium yellowish golden tint.
You felt as though you were fainting.
You were sinking and all the sweet
memories you two shared, flooded your
sight.
But then he said, "look at your wounds"
and you did as he ordered.
You looked down and shook off the stupor
and came back to.
You looked at your wounds and
became staggered and managed a mere "thank you".
For your wounds were no longer swollen and irritated.
He had healed you.
So when life hands you lemons,
don't make lemonade.
No, instead care for those
misunderstood beings,
and tend to their needs.
Because the lemons in our lives
are all too prevalent and far too
misread.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
48(Cd)
is a highly toxic, poisonous and soft metal used in many production processes, but mainly mixed with Sulfate to make the color yellow.
metal is suppose to be tough.
Not malleable, ductile and easily cut.
Polished to a lustrous finish but will corrode in due time.
I am Cadmium;
soft and easily cut, my finish does not last, I can be poisonous if you don't filter me.
But if you mix me correctly, I am a beautiful Yellow.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 4:35 PM UTC
--Kingston Rag--
It's 8 a.m. again,
And my mind reels
In memorium
As I reel up the sidewalk,
Down the street
To the emporium
To eat a ****** bagel
That costs far too much
For the taste of cadmium
That comes like a punch
As I bite into cream cheese.
How much?
Three fifteen?
I only got a dime,
Can you throw
This one to me?
It's not a crime,
I won't tell your boss.
I get tossed right out,
So I guess I'll walk
To the bench
By the bus stop
And hope it stops
To let me on.
If not I'll pawn
The watch my pops
Gave to me (it's gold),
The only thing
He bestowed
Upon his spawn
Besides pools
Of *****
On cool granite
Slabs that served
As a deck
For the wreck
Of a shack
I grew up in,
Plus drunken sins
I had to cover up
For him,
Because that schlup
Could never win.
'Drink up, drink up,
There's no more gin,
But there's mouthwash
In the cabinet,'
But he wasn't havin it,
So I got hit
And sent outside
To sleep on the bench
On which
I now reside
Waiting for this
******* bus
To give me a ride
Back to the Bucket.
**** it.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
palette
russet, olive hues
yellow ochre
bird's egg blue
vastness held
within a bowl
turned over earth
to heal and hold
moisture from
the morning rain
thus the painter's
eye is trained
cadmium white
a fan-like brush
sketch mare's-tail clouds
an artist's touch
far horizon
grayish blue
a woman reclines
in the ****
her form reveals
the breasting hills
her hips the mountains
hushed and still
mid-ground
blurs of olive cacti
the saguaro
rise like hackles
Palo Verde lie in lumps
yellow flowers
bloom in clumps
point of brush
tweaks out the trees
turn of branches
stippled leaves
small are they
to catch the light
but the moisture
loss is slight
ochre foreground
brownish stones
blue-gray shadows
light source shown
grayish purple
prickly pears
ocotillo
here and there
spindly with splash of red
barrel cacti nod their heads
buff highlights
bring out the sand
thus paint creates
this desert land
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/13/2017
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
Cadmium
You took a bullet to my heart
made of titanium,
poisoned my blood with deceit and lies,
filled my lungs with cadmium.
How can I not see your reflection
in any one who speaks your same words?
I try to forget of your mistakes
but mirrors only amplify the hurt.
I have given up on searching for your heart,
hope and want are a self destructing team;
you've never once apologised,
I've had to settle for "I'm sorry" in my dreams.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 11:29 PM UTC
habit is at
my elbow, tho
crouching
scenes not small too
flank the left
ulna. hell,
w a flick
of the wrist
i could commission
a fistless head squawk bloom. but this
hag
viscous, if
lag of lead and
cadmium sapped, ack-
nowledges
a vision,
also. all
have a voice,
no matter how
crude or
elemental.
the hydra, for
instance, has a mouth-
ful of
membranous
know
how.
jet-void smaller daff-
odils milling and
mauling tall, i am beautiful
because i
am here
amid it all
for such
a little bit
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
a C. Bukowski poem and bean with bacon soup with regular crackers
I dipped in and burned every bit of my mouth swallowed the reactive mess fast, like a nuclear thing it burnt all the way down.
I felt the way I did when I kissed last Sunday, that twenty dollar *****
on her nether lips, I dipped my cadmium rod into a beer, after
stopping what may react just like Fermi did.
Satisfied, I cooled off, and farted away bubbly drinking
the rest of the night.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC