"candlelit" poems
A rainy dreary Halloween from 2006.
Candlelit late night
bedroom phone calls.
Your dream about a train ride and mushroom farmers.
My dream about hidden cities.
"I want to feed you ****** and a muscle relaxer and **** the **** out of you"
How long has it been Now?
Too long maybe, some lines are stretched too thin, through waiting and longing, love and lust and the once closest of friendships,
Stretched like Taffy till nearly gossamer strands wound meandering miles of complex life events and other unshared memories.
A too familiar voice.
Echoes of "I want you to have the perfect blow job"
Spaces in conversations that would have been empty if not for the most contagious laugh I've ever heard.
One not matched before or since.
Can you live in the past and long for the future? Is it greedy to desire more of something that was already so sweet? I don't tell anyone about my dreams now. Candles sit on.the shelf primarily unlit.
There are no more secret cities.
No mushroom farmers or train rides
But there are still threads
Stretched like Taffy but woven like a tapestry.
Across time and distance.
Made of memories.
All you'd have to do Is tug on a thread.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
Electric sun twirls its lava skirt.
Slammed woks.
Peanuts, chilli, limes and oil
Feeding him its lunch.
Shelter to chilli cheeks and peppercorn faces.
The air can't move its obese body to the rivers for a dip.
Darkness is hard with sturdy edges.
Curtains made of invisible beads and threads hang over the night in silence.
They spill against the concrete under rough hooves and feet
For the night falls like tight heavy lids.
Dusk is a bruised tunnel of vision.
Candlelit giants blinking rapidly.
You don't speak
For the night is never empty
The silence never lonely
Stampede of restlessness surrounding
Grinning from squint to squint
Raising embraces and chance encounters
They scream loudly to frighten the dawn.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 2:14 AM UTC
Two people both alike in character
Of the opposite sexes
Sit across a candlelit dinner
In a lovely, fancy restaurant
The room is incandescently lit
With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark
Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant
But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth
The waiter appears and asks the couple
What they would like for dinner
The couple order the food and drink
Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive
The waiter returns shortly
With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir
And pours the blood-red wine slowly
Into each of the couple's glasses
And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately
The food is laid out
Triumphant in its debut
A vast smorgasbord of entries
Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak
The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating
The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak
Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate
He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth
And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw
And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach
The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife
Cutting into the once moveable limbs
And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth
And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews
And swallows it into her fine and precious insides
The couple then split the crab legs
Using their bear hands they split the shells open
And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell
They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell
Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass
The waiter arrives and asks how the food was
The couple obliged him with their satisfaction
The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it
Leaving a hefty tip
They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant
To enjoy the night that is ahead of them
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
i am
monday nights filled with
candlelit journal entries
and sipping hot tea while
watching rain bounce off
the roof and open windows
in autumn and messy hand-
written letters and white
tees and cuffed jeans and
pb&j; with the crust cut
off and folded origami
cranes and watching the
sun rise while everyone
else is tucked away in
their beds and midnight
car rides and candid smiles
and lists written in blue
ink and wildflowers and
mountains and birds singing
and books and movies that
make you cry and nicknames
and flannels in the winter
and soft music and loud
music and moments recorded
only by memory and pumpkin
pie and forever stamps
i am all the little things
and if you don’t make an
effort to understand why i
love all the things i love
you will never understand
me
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Like an onion, I had layers.
And you peeled me away, one at a time.
One layer off.
You saw my favorites.
The food and drinks I crave for.
The wall paint I wanted for my room.
The perky dresses, nail polish, knee-high boots.
And the spot I always prefer to be- on the front seat.
One layer off.
You saw my hobbies.
The words I stitched together.
The stars that formed our zodiac sign.
The wallclimbing, badminton, volleyball.
And the guitar strings that strum our lullaby.
One layer off.
You saw my dreams.
The plane ticket to Paris.
The thrill of a bungee jump.
The candlelit dinner, fireworks, dancing fountain.
And the license as a medical physician.
One layer off.
You saw my strengths.
The smile behind the false judgements.
The tears I fought back with pride.
The temperance, confidence, adjustments.
And the self-love I have strongly magnified.
One layer off.
You saw my insecurities.
The missing dimple on my left cheek.
The pimples on my forehead.
The bitchface, fierce stare, strict walk.
And this prominently thin-but-tall body figure.
One layer off.
You saw my regrets.
The kisses I could have refused.
The friends I thought were true.
The false assumptions, unmet expectations.
And the trust I gave to the wrong person.
One layer off.
You saw my secrets.
The punches I had to take.
The bruises I covered with my sleeves.
The lies, frustrations, disappointments.
And the brokenness suppressed in my memory.
The last layer, off.
You saw through me.
The anxiousness escalating slowly.
The exposure feeling uneasy.
I felt stripped, explored, unguarded.
And in my nakedness - you had to choose:
To love or to leave me,
For who I really am.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
The wick is fading, and I have no matches left
In this dark abyss where I sit depressed
My valiant heart has become a perch for crows
Smile shaped in stone
Each embrace stiff and cold from my marbled soul
My arms depict a grasping hand
Reaching for a world these etched eyes will never know
Trapped in the heart of a withered artist
His mad dealings mold and make me
A victim of his musings
Crafted in a candlelit madness
Delicate delusions and vague allusions
To courage in the many veiled faces of death
Carved and set at the base of the steps
Statuesque
Jul 2, 2021
Jul 2, 2021 at 5:19 PM UTC
Connecting,
tribes on the cusp--
the lost family...
merging thought patterns
of old & new paradigms
into a geometric shipibo song
singing in moonlit sky,
smoke gray mauve clouds
are painted into the frozen lake background.
We paint
a new paradise--
together
at the table
on a sacred indigo candlelit map map
for people to set sail
on their journey through the seas of skies of their minds
guiding familiar souls
to speak their treasure light again.
We are the Indigo Pilgrims,
soul brothers reunited
after the frozen season thaws,
pushing on toward the place
where mind-flowers commence their bloom
as herb and sage slowly burns throughout the day
as the smoke dotes across the landscape
like dancing hieroglyphic clouds.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
The full moon caught a glimpse
where the billowed clouds parted
Saucer size Dogwood blossoms
echoed an urging reflection
through wide open window ;
the diffused moonlight reached in
touching the open palms
enduring in an empty void
lay down beside
Softly burnished reflections
lighten blanched flesh petals
swaying in the wakened
spring cadence
Rhinestone memories
tethered from somewhere above ;
as if manipulating puppet strings
dangling down through
the seesaw cloud gap ―
scattering candlelit sequins
like unmapped constellations
brushed by the moonlight
in the dale of your leafless *******
The fragrant breeze
of your memory
gathers a sweetest taste,
teasing wishful thirsty lips
into a gentle smile ...
Tracing unbounded memories
with wandering fingertips
upon your intimate
canvas oasis in my mind
Fallen petals floating gently
across still waters
induced by whispered breeze ;
quiet reminders that ripple
the mesmerizing silence
with the lonely breath
an unheard evanescent sigh
The open window
let the moonlight in,
illuminating lingering
shadows of the past ...
you feel the waft
of spring breathe ...
but you just can't help
where the wind blows
Jesse e. Stillwater
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
I don’t find myself being happy,
My taste in men is rather lacking.
They’re like the whiskey in my mouth I taste when I’m hungover.
Feels good at the time but I’m always sorry when it’s over.
I don’t feel good enough in my current relationship,
The man I’m with .. makes me feel like a piece of ****
He doesn’t look at me the way he looks at other woman,
and he tells me clothes don’t do me justice and that I look better naked.
and the lies are too hard to ignore anymore,
When I have to fight for his attention and he treats me like I’m his chore.
He said he was on his way home to go to to bed, but he did me real *****
he already told me earlier he got invited to go out drinking at 10:30,
But why would he lie?
Because the last time we went out drinking together he did things that really hurt me.
This relationship is toxic because I already knew what would happen after that lie.
He’d ignore all my texts and “forget to reply”
The way it works is he will apologize and feel bad the next day,
Because I’m such a nice girl and he sees his mistake,
But it’s not enough to say I forgive him or pretend it’s okay,
Hes breaking my trust every lie, each day.
I’ve tried so hard to get him to realize how much I care,
But he doesn’t seem to understand what he’s doing isn’t fair.
From the candlelit dinners to the mixed CDs and “Bang Me” valentines cake, i now realized were a waste of time and my own **** mistakes.
The nights I spent running my fingers through his hair ...which was he favorite thing
will just have to be memories that he’ll have to bear.
Because I’m not enough to get him to change,
It’s not enough to be me.
I haven’t any choice anymore
Hes forcing me to leave
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 3:19 AM UTC
Learn to love the fall,
to disappear like a radical ghost
shaking chains as a forgotten name.
Make your nests in piles of broken mirror glass,
court heartbreak like a 19th century candlelit lover.
Smile at the No,
bring it into your chest,
breathe it in warm.
Collapse the roof,
blow out the window,
cradle your shattered legs and kiss them like sleeping children
when they try to drag your broken body from the burning building.
And get your blood all over everything.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Undress... your mind.
Expose your explicit thoughts.
Bare your soul's deepest secrets.
Uncover your darkest sins.
Scatter each insecurity outside of these
bedroom walls.
Leave every fear to die on the cold floor.
Unmask your make-up free face.
Show off your natural glow.
Strut your never-ending legs.
Flaunt each curve as your shadow
glides across the candlelit room.
Unveil every inch of skin he was too busy to kiss.
Undress... you're mine.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
That blunt rusted knife
In the clammy night
The boy heard it slice
He heard it slice
Through the night
Before his eyes
As cold as ice
The rusted blade
As the killer made
Way through shade
In wanton hate
Toward the room
In candlelit gloom
The bride and groom
First in desire locked
Then in passion screamed
Then in horror shocked
The blade's dying sheen
He sliced and carved
For he was starved
Redress for broken heart
The boy didn't move
He knew it true
The world was cruel
He saw ****** too
Not once or twice
Could he save their lives
His own made it thrice
Now his spirit walks
In silent morbid shock
The world undone
For a soul so young
Moon and skin are pale
The boy doesn't wail
He doesn't wail
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
Dancing
underneath city lights,
jazz bands
reverberating, breathing in
voodoo shop
musk.
Soul
pulsates beneath
cobblestone,
wide eyes
peering up at
beaded balconies on
Frenchman Street.
Freedom is
coffee and baguettes from
Cafe Du Monde at
midnight,
surrounded by strangers.
Find me under strings of
flickering bulbs,
trading trails with
travelers.
Candlelit doorways illuminate the drifters, the curious, the backpackers,the Kerouacs,
the way to the gypsies past
Bourbon.
But not home.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
Flesh on flesh. Eyes watch eyes
Following fingers round curvatures. Caressing skin.
Skin on skin. Flesh in flesh.
A gin-sung-dream –
Silent utterances from the dark-side of a candlestick.
An unsung overture to Nature’s greatest gift
And Nature’s perfect curse.
Lips pursed open, speechless. Breathless.
Wide-white eyes scream STOP. blink. GO ON.
Glances flash between the flickers of candlelight ,
Meeting unknown looks in the black. Bodies
Embrace, writing words that have their own
Music. Heard only by its two composers.
Everywhere the other wishes to be –
Vivacity. Revelling in promiscuity.
Obscurity. Strangers share a warmth
As old as the ages.
A wafer-thin knife-edge of meaning.
Gin-song dreaming. An opaque tonic
For loneliness.
Hands in hands, heart fleeting.
The perfect curse of Man
In the stroking of skin.
Later, a vague sound of water, a towel
A drawer closing – a door latch clicks.
The world floods back.
Through the curtains,
Through the drainpipes
Your fleeting heart sheepishly returns,
Aching like a hangover.
Too much gin.
The momentary tonic wears off.
Heart in hand,
Hand to head.
Candlelit premonitions return.
Heated flesh. Arching backs.
Fingers through hair…
Salty fingers through oily hair and
Blood-red-wine lipstick smudges and
A singeing waxy smell makes you reel
To the window for air.
And there you are again,
In the middle of a city that knows you
More than your Alcoholic Lover,
A Melancholic Mother to all your needs,
Except the one you tried to soothe
A few hours back.
The one you pine for.
The one you lack.
Oh, this Humdrum City
Rushing you, with your heart in your hand, off your feet.
And your heart in the street
And the gin in your glass
Whenever you meet
Whoever it is that might
Make you complete…
A vague sound of water, a towel,
A candle extinguished, a door hinge creeks.
Wafer-thin. Flesh on flesh.
A belt buckle rings, a zip
A drawer closing, a door latch clicks.
The door latch clicks.
The door latch clicks.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
"i'm Rookie"
maybe i'll say it someday when I'm driving
naked skin burning on a sun kissed motorcycle seat
past old fruit stands,
toward some shadowed, dehydrated strangers arms,
in the texas heat.
i'll show them my homemade tattoos,
and recite some poetry to them.
i'll be wearing nothing but a feather headband,
and thigh high socks,
with a flask of throat burning
fire
trapped to the side of my leg.
i'll have nothing, and i'll need nothing,
but the open road,
and strangers hands caressing my candlelit skin,
when you can softly hear the rain at night,
like warm sweat of the
desert sky.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
§
The bloodred silk sheets are cool and sleek,
like a snake you slither across.
Seductive viper, with coal black eyes.
You suprise me in my evening slumber,
pulling down the sheet
you expose my naked body.
You savor the sight,
like a lioness over her prey,
you pounce pinning me.
You always awaken me this way,
and you catch me at attention,
waiting for you.
So I glide inside as our ***** collide,
in my candlelit chamber
our screams of pleasure are trapped inside.
I cannot hide my desire,
for this passionate union, of gasping mouths
alternately harsh and gentle groping hands,
I reach up to touch your face, and you **** on and bite my fingers,
and you can taste the *** in my fingertips.
More than breathing I need to fall asleep inside you.
Warm fluids on our thighs
cooling.
We can change the sheets tomorrow.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 5:13 PM UTC
Wind snaps through wild grain sprouted along the edge of the harbour
The aching creaks of the windmill over head orchestrate a haunting song
An appropriately ominous farewell to our weary sailors
Just beyond the port, we stand freshly alone and wait
We wait as they begin to vanish into the same fog from which they had appeared just a week ago
We watch as their vessel becomes a mere imperfection against a looming wall of clouds
And as they fade into the horizon, the sky darkens in anticipation of unavoidable ruin
Towering clouds shed foreshadowing tears
Weeks will pass, two months past when they should have returned will have come and gone
The same haunting cries of the windmill will soon be joined by echoing church hymns
Adorned in black veils and white flowers, we will be bathed by the same sorrowful clouds
Oppressive clouds will hang low above a candlelit procession
These fate burdened clouds will begin to weep, raindrops mingling with widows' tears
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC
Why are you appealing to me-
Stimulating my ****** desire
tending to arouse evil with inside
Me- You
Us
Identical-
Suggestively I've laid out
flowery perfumed petal
trailing to the bedroom
I've characterized you
by obscenity's & indecency's
you've already let me get away with
**** vivacious recipient-
eluding the lubricious
embraces of
my prurient thought.
Thigh high boots
Whips Creme & chains
Swing chair done up tight to the ceiling,
Lubrications lotions & potions,
Candlelit flickers
as
Our
silhouette's merge into
Identical
mirrored image
You- Me
Mingling
Melting- the little death
becomes
Us!
Identical........
Always me Ayeshah
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 6:47 PM UTC
Quiet walks
Along the shore rocks
Waiting for a call
Just behind the seaweed wall
Turquoise shimmer
Dark shadows flicker
Candlelit meeting
For the one thing I've been needing
My legs become one
As I drift into the waters
Following one of Triton's daughters
Plummeting into the sea
But our time becomes limited
And back to the shore I drifted
Watching her slip away
Telling me come every other day
Looking out into the horizon's wefts
Begging God, "five minutes, please"
Love sunken with the memories
As she floats back into the oceans depths
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 1:25 AM UTC
I’m listening to the teenagers fall in love next door.
Music plays softly in the background, setting the mood.
It’s a beautiful sight as I’m watching it from my spot in the window.
Strings of lights surround them while they gaze up at the stars.
They are making pointless conversation that goes in endless circles
But both of them seem to be completely ecstatic and enthralled
With just each other’s company.
In their own little corner, in the limited space that is
Someone else’s backyard, they are protected and safe from reality.
It gives me hope.
I can feel myself getting lost in the excitement once again.
Maybe there’s a love out there that is only precious and clean.
Without a single speck of imperfection, infidelity, or mean
Where’s the magic? The one that I’m supposed to believe in.
Where is my soulmate the one with which
I’m supposed to keep dreaming
In my imagination, these teenagers are so much more
She’s the shy belle of the season, attractive beyond measure
And of course, he’s the charismatic boy with
A good amount of reason
But truth be told, I don’t know her.
Or him. Or if they are actually even a couple.
Or just friends stealing kisses under the pale moonlight.
They just seem so perfect from up here,
Flawless, absolutely faultless.
That’s not practical though, is it?
I want the magic to be real.
For their smiles and loving feelings to be genuine.
Unfortunately, in my experience I’ve learned
Real love doesn’t work that way.
Maybe in the movies, maybe for a couple of days.
But it’s not real, at least, for a love that lasts.
However, the real point of inquiry
Is why I’m sitting by this window
Completely captivated this beautiful maybe, maybe not
Couple hidden away from the world
I think a part of me wants to be them.
I want to be in a love like theirs.
One that’s filled with soft glowing candlelit discussions,
Filled with smiles and gazing into each other’s eyes.
While watching the stars, with their gentle hands intertwined.
I want to be in a love like theirs.
But what does that say about mine?
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 4:25 AM UTC
You told me you loved me amongst the crowd of a Steelers game while we were searching for a hot dog and soda. Not the most enchanting, but perhaps I watch too many rom-coms for my own good. I think I've always just romanticized each aspect of a relationship and all the major moments based on what media told me meant the most.
Opening my eyes now, those special moments aren't always at a candlelit dinner or by a fireplace, many times they are at a cookout with your friends or the zoo with my nieces and nephews. The beauty of feeling something so deeply that you just have to say it, even if it's in front of a porta ***** at a church festival or the stoplight on your way home, that's the real love that people feel.
So when I tell you I love you while sitting on my couch on a random Monday night, know that I mean it. Know that every muscle in my body wanted to tell you because I didn't wait for candlelight or an array of stars, instead I told you in the most real way, our way.
We will still have those romantic moments on a boat under the moonlight or the fireplace of an old house, but we will also have those passionate moments where we couldn't keep our feelings in anymore and the most appropriate place just happens to be a crowded train on the way downtown and an airport bar. I love you and I'll say it anywhere.
-t.s.
Feb 22, 2024
Feb 22, 2024 at 9:55 PM UTC
Daylight to look out a window
and midnight to see into one.
Say some name three times
at a candlelit face, a flashback
to fear at such a young age.
These were stories that were told
to us by older brothers and sisters
during our weekend sleepovers.
We're mirror images of them
no matter how old we grow.
Children playing in the snow
in the coldest of northern winters,
making a snowman, giving a name,
topping him with a black-ribboned hat
and an added lit cigarette to allow
easy passing of a lampless evening
faced an overbearing, light-speckled sky.
The image passes away in the day,
everything melted to bring spring
anew to the streets and city pools.
Clean them out, remove their stories
from the past year for the new ones
to come. Crop your face to bring light
back in and to tabula rasa our crevices.
Spiderwebs and crows feet.
Let your frame pass into the attic
to lean on your dusty, keylocked journals
and that 19th century armoire
that has no place in your place anymore.
Tell me those stories, tell me your stories.
Tell me your stories, and I'll tell you mine.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC