"candor" poems
We've heard the tales of eyes and smiles a hundred times before,
but for this one I write about, I'll have to add one more.
Though songs of faces say so much, they cannot tell the all,
so I shall sing of one who wears the golden waterfall.
The signals of her hatred for this world of little lies
is registered within the tell-tale candor of her eyes.
On this plane of human falsehood, such honesty stands tall,
and so I sing of one who wears the golden waterfall.
The poetry of words alone has not the grace to give
her passion to discover all the love she wants to live.
A warmth too great to be contained in her body, largely small
flows through the hair of she who wears the golden waterfall.
So from aside I watch, a half-read book upon her shelf
as she throws light upon the unkind mirror of her self
and wonders if the things she seeks will listen to her call -
look! See them run to one who wears the golden waterfall.
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 6:52 PM UTC
Seasons pass, tempered by insalubrious fervor; treasonous design remiss of fate
An echo of prior songs resonate somber atrophy; mourn the passing of constant defeat, stained by triumphant dissonance and disdain
Fear strides along the broken path, left alone and solemn and crass: Through sour feats of vindication, tones of plight become dismissed
Surfeit, the sound of temptation rides upon the crest of dawn, blinding darkness like calming waves caressing infinite stretches of sand: soft and warm; kind and welcoming, embracing in its gentle touch
Sentience hides behind a creeping fog, whispering secrets of life eternal, bearing gifts wrought through sensuous candor
Two threads lost, now found; slowly bonding, uniting purpose, rhythm, rhyme, and reason; born from the same cloth, garnering habit, singing in harmony what echoes from within
Beautiful, intelligent, staunch with profundity; stark, handsome, wholesome, and good
The call of a true home may finally beckon..
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 2:08 AM UTC
Some truths are told in anger,
Some truths are told in vain,
Sometimes there’s value in candor,
Sometimes truth just causes pain.
Some truths told aren’t told on purpose,
Some come out without consent,
Some when told do a great disservice,
No matter how honorable their intent.
Some truths are never told,
Away in drawers they’re kept,
Things gilded still shine like lustrous gold,
And dry are tears long wept.
I once had a truth I tried to speak,
But it was spoken by another prematurely,
I saw it happen, my voice was weak,
I handled it like a child and far too immaturely.
What was exposed could not be taken back,
It was a point of no return,
I was indignant, it all turned black,
I wanted the world to burn.
And burn it did,
But only mine,
Down hard I slid,
The real world was fine.
With time gone by, I must admit a lesson I learned,
The truth really does set you free,
But to whom my truth concerned,
I can only apologize, it should’ve come from me.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
Assure your child she is
safe within the confines
of your embrace; tell her she is
free from fright within the bounds
of your sight. Convince her that
a voice as sweet as hers deserves
no other ears than yours; let her
feel that to be free, safe, and sweet she
needs no noise, she needs not
speak. Make her believe that
silence is the air she must
breathe; then show her your candor --
cut her tongue.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
Dough making
with flour and water
Salt and butter
Calls for kneading
In ritualistic candor
As parts come together
To an irreversible matter
The soft cushion of dough
between the palm and the bowl
pliable with every push and shove
stretched and compressed
In sheepish conformity
Blistered on skillet
Puffed up to a chapati
Heavens thanked with each bite
For flat bread with savory curry
Fills nostrils with soft aromas-
Relished as heaven on tongue-
One is contented of this flat bread
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
To Struga Festival Golden Wreath Laureates
& International Bards 1986
Stand up against governments, against God.
Stay irresponsible.
Say only what we know & imagine.
Absolutes are coercion.
Change is absolute.
Ordinary mind includes eternal perceptions.
Observe what's vivid.
Notice what you notice.
Catch yourself thinking.
Vividness is self-selecting.
If we don't show anyone, we're free to write anything.
Remember the future.
Advise only yourself.
Don't drink yourself to death.
Two molecules clanking against each other requires an observer to become
scientific data.
The measuring instrument determines the appearance of the phenomenal
world after Einstein.
The universe is subjective.
Walt Whitman celebrated Person.
We Are an observer, measuring instrument, eye, subject, Person.
Universe is person.
Inside skull vast as outside skull.
Mind is outer space.
"Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound."
First thought, best thought.
Mind is shapely, Art is shapely.
Maximum information, minimum number of syllables.
Syntax condensed, sound is solid.
Intense fragments of spoken idiom, best.
Consonants around vowels make sense.
Savor vowels, appreciate consonants.
Subject is known by what she sees.
Others can measure their vision by what we see.
Candor ends paranoia.
Kral Majales
June 25, 1986
Boulder, Colorado
5.5k
Memories of you linger and flicker
Over the sands of the time
In wonder I treasure those times together
When the feeling was sublime
You may be gone but not the thought
Of the love that once we knew
So when I pause to remember
In all candor, the thought of you renews
Good wishes I send — that’s all I can do
To the one in the end who loved me so true
For which I shall ever give thanks
Dearest one, I’ll think of you
At the setting of my sun
For once a upon a time
Love was all we knew
The glory of me and you
In the time when we were one
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark.
The blue-green glow of dashboard gauges, the biting scent
of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Insects slapping the windshield, incipient rain.
Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.
II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms
I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement
ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor on MLK Boulevard.
The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence
inscribed on my back also confirms this.
III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair,
fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears,
twisting behind tent ***** with a one-armed
contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.
IV
I derailed in a dive bar.
V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights,
where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic
signals kept perfect time. I picked through trash bins.
I paid for love with drugstore wine.
VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road.
The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.
VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed
by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew
back the curtains and lost myself
in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps,
the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes.
I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.
VIII
The moon over my shoulder
tightened into focus like a spotlight.
One night the barking dogs undid me.
I caved in to the candor of a naked mattress.
I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell,
clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.
IX
I coveted the house keys of strangers.
X
I opened and closed many doors.
I sang into the mouths of storm drains.
I stepped out of many rooms only
to find myself in the room I just left.
Despite all my leaving, I remained.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
the truth is no one ever taught me how to fix a flat tire or how to ask for help or what love was even good for in the first place
and the truth is that the cookie was good but the lemon icing wasn't and the truth is baking should be done without any kind of lemon at all
and the truth is i wish you'd hold me close enough that our skin fused together and i could burrow into your spine and learn all the things you won't teach me
and the truth is you were never good at making eye contact but i dare you to look at me long enough that i can trace the line that connects your iris to your pupil and count how many shades of black a person can produce
and the truth is i don't know if the grass has fingerprints but i know that yours are cigarette stained and no better at letting go than mine
and the truth is i am a dump site and you are an inhale and i am clockwork and you are a melody and i can't keep my teeth off your eloquence
and the truth is my feet are covered in acrylic paint from leaving smudged footprints in sparkly things
and the truth is i don't want you all to myself but you can pretend i'm yours when i'm engulfed in the ocean and making it hard for you to breathe
and the truth is i'm looking for a different kind of intimacy from you
and maybe it's just some teenage girl talking but the truth is that i want to drown with you. i want to burn with you. i want to scream with you so violently that the body that crushes my lungs crumbles and i become a balloon for real this time
and the truth is, if you hadn't called me beautiful, i would have mistaken last night for a paradise i don't believe in
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
In an instant the sparkle showered me
Bathed in light and energy
Flowing flowing a waterfall of emotion
A connection stretching back in time
A piercing silence
Cloaking me in her calm
Her doors had been cast aside
Unexpected candor, laughter lilting
And bouncing, catching me off guard.
She wasn’t hiding behind the bush
Or running from tree to tree
She stretched the moments
Filled them with spirit
Flew to the rafters and beckoned me to join
I melted in her eyes, molten joy
Ready to be molded
Precious shapes, rare forms
Unknown beings.
I trusted her hands
Gripped me with delicacy
And a lightness of life.
That moment became a day
And that day will not end.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
Boaz, overcome with weariness, by torchlight
made his pallet on the threshing floor
where all day he had worked, and now he slept
among the bushels of threshed wheat.
The old man owned wheatfields and barley,
and though he was rich, he was still fair-minded.
No filth soured the sweetness of his well.
No hot iron of torture whitened in his forge.
His beard was silver as a brook in April.
He bound sheaves without the strain of hate
or envy. He saw gleaners pass, and said,
Let handfuls of the fat ears fall to them.
The man's mind, clear of untoward feeling,
clothed itself in candor. He wore clean robes.
His heaped granaries spilled over always
toward the poor, no less than public fountains.
Boaz did well by his workers and by kinsmen.
He was generous, and moderate. Women held him
worthier than younger men, for youth is handsome,
but to him in his old age came greatness.
An old man, nearing his first source, may find
the timelessness beyond times of trouble.
And though fire burned in young men's eyes,
to Ruth the eyes of Boaz shone clear light.
4.4k
In the wondrous story book of night,
I fully absorb and contemplate,
You were the one omnipresent,
in light years far and flames near.
As orbs of light, in many intensities and hues
the ray of infinite grace that envelops,
That feels like the caressing of lotus petals,
was you my eternal beloved.
Soft, frothing moon light has been
at times of pain my true consolation,
The moving comet my source of wonder,
that takes me to you in imagination.
A reader, I was keenly searching.
for meanings of things in light and dark
Being another character formed
of dust sedimented from many stars.
You are enshrined in the diamond
temple of my mind's still center
making you my lover was
in honor of my yen for sublime.
The story book of night has pages
on spirited mornings, noons and dusk
your benign presence in each step,
moves galaxies and milky ways.
I see your moving eye brows
in the tumult of dark rain clouds,
Your intense eyes flash love to me
when in pain,if I feel some doubt,
In waves one after another of ocean,
your hands embrace me to assure,
mountain wind from far distance
brings your songs nightingales sing.
I am a living monument that's breathed
from the elements , to keep on loving you
not ever a jealous lover,I am like a millioner
ready to sacrifice all just for your presence.
Is there any other lover with such care
who brings boundless grace, like you?
you've the very same eyes of my mother
that reach me the moment I fall.
In days I am moving within a dream
for which, you are the creator, moving spirit,
I turn the pages of storybook of night
whenever I want to be closer to your warmth.
A mirror you are reflecting my candor,
, more than anything I ever yearned for,
You are the river that flows along me,
to the ocean, eternally seething in wait.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
by Wendell Berry
You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
The essence of love
Runs atop pillars of space
Anticipating to transform
The oblivious by-standers
Into inflicters of righteous pain
The pain that will set free
The reins of resistence,
Foreshadowing portals
Of everlasting beattitude.
The songs have all been sung
Yet not one has been able
To surpass the nightingale's
Who spins the sweetest darkness
Without a tinge of temptation.
The rhythms that fall upon thee
Speak eons of platitude
Of pedestrian coronation
Of revelation devised
Where the upshot is
Synchronized syndrom
That eats away the spirit
Like canker.
The flow of love
Is not a smooth ride
Like a luxury car on open road
Love's code is candor
That suffocates without killing
To reveal the lofty window
Toward unearthly meadows.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC
Their truth was really a lie
Those three words that shaped your life
But when candor came to light
it was that one sprawl that broke you down
Whey you thought you would crumble and fall
For the first time in your existence
you smiled with your eyes
and they lit up the sky,
all of that happened
from a single lie
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
1537
Candor—my tepid friend—
Come not to play with me—
The Myrrhs, and Mochas, of the Mind
Are its iniquity—
2.9k
I wish to peer at Paris, under-dressed and ***** in all of its neoclassical splendor.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see a prehistoric forest, verdant, overgrown and jumbled.
Before evergreen mysteries I would be ever humbled.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see Rhodian gardens and from them, smell the flowering fig and taste succulent honey suckle.
I wish to glimpse zaftig temptresses dancing twenty thick amidst courtyards of ancient Persian palaces.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to be blessed into an inenarrable life on an unalike mysterious planet.
I wish for an Atlas resembling and proportionate soul.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I've demanded an even temperament from my unruly emotions.
I've settled for continuous disbelief at the loquacious ignobleness of humanity.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've sequestered my innocent dreams and bloomed monetary means.
I've avoided death narrowly, my fingers gripping, fear will always transfix, while barreling down 36'.
I've inhaled profits and installed transformation.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've burned my midnight oil, taken offensive slander, and burned bridges with gratuitous candor.
I've witnessed coal falsify a beautiful gloaming sky.
I've had gasoline dreams filled and fuming with intensity, all drowning under an ocean of oil.
I've envisioned bleached beaches to hide stained soil.
These are moments I would give up.
There are things I've realized outside my reality, outside my internal soliloquy and physical tactility.
I've come to understand my words are nothing more than symbols on a closed door.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 11:54 PM UTC
Calm
Like a romance,
The linden trees are slowly rustling.
On your lips warm waves
Shine perfume, life and fire.
I wanted you
So much
And you, and you alone,
Not I -
As much as I might have wanted you -
You
Were the one who opened my lips
And moistened them with yours
For the first time.
The linden trees are rustling,
My love,
Far is the Danube
And its small benches call to us
To go
To sit
To hear her,
Breathe her,
The asphalt warm under your soft, fair body,
Curved like a miracle - in every place perfection -
Would be cold next to your serene skin,
Hot, moist, covered
With the most beautiful thin summer dress -
Oh, child, young yet strong in your kiss,
Candor in a starry sky...
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
...
['ärbədər']
ar·bi·ter <noun>
*Winter's favorite judge.
Trial is held with the witness.*
⌭ ⌭ ⌭
⍤ Trustworthy ⍤
"Do you know what month it is?"
December growls in seven octaves
"Growls?"
In demon tongue
"About who?"
The she wolf of porcelain night
"The She-wolf...?"
Can't you hear it?
"Hear what?"
The ashes on the walls
"What ashes?"
Sinful choices that need to be cleansed
"Why do they need to be cleansed?"
They drunk my last cup of gold
⍤ Confession ⍤
"What happened to the wolf?"
She chased the seventh house of Cancer
"Cancer?"
The traitorous stars in heaven
"Why?"
She loved him more
"Who?"
The man who could talk the sun into setting
"So she left you?"
Among the valley of mirrors and chess
"Mirrors and chess?"
So I could see I was a pawn
⍤ Treason ⍤
"Did you lover her?"
Down to the wreckage in my bones
"I don't understand."
My soul has fallen ill
"Are you sick?"
Of that blue sink
"What blue sink?"
Look over there, in the corner
"What about it?"
My reflection on blood is quite frightening this evening
⍤ Rectify ⍤
"Do you understand why you're here?"
Father winter needed a suicidal witness
"How did you know?"
The oaken spider prophesized it
"A spider...?"
On the lips of candor and death he spoke
"What was his prophecy?"
Three treasures summon the ill-spirited wolf
"What do you mean?"
One bite from the golden fruit is tragedy
"What tragedy?"
Two drinks from the fountain of youth is treason
"You're not answering me."
Do you know what the third treasure was?
"Enlighten me."
The last breath of the moon
⍤ Final Judgment ⍤
"Do you regret anything?"
The pity screaming from those volcanic eyes
"Pity..."
Her apologies left marks on my willow tree
"Are you ready to accept her punishment for her?"
Yes, I owe her a favor
"Any last words, Alunakira?"
Tell her to never forget
"Forget what?"
How the truth killed me
⌭ ⌭ ⌭
*Execution; Successful.
Mark the wolf's sin as resolved.*
['ärbədər']
ar·bi·ter <noun>
...
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
Liberate the train
Inch by inch, mile for mile
Speed is a waiting land, devoted to plain
Excuses and accusation, in the lips, all the while
Independance, is our reward
Found futures, in a problem silence, now
In last, the problems of candor before the words
Of compelling a heart to action, as if guidance allowed
Travel of the ******
Suppose to wither with denial?
Sordid capture of a freer insanity?
Cares of presumption, to live with fear, filial?
Callous worth, we's of owed solemnity
Trading hunger for wheel's
Spare adroitness to tame a keeping nativity
Boxes of avarice, with purity to establish a host feel's
Rage, for a dream in the land
Set to firsts and lest we begin the dire harvest
Of an honest soul, that has lent avarice a hand
A thought for wishful patience, that has momentum to attest
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 1:05 PM UTC
Let's talk about this jazz club
that lives in my cellphone
in 1950 something with Chet Baker
back from the dead.
Let's toast to random notes taking flight
into the city in the middle of nothing nights we've known or been familiar with.
Let's shake hands cordially with the unfamiliar as in "deal", or "peace be with you" as if in church, tipping hats at that stranger passing by at the crosswalk some late evening in spring alongside dandelions sprouting forth from the pavement. Let's read between breaks of beats Kerouac must have hit in 1950 something San Francisco in yelps into the moonlit stages of the balcony of his boxcar boxcar boxcar gone by in a mad blur with whatever graffiti'd message of hope it bore on its sides. Let's hitch into the unknowingly infinite by way of the pen's mighty point. Let's unlearn the way syllable by syllable and demolish languaged signs like hurricane force candor blowing down fact-ory made terms and political decorum as smoke from the pages of their corporate handbook joins the Chet Baker solo note pilgrmage into the holy skyline. Let's move side by side unspoken as those jazz notes he forgot to play. Let's fill in those blanks with uninformed confidence beyond our abilities and grasp the unsayable names of our dreams remmebered. Let's see in seconds passing like bums inebriated with the holy moments gone too soon. Let's talk about nothing but this sacred second at hand on this clock unseen pointing overhead to the face of the moon gone full and hungry for attention. Let this happen only now. Only then will we talk about where it's going.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 12:44 AM UTC
*En route to your heart,
I strayed in to,
the lush garden of your youth,
full of unsullied flowers,
kissed only by mischievous sun.
No man can even, think
of turning his back to this
veritable feast for senses;
it transmitted a vibe resonating,
perfectly with my psyche.
The heady fragrance emanating
from varieties of flowers did speak
of magical pleasures unexplored
I did eagerly heed,
was it by pure chance
or were there plans to allure me in,
I don't even want to know,
it suits well to my desires.
Amorous droning of inebriated bees
rang in my ears,
making me giddy.
Spring time it was
in your budding new garden,
being a pretender
who elicits the best effect
you smartly feigned ignorance
of my presence,
(As you expected, I suppose)
I lost my way and ended up
in the spirited night we shared between us,
harvesting wild fruits with a verve
we had never known before,
pleasures of many seasons
were there in store, I was astonished,
a consummate seductress you were.
a she wolf, under a sheep's skin.
but kind amorita, most adroit.
Could I ever blame you
an iridescent creature, exquisite
oh! the candor that marks your surrender!
Scent of flowers wafting on the wind,
created the effect of rarefied air
my lungs are full to the brim
with your feminine spices.
Does this happy transgression
to your secret scented garden
make me a fallen angel,
or am I a slave of your whims
entrapped for the rest of our lives?
Either way your wile wins
a knight in shining armor or
bereft of it, and naked, for your sake
I willingly submit before
the light that shines in you,
I'd make your garden mine.*
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
love I not your lips, but the words that you say
With wit and a candor we think much the same
love I not your eyes, but the way that you stare
True silence be met with the turbulent pair
love I not your cheeks, but the way which you smile
Your carefree laughing hides status the wile
love I not your hands, but the way that you touch
Warm, temperate passion fills my body with much
love I not your charms, but the spirit you contain
A beauty of all life in one woman such sustain
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
*Blue is the color of the baby sky,
fluffy clouds meandering the limitless heavens
Blue is the smell of the salty salty ocean;
the deep mystery alive with overflowing lost souls.
Blue is the whimsical whisper of the ocean’s song,
caressing the heart, pacifying the mind.
Blue is where cerulean skies
conjoin with caressing crisp breezes,
as I listen to the roaring debris of the surf.
Blue is the sight of purple waves
crashing gently against each other,
stretching afar
with no limits, no boundaries.
Soft fingers curl around jagged rocks,
whispering traces of blue.
Blue is the marvels of wondrous possibilities
etched by the sea;
It’s cascading waves marking time,
washing emotions onto the shore.
Blue is the feeling of eternal faith and fidelity;
candor eyes speaking your soul, seeing blue.
Wash me away, wash me away,
for I have yet spilled my thoughts and then my mind,
into the perpetual mystic heart of blue.*
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 7:12 AM UTC
Breeze, blow me please into her arms,
her eyes, I try to see in them her love for me
to understand her majesty and mystery,
her candor and her kindness, hoping
winds would whip her kisses to my lips.
Morning sunlight shines upon her, *******
beckoning my mouth closer. Her golden hair
I spread on white pillows, a silhouette
against pink walls, calls crying
for another ****** must you ever
leave me in this paradise of love?
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jul 12, 2025
Jul 12, 2025 at 6:18 PM UTC